“So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. The massive door was unlocked, and they entered the cell. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. 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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