Page 114 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Jimmy’s gaze slid over Sammy with a sort of casual interest that made her skin prickle. ‘You’re the housekeeper, yeah?’

‘I am.’

‘Nice set-up,’ he said. ‘All very . . .’ he gestured vaguely ‘. . . posh.’

Sammy tossed her keys aside and set her bag down. ‘What is it you do, then, Jimmy?’ she asked.

He smiled, as if the question amused him. ‘Bit of this, bit of that.’

Chloe laughed, stroking his arm. ‘He’s being mysterious. You love that.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘Magnus wouldn’t like it and I’m in enough trouble already.’

Jimmy shrugged.

Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘He found out then?’

‘He did.’

‘And?’ Chloe said. ‘You’re still here.’

‘You ladies going to tell me what happened?’ asked Jimmy, grinning.

‘Sam invited me into the big house when she shouldn’t have. Mr Eyebrows found out and he’s not happy.’ Sammy kept quiet. ‘Honestly, Sam . . .’ Chloe reached for the bottle. ‘No harm done. Let me get you a drink, you need to relax.’

Vintage Chloe already moving past the problem. No harm. Sammy sensed the words catch somewhere. No harm to who? She should say it – Jean had told her to. Instead, Sammy glared at her friend. picked up a dirty glass and carried it to the sink.

Behind her, a chair scraped.

‘Come on,’ Jimmy said. ‘Bit frosty in here. Let’s head out for a drink.’

Chloe was up at once. ‘We’ll be back later.’

The door closed, the music cutting off mid-beat.

Sammy set the empty glass in the sink; she wanted a drink and she didn’t want to drink alone. But she didn’t have to, not anymore.

Sammy watched a robin playing in Nate’s birdbath, her hand hovering short of his door. The robin dipped low, then sprang up again, shaking water, scattering it over the rim before settling back.

She knocked.

The door opened immediately – as if he’d been standing watching her through a peephole. ‘You all right? I thought I heard raised voices next door.’

‘I’ve had better days. Can I come in?’

He stepped aside. ‘Please.’

The cottage seemed larger than hers, which puzzled Sammy – they were mirror images of each other. There was hardly any furniture – two chairs, the cushions worn into shape, one more than the other, a table pulled slightly off-centre, its surface taken over by catalogues, and books with pages marked or the corners folded back. Bare boards underfoot.

She pictured her own cottage: the rug bright, cushions dotting the sofa, Jean’s throw folded over the arm of the chair Sammy used.

No flowers softened Nate’s, nor anything decorative – no pictures, no ornaments. Only a shelf, crammed with books – on grafting techniques; propagation; pruning and cider making – their spines creased. On the arm of the most worn chair a book lay face down as if it had only recently been set aside. She craned her neck reading the title: Starting with Ducks.

Sammy glanced back over her shoulder at the garden. That was where Nate lived.

Music spilled through the room – something classical, high pitched – violins? – but Sammy found the melancholy rhythm suited her mood. A breeze blew through from an open window.

Nate closed the door behind her. ‘Tea? Coffee?’