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At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. ‘Me and the butler didn’t see eye to eye. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think. I must know what new thing has come between us that she should treat me as a lover one day and a monster the next.
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