‘I’m afraid only months, my boy. I’m so very, very sorry, Nicholas. If there was anything at all I could do… But at this late stage…’ He reached out his hand and for a moment rested it on top of the hand of the doctor he was also proud to call his friend. The first teardrop fell and hit the back of his hand. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and thrust it between Nicholas’s clenched fingers. ‘Cry,’ he said. ‘You are safe here with me. Cry as hard and as much as you want.’

And without further encouragement or hesitation, Nicholas did. He cried at the unfairness of it. For all that he had got wrong in his life, for his sons whom he would likely never see again, and for Mary Kate, for how could she cope with this? He didn’t want to leave them, not for a minute, let alone for the rest of their lifetimes.

‘Don’t tell Mary Kate,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t want her to know.’

His tears fell like a torrent down his cheeks, but his thoughts were now racing ahead and this alone kept him in control, warding off the emotion that threatened to engulf him. ‘Protect her from Lavinia for me, would you?’

He turned to face his old medical mentor, his eyes pleading, but he had nothing to fear for he was met by only understanding and kindness.

‘Of course. You can depend on me. I will talk to Matron and she will insist you are nursed here in St Angelus when the time comes. I give you my word, our word, that Lavinia and Mary Kate’s paths will never cross. We will break whatever rules we have to.’

Even as he spoke the words, Dr Gaskell knew this would be one of the rare occasions when he would have to pull rank with Matron, who was a stickler for standards.

Nicholas’s shoulders slumped with relief. As he wrung the now soaked handkerchief between his fingers and struggled to compose himself within the safe confines of the clinical consulting room, the only sounds were those of rattling trolleys on squeaky wheels being pushed up and down the corridor, hospital porters calling out cheerfully to one another and nurses scuttling along in their crepe-soled shoes. In the midst of it all, a good man’s happy-ever-after was being wept over within the comforting embrace of Dr Gaskell, who had gathered Nicholas into his arms as a father would his son.

Chapter 3

Tarabeg

The cold and quiet months had arrived as the dark, cloud-heavy skies settled into place. Up a long boreen on the top of the hill at Tarabeg Farm they were ready for the short days and long nights, having worked throughout the summer to ensure there would be enough food and drink to see them through to the other end. ‘No child who lives on a hard-worked and well-managed farm should ever go hungry,’ said Seamus, in a part of Ireland where children often did just that.