That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, his mind on Bridget, then on his father. He thought of Alice and what she might do. Driven by tortured thoughts, he saw the worst in everything.

When the morning skies were filled with ribbons of dawn, he finally closed his eyes and snatched a few precious hours of sleep.

When, some time later, he awoke, he thought he must be late and leaped out of bed. Quickly he washed and dressed, thinking of the day ahead, and how he was to take the mare to a yard some distance away. She would remain there for a month, and while there would be mated with the best stallion in Lancashire. Thinking of work gave him a certain peace of mind.

His first port of call every morning was to look in on his mother. She was sleeping peacefully. ‘See you later, Ma,’ he whispered. When his new-found love for Bridget was weighed against his old love for this dear soul, and the kindly man downstairs, Harry realised that he could never leave them to fend for themselves.

Every day for as long as he could remember, his father had been the first to rise and the last to bed so he knew that Silas would already be at his bench. Harry wanted to have a word with him. Silas’s words last night still preyed on his mind. His father must not think he had not been a good father, for he had been the best he could. Harry wanted to reassure him of that.

In his stockinged feet, he went softly downstairs, afraid to wake the others; it was all on his mind – work, his father, Alice, and Bridget. Thoughts of retribution. ‘Concentrate on your work,’ he muttered, pulling on his walking boots. ‘It will help clear your mind.’

It didn’t though. What if he saw Bridget going about her duties up at the house? How would he react? What should he say? But maybe she wouldn’t be there. Because of what had happened, Tom might well have forbidden her to work at the Grange. And who could blame him for that?

Going along the passage he tapped gently on the workroom door, waiting a moment for his father’s ‘Come in, son.’

The answer didn’t come, so he tapped again. ‘It’s me, Father. I’ll be off to work in a while, but if you can spare me a few minutes, I need to talk.’

He waited patiently. Often his father would be in the middle of a difficult task, or he might be on the ladder reaching up to sort a roll of cloth; either way his mind would be preoccupied and he would not hear the tap on the door.

When, after a further moment or two, there was still no answer, Harry took the liberty of peeping in.

A smile lit his face. It was just as he’d thought. As usual, Silas was bent over his work, concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard his knock.