Page 117 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Magnus marshalled his thoughts. This woman had served the Hall faithfully for fifteen years. She knew every corridor, cupboard, bathroom and every weakness in the plumbing. She worked hard without complaint. Houses depended on people like Valerie. But loyalty and ability were not identical.

‘Miss Jenkins was appointed because the role required someone capable of growing into full household management,’ Magnus said.

Valerie’s smile held – just. ‘Of course.’

‘You possess many valuable qualities, Valerie.’

Her eyes flickered briefly downward.

Magnus softened his tone slightly. ‘Your support during Miss Jenkins’s training has not gone unnoticed.’

Valerie accepted the compliment gracefully, though he sensed disappointment settling underneath it. ‘Well,’ she said, moving aside a cookery book, ‘I only want what’s best for the house.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, turning for the door. Behind him, Valerie spoke again. ‘And if Miss Jenkins proves unequal to the position?’

‘In that case another candidate will be sought.’

When he turned back briefly, Valerie’s face was composed once more. But her hands were very still.

Magnus inclined his head politely and left the room.

Behind the closed door, the silence stretched before he heard the sharp, controlled snap of a ledger being shut.

By the time the house fully stirred, Sammy was already halfway through her list.

She didn’t stop, despite the ache running along her shoulders. Not for tea, nor to eat breakfast, not even when the clock in the back hall chimed noon and again at three. Two days’ work, the list stipulated. She moved through it as if she meant to prove him wrong – linen cupboards aired and checked, inventory taken twice, corners lifted, seams inspected, everything folded back with edges sharp as paper.

By evening, the light had thinned to a pale gold that slipped through the tall windows and caught the dust she’d already chased away. She was tidying the pantry when Magnus appeared in the doorway. That had to mean something. Didn’t it? Sammy wiped her hands down her skirt.

‘Have you completed the linen check, Miss Jenkins?’

‘I have.’

‘How did you get on with your list?’

Sammy passed it across, each line marked, her initials set firm beside every item. Two days’ work in one.

He took it. The paper shifted once between his fingers.

She checked the eyebrows. No movement.

The longcase clock in the corridor ticked loudly through the doorway.

He folded the paper, running his fingers down the middle. Then took a new one out of his pocket. ‘Here’s another. I will be closing the house shortly. Good night, Miss Jenkins.’

Sammy stayed where she was, listening to the clock ticking. She let out a slow breath and reached for her coat.

She’d be back before him in the morning.

Sammy woke up to muted sunlight. She rolled onto her tummy, allowing the chirrup of birds to lull her back to sleep. She slipped onto her side, peeked at the clock. Eight o’clock.

She shot out of bed, the sheet pulling loose with her, her foot catching in it before she kicked free. Clothes – where? She reached for the chair, and stopped, wrong blouse, not that one, think – Magnus. Sammy stumbled across the room – her shin clipping a chair leg – out into the corridor. The bathroom door was closed. Water ran steadily behind it.

Eight o’clock. This could still be okay.

Sammy clattered downstairs to the kitchen, filling the kettle. Two mugs out teabags dropped in, milk ready. Routine steadied things. Steam curled up as she poured. She set Chloe’s on the table, nudging it to the side where she always sat.

At eight twenty, Sammy was on her second mug of tea; upstairs the water was still running.