It reached her only slowly that Ann Veronica was standing to her resolution. ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. I cannot live without you, Anna. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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