Before Monty had left on his latest military excursion, he had seen to it that the East Wing of the house had been completed and that it was luxuriously stocked with all the finest amenities befitting nobility. He knew his bride could not resist the temptation of taunting and stretching the dictates of gentility which prohibited women from traveling about the countryside unescorted. And, so he gave the strong-willed young woman his blessings and full rein to oversee the completion of their home in his absence, and made certain she would be comfortable while doing so.
In their bedroom suite, Aidan set her valise on the chaise near the bed. Tucked into a cubby next to the ornately carved fireplace, lay a neat stack of seasoned hardwood. Overjoyed at the prospect of warming herself near a roaring fire, Aidan meticulously arranged logs and kindling, and then reached above her head to the stone mantle for a box of safety matches. Twilight had nearly died, and the dreariness of an early May night would soon descend the room into absolute darkness. Aidan lightly brushed her fingers along the ledge of the mantle and suddenly drew them back with a start.
Shards of broken glass fell to the stone hearth, emitting tinkling sounds like prisms of a fine crystal chandelier swaying in the breeze. The massive mirror above the mantle had somehow been shattered. Aidan danced on her tiptoes and located the match box. She knelt at the fireplace and, with cold, trembling hands, ran a matchstick across the striking surface. Flickering flames soon caught hold, and the fire bloomed. As her numb fingers thawed, Aidan felt them pinching. She gazed at the fleshy tips and realized they were covered in tiny scratches and blood. She brushed fingers against fingers, dislodging trapped particles of glass and dried blood, and then set about to ready herself for the night. On the morrow, she would hire someone from nearby the nearby town of Worchestershire to clean the mess.
Undaunted by the day’s events, Aidan slipped out of her hat, cape, and tall leather boots. She untied her riding trousers and petticoats from beneath and left them in a pool at the foot of the bed. Her riding skirt remained in tact for added warmth. Next, she unbuttoned the front of her basque and allowed the fire’s heat to spill across the bodice of her white linen chemise that peeked from inside. She would change into her nightdress soon. But, for now, with a soft yawn, Aidan chose to recline in an over-sized balloon-back chair near the fire. She closed her eyes, and thoughts of her beloved Monty filled her mind and heart. She loved and adored him more than life itself.
Just then, the bells in the clock tower interrupted her thoughts ... eight ... nine ... ten clapper strikes bellowed through the silence. She momentarily mused over the date. It was the eve of Saint George, the fourth day of May, in the year of the Lord 1868. In a scant two hours it would be midnight, “when all evil things in the world will have full sway.” Aidan shook her head in disapproval, “Stuff and bloody nonsense ...” As her voice trailed off, silhouettes of flickering flames danced across her closed eyelids, and she soon relaxed into slumber’s arms. This would be the last time Aidan would hear the bells toll.
