She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. 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. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on.
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