He got to his feet and made his way down the passage towards his father’s workroom. One tap on the door brought the familiar response, ‘Come in, son.’

As he entered, Harry was assailed by the smell of cloth, new and old, fabric from bygone days and cloths brought in only yesterday. Roll after roll of material in every colour was stacked on the shelves all around the room. The only light was from the street lamp outside the window and a narrow shaft which glowed from the lamp on his father’s bench.

His father was bent over his bench, needle in hand, tiny glasses perched on the end of his nose; even his father carried a particular smell, old and heady, like a pressed flower preserved in time. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I, Father?’ The thought that by his actions he may have destroyed this gentle man who had never done anything wrong in his life filled Harry with remorse.

Silas smiled at him. ‘Come in, son,’ he urged. ‘Close the door.’ Laying down his needle and spectacles, he gestured for Harry to be seated. ‘You’ll take a drop of brandy with me, won’t you, son?’

‘I’d like that, Father, thank you.’

Rising from his chair, Silas went to the tallboy and took out a bottle and two glasses. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ he asked pointedly. He poured a small measure of brandy into each glass, handed one to Harry and sat down opposite him with the other.

‘No, there’s nothing I want to tell you,’ Harry said, his heart beating faster. Did he know about him and Bridget Mulligan? Had Alice been in to see him already?

His fears were allayed when his father smiled disarmingly. ‘That’s all right then,’ he said, ‘only you normally tell me what’s been going on at the big house. Is the master well?’

‘Very well. He’s talking about buying a new horse to replace the old mare. She might be taken out of active service and put to foaling.’

Silas nodded. ‘I see.’ He sipped at his brandy, wondering if Harry would tell him about the row he had overheard. In his heart he wanted his son to confide in him, but he could not make him. Harry was his own man, and had been for a very long time.

For the first time that he could ever recall, Harry felt uncomfortable in his father’s presence. ‘Are you well, Father?’

‘I’m very well, son, and you?’ There was always this degree of respect between them, but beneath the surface lay a great deal of love.

‘Father?’

‘Yes?’

Harry bit his lip. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ For a moment he had been on the verge of telling his father about himself and Bridget. God almighty! What was he thinking of?

Silas sensed his dilemma. ‘I’m very proud of you, son, you do know that, don’t you?’ When Harry was about to reply, he put up his hand to silence him. ‘I know we don’t see much of each other, and we don’t get the chance to talk man to man as we should. We both work hard, and there is nothing wrong with that. But it saps a man’s strength, steals his time until after a while he can’t see beyond the work he’s doing.’