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 can see you and Anna groaning and nodding your grave heads together. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Some of the meetings are wonderful! Such earnest, beautiful women! Such deepbrowed men!. He has given orders that no one is to disturb him. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. But you need not fear,’ she added, shaking him off. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat.
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