To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her.
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