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. “But perhaps I want to confess them. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. Do not mistake me. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris. . She refrained. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The truth was impossible, indecent.
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