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. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. So equipped, she proposed to set up a separate establishment in the world. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Yes, there was someone there. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her.
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