They struck her as cold and indifferent. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Perhaps you will now explain the alarm. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. ‘Why?’ ‘Why take me to France? Why trouble himself with me, when so easily he could leave me to this Monsieur Remenham to keep?’ To Melusine’s instant suspicion, Martha bit her lip, drew a breath, and avoided her charge’s gaze. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. . .
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