Page 14 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Mm.’ he replied.

And that, apparently, was that. He was already crouching to repair damage, hands moving deftly. Conversation over.

Sammy watched him. Handsome, she thought. Very competent. Slightly allergic to human interaction. Could be a project.

No, she corrected herself. Absolutely not.

Nate knelt by the flower bed, pressing the soil back into place where the chickens had torn through it. The earth was still loose, dry on top but cooler underneath, the smell of it rising as he worked. Feathers drifted here and there, caught against stems. He reached for another flattened marigold, straightened it, firming the soil around its base with the heel of his hand.

The gate clicked somewhere behind him. Her, heading back toward the house.

He glanced around.

She was halfway across the path, hurrying. No makeup. Just that open face, a bit flushed from running about after chickens; she’d clearly never had to deal with live ones before.

Swansea. He could still hear her voice. Too much of it, really. Questions stacked on questions, as if she couldn’t help herself. He switched his attention back to the bed, tugging a weed free and stuffing it in a pocket.

She’d laughed, though. Even when she’d nearly lost one of them under the hedge.

He pressed the soil down again, slower this time.

There’d been a moment – when she’d finally stopped talking – he thought he’d seen something tight there, between her eyes. He brushed the dirt from his hands, glanced up again.

She’d reached the end of the lawn now, nearly out of sight. Practical clothes. Sensible shoes. A woman who looked as though she could spend a day on her feet without complaint. Younger than Mrs Williams. Nearer his own age, too. Magnus regarded that as a flaw. Their employers considered it an advantage. Mr and Mrs Hastings had wanted something different. Less formality. When Mrs Williams had handed in her notice and announced her move to Sydney to be closer to her daughter, Mrs Hastings had seized the chance to appoint a younger replacement.

Nate wasn’t entirely sure what qualifications Miss Jenkins had presented at interview, but he strongly suspected that winning the affection of Stop It at the garden party had featured heavily in her appointment, outweighing her lack of experience with fine antiques.

He picked up the bucket of feed, gave it a small shake, listening to the grain shift inside.

Too chatty. But not . . . irritating. That felt like information best ignored.

He turned back to the flower bed, firming the last of the dislodged soil around roots with a boot.

Sammy let herself in the back door, brushing a stray piece of straw from her sleeve and hoping she didn’t look like someone who had accidentally liberated an entire flock of hens.

Magnus was sitting at the kitchen table, reviewing a small ledger, a cup of coffee placed precisely to his right. He looked up as she entered. Eyebrow. Not the full lift. A smaller one. A question, perhaps.

Sammy cleared her throat. ‘Before we start,’ she said, clasping her hands together so she wouldn’t fidget, ‘I should probably tell you . . . I let the chickens out.’

His mouth twitched. ‘Out of the shed?’ Magnus asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And well, accidentally . . . out of the walled garden.’

‘All of them?’

Sammy grimaced.

‘I see,’ he said.

‘I’ve put them back,’ she added quickly. ‘With help. Using food. Which I now understand is key.’

‘No lasting damage?’

‘Some . . . enthusiastic pecking. It’s being addressed.’

Magnus considered this. ‘Honesty is integral to this position, Miss Jenkins,’ he said. ‘Errors can be corrected. Concealment cannot.’

Relief shot through her. ‘Understood,’ she said.