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I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. 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. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. ” “Yes, shit.
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