The Matrix by Jonathan Aycliffe

Author:Jonathan Aycliffe [Aycliffe, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472112675
Publisher: Constable & Robinson
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

By the time we finished, it had grown late. Jennie brought us a light supper that we ate off trays in the kitchen.

‘I’d better get you back before this storm gets any worse,’ said Duncan, going to fetch our coats. Jennie and Miss Melrose had already gone to bed. I put my coat on and followed him to the door.

The storm had already worsened. It had turned to a blizzard during the time we had been closeted in the library, and was now firmly fastened on the countryside. The drive was thick with snow, and drifts had started to form in places.

‘I’ll try to get through if you really want me to,’ said Duncan. ‘But I think you’ll be better off staying the night.’

I had little choice. It was not all that far to the city, and in a good car like Duncan’s, I’m sure we could have made it. But the inconvenience of driving in such conditions, not to mention the not inconsiderable risk of getting stuck on the way back, were scarcely problems I could in all conscience impose on my host. I nodded agreement, and we went back inside.

Miss Melrose was roused to make up a bed for me. I was to sleep in a comfortable room overlooking a long meadow that sloped up to a copse of tall firs at the rear of the house. A fire was lit, and hot-water bottles made ready to air and warm the bed. It was all quite an adventure, I thought, to be snowbound in the countryside, in a house such as this, with a fire and servants and the prospect of breakfast in the dining room before a bank of blazing logs. I thanked Duncan for his kindness and retired with a copy of Scott’s Bride of Lammermoor, whose action is set not far from Penshiel House.

I did not read for long. The fire had rapidly warmed the room to a pleasant temperature, and the bed, with its heavy covers and piping-hot bottles presented an irresistible temptation against which the tribulations of the Master of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton were but a trifling defence. I undressed and snuggled down beneath the bedclothes. Already drowsy, I switched off the light and was soon heavily asleep.

It must have been about three o’clock when I woke. The wind had fallen, leaving a tangible silence in its wake. Though the fire had died down almost to nothing, the room was still warm and stuffy, and under my quilts and bedclothes I was perspiring freely. The excessive heat must have woken me, or so I reckoned. Or had it been something else, a noise perhaps? I listened carefully, but could hear nothing, whether inside or outside the house. For some reason, my heart was beating more rapidly than usual.

A small battery-operated lamp had been left on my bedside table by Duncan. I switched it on, lighting the room imperfectly. Drawing back the bed linen, I swung my feet to the floor, grateful for the cooler air that brushed my skin.

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