Page 125 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

A twitch of something at his mouth. Not quite a smile. ‘You don’t have to get it right straight away.’

‘Feels like I do.’

‘With the job, maybe,’ he said. ‘Not with this.’

This. She could see it unfolding, how easily it could happen. An inch closer. That would be all.

‘Not my strong point either,’ he said, almost under his breath.

She caught it. ‘Why?’

He looked away. ‘Just . . . isn’t,’ he said.

Something held him back. She didn’t think it was reluctance. So what was it?

Sammy closed the duckling hut and checked the latch twice.

They settled quickly – pressed close together, the cheeping softening. She flopped onto the grass, lying there listening. Magnus’s voice, from the morning, kept pressing in on her thoughts. They must go – no pets. No room for negotiation.

She pictured the ducklings only feet away from her.

They followed her. Followed Nate. We’ve made something that’s lasting. And now . . .

She pushed herself upright and plodded away. Too slowly, really. She should have been back at the cottage already, but the thought of it waiting – in whatever state Chloe had left it in, with or without Jimmy – wasn’t something she wanted to deal with yet.

Behind her was the Hall with its shutters closed.

Beyond the orchards, fields opened out, wide and green. In one, a tractor was cutting swathes of grass, leaving neat mounds behind it. In the distance, lights were coming on in the village.

A shape moved low in the long grass. Sammy screwed up her eyes, shielding them from the sun with one hand. Fox. Her gaze shifted back to where the duckling hut sat out of sight round the bend. They wouldn’t last a night out here alone.

Her cottage came into view. A light was on in the kitchen. Sammy kicked at a loose pebble counting – Chloe had been here nearly two weeks. With her hand on the door, she heard a kettle clicking off inside.

That sound was enough to take her back to a different kitchen – a flat, not a cottage – smaller, with the window opening onto a street that never quite slept. A kettle had recently boiled, steam lifting into the air. Peter was standing by the door, car keys in his hand.

‘It’s not about choosing me over everyone else,’ he’d said. ‘It’s about there being room for both them and me.’

Sammy had stood by the kettle, hands flat against the counter, feeling the edge press into her palms. ‘I’m not choosing anyone over anyone,’ she’d said. ‘I’m . . .’

‘You’re putting yourself last,’ he said, but his tone was sad, not harsh. ‘Every time.’

There’d been a list on the side. There was always a list. Someone needed something, somewhere she had to be. ‘I don’t know how to be different,’ she’d said. The truest thing she’d ever said.

Peter had shaken his head, slowly as if it confirmed something for him. ‘I think you do,’ he said. ‘I just don’t think you’re ready.’

The door had closed gently. Later she would wish he’d slammed it.

The kettle had clicked off, but Sammy hadn’t moved, telling herself she was being responsible. People needed her. Things would slip if she didn’t keep hold of them. That love – genuine love – would understand.

A burst of laughter from inside the cottage brought her back from the past.

She knew this feeling. Letting things go too far. Telling herself it was fine when it wasn’t. Chloe needed to leave. But Sammy wasn’t ready to tell her.

Thirty

At Prosecco & Prose, Sammy slid into the shade beneath a striped parasol, already mulling over how to start. Chloe should go home to Swansea – or at the very least, Jimmy must stop coming to the cottage.

The terrace spread out around her, tables packed tight together in the sun. They were mostly occupied by tourists with sunburn, and voices pitched louder than they needed to be. Ice clinked in tall glasses, condensation sliding down onto paper napkins.