“Spelled ‘Featherstonehaugh,’ don’t forget,” I reminded him. A pale and watery sun shone in through a dirty window, then a train tooted and rattled over the level crossing.

Darcy sat up, shaking out his hands. “My arm has gone to sleep,” he said. “But you know what—if trains are running, maybe we can leave the car at York Station and catch a train northward.”

“Oh yes, let’s do that,” I said. “And let’s not wait here for breakfast. I bet it will be ghastly.”

“Good idea. Let’s just get dressed and go. At least in York there will be news about the state of the roads there, and whether trains are running.”

Filled with renewed optimism we dressed hurriedly. Darcy didn’t even bother to shave and the stubble made him look more roguish. “They won’t believe you’re Mr. Chomondley-Fanshaw at the next place, looking like that,” I said, stroking the roughness of his cheek. “They’ll think you’re a pirate carrying me off.”

“You like the thought of that, I can tell,” he teased, raising an eyebrow and making me blush.

He carried the suitcases downstairs and put them in the car boot, before returning to settle up the bill.

“You’ll not be wanting breakfast?” the landlady demanded. “After I’ve gone to the trouble of heating up the black pudding?”

“We have an appointment in Scotland,” Darcy said tactfully. “We have to change our plans and see if we can catch a train from York.”

“I shouldn’t think so with all this snow,” the woman said with obvious relish. “On the wireless they said it might all be shut down for days. Trains, roads, the lot.”

On that encouraging note we left. The motor started, to my relief, and we drove back southward until we came to the signpost to York.

“It says fourteen miles,” I said, fighting back disappointment. “That’s a long way.”

“York is on the main train line to Scotland. Let’s just hope these side roads aren’t blocked. The snow doesn’t seem so bad here.”

We turned off the highway onto a smaller road. Darcy seemed to be right and the snow here was already melting a little in the morning sunshine.

“I hope we come to somewhere soon,” he said. “I’m starving. How about you?”

“Absolutely ravenous,” I agreed.

At a crossroads we found a transport café, with lorries parked outside. Darcy pulled up beside a laundry van with no complaint from me. Inside it was warm and smoky and noisy but we were treated to enormous mugs of coffee and equally large plates of bacon, eggs, sausage, fried bread, baked beans and black pudding. And I have to confess that we ate it all. We emerged in a much more cheerful mood, in time to see another van unloading the morning newspapers.