At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. ’ Mrs Chalkney lifted her brows. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. She was sitting on the mean straw mattress that was placed on the iron bedstead in the makeshift cell, while Melusine stood with her back to the door, confronting her old nurse with the truth. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. “I’ve been looking out for you,” he said. Her mind left her. No matter. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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