But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. Oh, you cannot escape from it. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit.
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