A frightening thought came to her. ‘No,’ she decided, ‘there’s no way he could have found out about me and Harry.’ Tom had few dealings with country folk, and because of the long, hard hours Harry worked up at the big house, he was not a familiar face in the local inns.

Bridget relaxed and let herself drift off to sleep.

It was late when she woke. ‘Oh, my God!’ The clock on the mantelpiece stared back at her. ‘Quarter to six!’ Rolling out of bed, she rubbed her eyes and straightened her clothes. ‘I must have sunk into a deep sleep. Don’t let him be home yet. I need to keep him sweet-tempered. There are things I have to tell him tonight; bad things. And may God forgive me. By the end of the day, Tom will know what a shameful thing I’ve done.’ Her heart lurched. ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil, that’s what my mother always said.’

A deeper despair came over her. ‘Oh, Mam, I wish you and Dad were here with me,’ she whispered. ‘If I ever needed anyone, it’s now.’ But they were gone; taken in a bitter winter that had swept through Lancashire, leaving many dead in its wake. It had been a long time ago, but the pain of their loss never really went away. An old grandmother had brought her up, but then, the day before Bridget’s sixteenth birthday, the old woman was gone too.

After that she was on her own, and soon learned to fend for herself. Life had not been easy, and one way or another Tom had been her saviour.

‘And this is how I repay him,’ she whispered sadly. But she would not deceive him any more, whatever price she had to pay. She would never again do that to him.

When she came downstairs, half expecting to see him sitting there, Bridget was astonished to find he hadn’t been home. ‘Where can he be till this time?’ she wondered. A smile flitted across her features. ‘Hopefully making his peace with Ted Louis.’

Putting all else out of her mind, she set about creating a meal fit for a king. She cooked the potatoes until they were soft right through, dropped a knob of butter and a good measure of milk into the pan and let them steep, turning them occasionally to make certain every potato was rolled in the simmering mixture.

She prodded and coaxed the cabbage in the salted water until the rich green leaves were cooked to the point where they would crunch on the teeth while melting on the tongue. The fish was deboned and rolled, then placed in a skillet of milk, covered with herbs, and gently steamed over the hot fire.

Returning to the potatoes, she took up a round-headed instrument and began mashing until the potatoes were light and fluffy, and tasted delicious. Bridget had been taught to cook by her grandmother, and had never forgotten the old ways.