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. No, this was imbecile. Ten years of military life had taught him caution, but only strengthened a fearless zest for diving into any promising adventure with unalloyed enjoyment. She located her foster family. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. Never any doubt of it.
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