midnight
Dynevor Terrace was said to have dark , damp kitchens , but by none who had ever been in No. 5 , when the little compact fire was compressed to one glowing red crater of cinders , their smile laughing ruddily back from the bright array on the dresser , the drugget laid down , the round oaken table brought forward , and Jane Beckett , in afternoon trim , tending her geraniums , the offspring of the parting Cheveleigh nosegay , or gauffreing her mistress 's caps . No wonder that on raw evenings , Master James , Miss Clara , or my young Lord , had often been found gossiping with Jane , toasting their own cheeks as well as the bread , or pinching their fingers in her gauffreing machine . Yet , poor little Charlotte Arnold learnt that the kitchen could be dreary , when Mrs. Beckett had been summoned to nurse Lord Fitzjocelyn , and she remained in sole charge , under Mrs. Martha 's occasional supervision . She found herself , her household cares over all too soon , on a cold light March afternoon , with the clock ticking loud enough for midnight , the smoke-jack indulging in supernatural groans , and the whole lonely house full of undefined terrors , with an unlimited space of the like solitude before her . She would even have been glad to be sure of an evening of Mrs. Martha 's good advice , and of darning stockings ! She sat down by the round table to Mr. James 's wristbands ; but every creak or crack of the furniture made her start , and think of death-watches . She might have learnt to contemn superstition , but that did not prevent it from affecting her nerves .