‘Don’t be too long, will you?’ Bridget wondered why he was acting like a stranger. Why didn’t he say anything about last night? Maybe he was embarrassed, like her.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

When he had gone, Bridget got out from under the blanket and quickly dressed. ‘Brr!’ The cold air invaded her every pore. ‘Set to work, my girl!’ she told herself. ‘That’ll keep you warm, and there’s more than enough to do before he returns.’

The first task was to check the horse and make certain he was all right. ‘Looks like you were born to it,’ she laughed; lying on his side, he stared up at her with big lazy eyes. ‘You can’t stay there,’ she warned. ‘Harry’s gone to get help and, God willing, we’ll be on our way home soon.’

A sense of sadness overwhelmed her. Sinking to her knees, she looked into those big, placid eyes. ‘Harry is a very special person, but I think he’s ashamed of what we did last night. I feel ashamed too. It was wrong, because I have a husband, and he has an elderly mother and sister to care for. Even if we loved each other madly, it could never come to anything, could it? The truth is, we should have been more responsible.’ Rubbing her face against the horse’s, she sighed. ‘I don’t suppose he will ever speak of it, and neither will I.’ Maybe that would be just as well, she thought wisely. If word of this ever got out, their lives would be turned upside down. And however fond of him she was, it wouldn’t be right. Too many other people could be hurt, and she didn’t want that.

She and Harry would always know that they were more than good friends. For all their sakes, that would have to be enough.

Chapter Two

Tom Mulligan was a good man but, like most men, he liked to have the upper hand. ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming? I’ve already told them we’ll be there. It’s Freddy Derngate’s leaving party, all the quarrymen are taking their wives, and besides,’ he gave her an appreciative look, ‘I want to show you off.’

Bridget had told him she didn’t feel well enough to make the long trek to the other end of town to the George Inn, a rambling old place that reeked of booze and beeswax polish.

Bridget put a fresh mug of tea before him. ‘Why don’t you go on your own?’ she suggested. ‘Explain that I’m not well enough to come along. From what you tell me, they’re a decent lot. I’m sure they’ll understand.’

Tom was appalled. ‘Go on my own? I’ll do no such thing!’

Bridget knew when to remain silent and she remained silent now, her gaze roving round the tiny kitchen. She noticed how the stairhole door needed a coat of paint, and even the gas hob was looking the worse for wear. Feeling his gaze on her, she sipped her tea avoiding his eyes. What could she do? Where could she turn? One weak moment, that was all, and it had cost her dear.