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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. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. It was not a long prayer. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. “This girl—she’s really a very charming, frank person—had had her imagination fired, so she told me, by a school performance of Romeo and Juliet. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. As it happens sometimes, the idea stepped down from the dream into the reality; and he saw it more clearly now than he had seen it in the dream.
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