Page 109 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

As they reached the corridor, the thought hit her – the pillows. One cotton, one silk

Had she . . . ? ‘Did you . . . ?’ she wheezed, breath catching as they ran.

No time. The kitchen door was ahead, the buzz still in her ears. Magnus was already on his way.

Twenty-six

A contrite Chloe apologised, offering to buy her a picnic lunch on the beach.

After sponging off the lipstick, Sammy washed the silk pillowcase by hand – she must remember to ask Nate about those pillowcases – and put the remaining soiled linen into her washing machine.

Her two days off disappeared into sun and sand.

Chloe stretched out on her towel, wearing a low-cut bikini, already reaching for the bottle of sun lotion. ‘Back,’ she said, tossing it towards Sammy without looking. ‘And don’t be stingy with it . . . I burn.’

Sammy knelt behind her friend, working the lotion in. ‘You say that every year.’

‘Because every year you forget,’ Chloe said, wriggling her body, creating her own sunbed in the sand. ‘Honestly, what would you do without me reminding you about the important things?’

Later, they swam, and then lay side by side letting the sun dry them, with Chloe talking jobs – outlining some new plan that changed halfway through explaining it.

The message came through at eight on Wednesday morning, as Sammy was letting herself in through the back door. She rehung the chain around her neck and checked her phone.

Come now. Polytunnel.

She read it once. Then again. A grin spread across her face – the eggs.

By the time she reached the path, she’d already decided – they’d all hatched. Sammy broke into a jog. She slowed when the polytunnel came into sight, its skin clouded, the frame showing through in pale ribs.

When she ran inside, she spotted Nate by the propagator – he watched her run towards him, his face breaking into a smile which threatened to melt Sammy’s heart. The lid was open warmth lifting from it in a steady breath. One duck shell had split cleanly, a small, damp chick clawing its way free, movements clumsy but determined. Another rocked slightly, a hairline crack barely visible.

The last one – no change.

‘That one’s not moving,’ she said leaning over and jabbing at the motionless egg.

‘Give it time.’

She watched the static egg. ‘Why isn’t it moving?’ Sammy reached forward, instinct pulling her hand towards it.

Nate caught her wrist. His grip was firm, his hand calloused, the fingers rough against her skin. Sammy felt a shiver tingling up her spine. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘We’ve done what we can. If it’s going to make it, it will.’

He let her hand go. She drew it back slowly. ‘Shouldn’t we should be doing something . . . helping . . .’

‘That’s the problem,’ he replied. Her eyebrows lifted. ‘With you,’ he added, not unkindly.

Sammy gave a small puff of laughter. ‘I nearly got fired on Sunday,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for wanting a better outcome today.’

Nate grimaced. ‘Could have been worse,’ he said.

‘It nearly was.’

‘True.’

The newly hatched duckling let out a gentle, uneven sound, as it wobbled its way upright, legs splaying before it found its balance. ‘It’s calling for its mum, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It’s calling for food . . . that one’s fine,’ Nate said.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ she replied.