The flickering flame of their paraffin lamp barely dents the darkness. Jack darts out his hand to steady Gwen as she stumbles. It remains on her arm for longer than necessary.

In the paddock, they begin to round up the stray chickens hunkered down among the hassocks, their feathers ruffled by the strengthening wind. Spits of rain strike Gwen’s cheeks as she carries them into the hen house and as they close the door, thunder rumbles.

‘I’d better get Bobby in,’ she shouts over the wind, grabbing the halter and lead rope from the fence post.

With the thunder comes the rain. Without warning it lashes down, stinging their faces as they jog across the uneven ground to where the Clydesdale whinnies, unsettled by the growing tumult. Jack takes the halter from Gwen and eases it over the horse’s broad face, delivering soothing words into its swivelling ears as another crack splits the air.

The driving rain and bracing wind slice through them with bladelike precision. Gwen’s hair hangs sodden against her back and her clothes are wet through. Jack, she sees, is faring no better, as he pushes his slickened hair off his forehead, rain streaming down his face. He catches sight of her and grins.

Bobby’s hooves slip on the wet cobbles at the stable door. Jack leads him straight into his loosebox, the straw bed rustling as they trample it down.

‘I’ll sort him out,’ he offers. ‘You’d best get inside and get dried off.’

‘I’ll check on Tom.’

Gwen is shivering as she runs back to the house. A gust of wind snatches the back door from her hand. She dives inside, slamming it shut behind her. Rainwater puddles onto the flags as she prises off her boots. She dashes upstairs and gently eases Tom’s door ajar, but he is fast asleep, undisturbed by the hullabaloo of the storm.

Her teeth chattering, she returns to her room and quickly strips off her wet things, yanking open her drawers for fresh underwear and clothing. Once dressed, she dries her hair with a towel. A little warmth begins to seep back into her frozen body.

She pads out onto the landing and opens the linen press. As she stretches up to retrieve a cardigan from the top shelf she spots some of Jack’s clothes, neatly ironed, on the shelf below. She hesitates for a second, then scoops them up into her arms and hurries downstairs. Setting them upon the kitchen table, she pulls on her jacket, then pushes her dry feet into damp boots. Shielding the clothes with her coat, she heads back outside.

Bobby is secure in his loosebox, munching on hay, as she dashes into the stables. Jack is no longer with him, but the tack room door hangs open and a faint glow of candlelight entices her in.