With the way partially cleared, Harry helped Bridget back to the cart and lifted her on to the seat. That done, he checked on the horse. ‘God willing, we’ll soon have you out of this,’ he told the tired creature, and for his reward he got a wet, grateful nose nuzzled in his face.

‘Is he all right?’ Bridget, too, was concerned about the horse.

‘He’s a big strong feller, used to all manner of weather.’ Harry clambered on to the seat and took up the reins once more, adding pointedly, ‘And he knows how to be patient, whereas you, you young bugger, couldn’t sit still if your life depended on it.’

‘It doesn’t though – does it?’ The danger they were in was all too apparent.

‘It well might, unless we can keep going.’ He knew they would have to negotiate some deep rutted tracks, invisible under the drifting snow, before coming to level ground.

Images of Tom coming home and not finding her there turned Bridget’s stomach. Her husband was a good man, but he was a stickler for routine; discipline, pattern and good order, that was Tom. So much so that if one day was too different from the one before, he could be impossible to live with.

Reaching out, Harry squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘I’ll get you home.’

‘I know you will.’ Harry had a habit of calling her sweetheart. Tom never did, and that was a shame because when Harry did it, it made her feel warm all over. But then Harry and Tom were like chalk and cheese. Harry was twenty-two and Tom only four years older, but there was a world of difference between them. Harry was full of spirit, always smiling and cheerful, while Tom took life too seriously, rarely smiling, and always looking for the next problem. But the thought of Tom was strangely reassuring. She did love him, she told herself. In fact, she told herself this time and again, as though wanting to believe it.

‘Tom’s bound to worry if I’m not home when he gets back from the quarry.’ What she meant was, that Tom would throw a tantrum. That was his usual way of dealing with things that upset his precious routine.

Harry urged the horse on, gently tapping its rump with the whip. ‘Come on, feller, get the young lady home and it’s worth an extra bag of hay to you.’

The weary horse made a valiant effort, but deep down Harry was worried. If the wind kept up at this rate, they might not get through this side of morning.

‘How about if we turned back?’ Bridget was no fool. She knew the road well. She also knew the dangers.

‘Too late for that.’ Harry had given it a passing thought, but with the walls collapsing into their path and the road possibly blocked behind them, it was not an option. ‘Wrap that blanket tight about you,’ he advised. ‘With luck, the heavens will ease up and smile on us. All the same, from now on, if I ask you to stay on the cart, I’d be obliged if you’d do as you’re told. Two of us out there breaking our backs is downright reckless. If one of us gets hurt, there’s always a chance the other can fetch help.’