He shook his head. ‘Not you,’ he declared with a smile. ‘Anybody else, maybe, but not Bridget Mulligan!’

Taking the spare lamp from the box under the seat, he lit it from the one he had hung on the shaft. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he promised. ‘Meanwhile, do as I say. If I come back and find you’ve gone off looking for me, I’ll track you down and give you the smacking you deserve.’

Bridget laughed out loud. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

Without answering, he put up the collar of his overcoat, and tightened the straps of his boots, and set off.

As Bridget watched him go, she couldn’t help but wonder how Tom might cope in these circumstances. Like Harry, Tom was a strongly built man and probably just as capable of dealing with an emergency as Harry was. But, as far as she was aware, the circumstances had never arisen for him to be put to the test, whereas Harry had proved himself more than once, in particular last year when there had been a bad fire at the Grange. Cook had gone into fits and the master was worse than useless. But Harry had quickly ushered everyone outside. He sent the pot boy running for the brigade, and by the time they arrived, Harry had organised the staff with a line of water buckets to prevent the fire from spreading. Afterwards, the brigade officer commented on his calm nerve and organising ability. ‘You did well,’ he told Harry, and offered him a job, should he ever leave Weatherfield Grange.

Curled up beneath the seat, Bridget thought about the two men. What if she had married Harry instead of Tom? But Harry had not asked her, whereas Tom had pursued her right from the day she dropped her purse in the puddle outside the market. Tom had retrieved it and given it back, and after that he had set his cap at her. Not a day passed when she didn’t receive a note, or a box of chocolates, or a posy of flowers, until in the end she fancied herself in love with him.

But it was a peculiar love. Quiet and predictable. Going home to Tom was like going home to a stern father, accompanied by a feeling of guilt without quite knowing why. It wasn’t at all how she felt whenever she saw Harry; with him, she had the most wonderful glowing feeling inside.

Bridget had no way of knowing what time it was, or how long Harry had been gone. ‘It seems like he’s been gone for ever,’ she murmured. ‘I hope he’s all right.’

Straining up from her cramped position, she peered ahead. The snow was blinding. She cupped her hands round her mouth and called his name.

Her only answer was the howling wind and the hush of snow as it fell about her. She tried again, this time louder.

Still no answer. Now she was really concerned. If he was in trouble or hurt, it was obvious she would not hear his calls for help, and he had been gone for such a long time. ‘I have to find him!’