Her heartbeat quickened. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. He had but to give his orders. “I remember you now,” he said. 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.
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