Anyhow, it were me as got you down to the wetnurse. ” She lifted steadfast eyes to him. It would be the culmination of her plan. They crossed the Channel in sunshine and a breeze that just ruffled the sea to glittering scales of silver. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. ’ She bit her lip, but her eyes betrayed her.
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