‘I know,’ she murmured.

She slept then, and Tom returned to his empty house.

Evidence of the other woman’s presence lay strewn about the Mulligan household: upturned bottles on the floor; stains of crimson wine; a long, silky robe hanging over the foot of the bed. Even the air carried her perfume.

Deeply ashamed, Tom went from room to room and flung open all the windows. He cleaned up the debris, mopped the stains, and tore the robe to shreds. Only when he was satisfied that all traces of the woman had gone did he stop.

He made himself a brew of tea and sat outside on the back yard step. The sun was warm on his face. He felt better than he had done in a long time. ‘You’ve been given a second chance,’ he told himself. ‘You and Bridget both. So take it and be grateful.’

Leaning back against the door, he closed his eyes and remembered what he had seen just now – Bridget in pain and all alone save for a nosy old neighbour and a doctor she had never set eyes on before. He thought of how he had stood in that room and felt like a stranger looking down on her. And her face, oh, dear God, that lovely, childlike face, drained of energy, the once-bright eyes dull with suffering. And now, for a while, he suffered with her.

He retreated from the suffering into sleep, and in his dreams he saw the child, and its father, and his heart was broken.

When the sun had died down and the air turned colder, he woke with a start, amazed that he had slept at all. Clambering up, he returned his cup to the kitchen. ‘Got to get cleaned up and see how she’s doing.’

He strip-washed at the sink, brushed his hair and put on a clean shirt. ‘Funny how a clean shirt can make a man feel human again.’ Regarding himself in the mirror over the fireplace, he took a deep, invigorating breath. ‘The house is empty without her.’

Deep in thought, he put on his jacket and went back to the parlour. He stood and looked around at the comfortable chairs and the pictures Bridget had made him put on the walls, pictures of flowers and animals, and bright sunny days. Until now he hadn’t realised how precious it all was.

‘This is your house, Bridget,’ he murmured. ‘Never again, for as long as I live, will I taint it with a woman of that kind.’

The image of Harry Little came into his mind. Was Nelly right? Would the child’s colouring change and favour her true father? It didn’t bear thinking about.

The smallest flame of fury licked his heart at what Bridget had done to him. With a weary sigh, he stifled it. ‘We must try and forget all that’s gone before,’ he whispered, ‘or we’ll never know any peace.’

Chapter Six

Bridget had been with Nelly for almost a week when Fanny came to visit. ‘Why the bleedin’ hell didn’t yer send word before?’ she demanded. ‘I had no idea you were badly. I only got out of bed meself day afore yesterday. You could have knocked me down with a feather when the lad fetched the note to the door.’ She had a great deal to say, and then there was a great deal of hugging and smiling. ‘From what Nelly tells me, you were at death’s door,’ she chided. ‘Oh, gal, if only I’d known sooner.’