Bridget wondered how much time it would take. Days? Months? Years?

There was nothing she could do other than be cautious, and let him know how much she truly loved him. Everything else rested with Tom himself.

The next two weeks were the worst of Bridget’s life.

But day by day she grew stronger and she soon learned the ways of a mother, and kept the home as cosy and welcoming as ever.

Baby Ruth was a delight; at night she slept well, and during the day she lay in her crib, often wide awake and looking at everything about her, gurgling with contentment, her small, chubby fingers curling round each other, as though comforting herself.

Today was Friday. ‘Come on, my beauty.’ Having got herself washed and changed and ready to go out, Bridget returned to the bedroom to collect Ruth. ‘We’re off to see Fanny today. This will be the first time since we came home that we’ve set foot outside the door.’ Oh, but she was so looking forward to it. ‘You’ll see Billy, and Fanny said in her letter that she’s got a surprise in store for us.’

Ruth was already fed, so now Bridget bathed her and brushed the fine cap of soft, fair hair. ‘There!’ Raising the child into her arms, she was caught by the perfection of that small, trusting face. ‘I wish he could love you like I do,’ she sighed. It was her greatest regret. ‘However you were made, Tom is your daddy when all is said and done, because, God help me, you will never know another.’

In the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window, she looked at Ruth more closely. ‘Nelly was right, your eyes are changing colour… darker… more like Harry’s.’ In spite of herself, Bridget’s thoughts went back to that stormy night in the barn with Harry.

Holding the child close, she began to tremble. ‘There’s no denying it,’ she whispered. ‘You’re Harry’s child. And I will never love you the less for that.’

With Ruth swaddled in the same long grey shawl Tom had brought to fetch her home, Bridget wheeled out the pram, a deep-bodied thing with great wheels and a towering handle. ‘Aren’t you the little smartie?’ she teased as they went away down the street. ‘Your mammy’s proud as punch, that she is.’

Bridget, too, looked smart in her best blue blouse, a broad belt at her waist, and her grey, wide-hemmed skirt dancing about the top of her boots. She cut a handsome, youthful figure. Gone were the hollowed eyes and slow, painful walk. Forgotten, too, were the harrowing nightmares that had plagued her for a week after coming home. Now as she went down the street at a jaunty pace, her cheeks glowed and her step was bouncy, and everyone who saw her thought the same.

‘My! You do look a picture, lass. Pretty as I’ve ever seen.’ Nelly was on her way back from the baker’s. ‘It’s heartening to see you out and about,’ she said approvingly.