She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. 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. Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used.
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