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. As the wedding neared, she bought some finer things: a veal roast for supper, a single pearl for the dowry. “And besides,” said Ann Veronica, sweeping that aspect aside, “what could I do? A boy sails out into a trade or profession. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. Wild. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. It is a precaution merely.
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