Half after six. C. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. 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. The noise was raucous. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending.
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