‘It’s a standing arrangement.’ When needs must, Bridget lied beautifully. ‘If it snows, like today, I’m to wait for him at the gate – and I must not accept a ride home from anyone else.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ he grudgingly conceded. Secretly, he thought it was downright wicked, especially when he could have been giving her the best ‘ride’ of her life. Damn her eyes, and damn her friend with her!

For what seemed an age he stared at her; the smile frozen to his face, and the member in his trousers straining to burst forth. When she nervously returned his smile, he gave a shrug, a little laugh, then turned abruptly and left the room.

‘Good shuts!’ she hissed, relieved that he’d given up. ‘Randy old bugger, I know what you’re after, but you can whistle in the wind till kingdom come, for all you’ll get from me.’

As she made her way down the back path to the servants’ gate, Bridget was shocked to see how the weather had deteriorated since midday. Now, at half past six in the evening, the wind was sharp and bitter-cold, driving the snow into her face.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Cook rushed by, her coat above her head, and her long skirt flapping round her ankles. ‘I wouldn’t let a dog out on a night like this!’ A fat lady, too layered with lard to catch a cold, she was never without a nip of gin in her pocket, and as she paused at the gate, she sneaked a swig from the flask. ‘That’ll keep the goosy pimples away,’ she chuckled. Returning the flask to her pocket, she set herself against the wind and cut a crooked path home. She was soon out of sight, but the sound of her voice raised in song told its own merry tale.

Bridget laughed. ‘Drunk as a lord tonight, and crotchety as hell tomorrow. We’ll all suffer in the morning, you can be sure of that.’ Still, she had a fondness for the dear soul, and anyway, what was life all about if a lady of Cook’s responsibilities couldn’t have a nip or two of gin when the fancy took her?

Bridget looked up at the dark and laden sky. ‘I don’t like the look of it and that’s for sure.’ Wild and spiteful, the night air cut through her hooded coat. ‘By! It’s bloody freezing!’ Drawing her coat tighter about her, she glanced back to the house; it looked warm and cosy, with the lights blazing a path through the night. ‘Happen I should have let him take me home after all.’ Thinking of his disappointed face made her smile again. In truth, she would rather run naked in a storm than let a man like Peter Doyle have his way.

Coming to the gate in a hurry, she lost her footing and slid to the ground. ‘Damn and bugger it!’ Now she was wet to the bone, her boots letting the snow in. And to make matters worse, as she tried to struggle up, she realised with a sinking heart that she had turned her ankle.