And yet it was basically a fine action. 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. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from me. I forget the particulars, but I know it was something very disagreeable. ‘If you imagine you’re going to use one ungentlemanly act to manipulate me, you very much mistake the matter. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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