Only weeks now and she would be holding her son or daughter in her arms, Jamie’s child. The thought brought tears rushing to her eyes; when would she see her darling again? Love letters regularly passed between them, outpourings of their passion and longing which kept the pair of them going during long periods of absence.

Oh, my dearest love,

Even though life at the clearing station is round the clock, I see your beautiful smiling face before me so much. Your lovely eyes, so blue and gentle, and your red lips, pouting and kissable. The line of your neck and the sweep of your full breasts, silky smooth and soft to the touch … my love, you have no idea how much I dream of your gorgeous body and the wonderful love-making we share so joyfully when we are alone together.

At first Ada had blushed at the intimate detailed descriptions in her husband’s passionate missives, but, as she read them over and over again, she rejoiced in Jamie’s wild freedom of expression. What harm or embarrassment was there in a husband telling his wife how much he desired and admired her?

Perched on the side of the old-fashioned double bed with noisy rusty springs that she and Jamie would share, Ada patted the slippery silk purple eiderdown (a gift from the old lady before she left for her new home in Lancaster) and gazed dreamily out of her bedroom window. The valley before her was steeped in a crimson sunset light that flared deep indigo as the sun dropped over the skyline, casting a dark shadow over Cartmel Forest, where the tallest conifers spiked a filigree pattern against the glowing orb of the sinking sun.

Feeling suddenly tired, Ada made up the bed with clean linen and cosy blankets that she had borrowed from the convent stores, then she went downstairs to build up a fire in the old black kitchen range. After putting the kettle on to make a pot of tea, Ada sat in the creaky wooden rocking chair, where her eyelids slowly started to droop.

‘If I don’t move soon, I’ll sleep here all night,’ she firmly told herself, as she staggered to her feet to brew a pot of tea.

Later, after washing her face, cleaning her teeth and brushing her long, thick brunette hair, Ada slipped between the cool bed sheets and, as the moon rose over the mountains, she fell into a deep peaceful sleep in her new home.

Waking up bright and early the next morning, Ada closed the door of her sweet little cottage, then smiling at the novelty of walking to work, set off along the narrow country lane that passed Mary Vale Farm. Seeing Farmer Arkwright inspecting his sheep bleating plaintively in their pen, she waved happily.

‘Morning,’ she called. ‘Gorgeous day.’