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. “Are we cool?” Michelle asked her. Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure. ‘But it is entirely natural that I choose my own country. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. Wood was once a favourite of yours.
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