She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. 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 ought to have done. ” “Nor I. ” Anna laughed, gave in and with deft fingers created order out of chaos. ‘Then we will beg.
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