Page 15 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Indeed.’ Magnus closed the ledger. ‘Let’s take that tour.’

They proceeded down the first of what appeared to be an endless network of corridors, Magnus dispensing information without breaking stride. ‘My office,’ he said. ‘Yours is next door. There’s a small pantry between them. Tea-making facilities, milk, and so forth.’ He opened a door, frowned, and closed it again. ‘Yours, as soon as Valerie has vacated it.’ At the end of the corridor, he indicated another door. ‘The former land agent’s office.’

‘Former?’

‘The estate has not employed a resident land agent for years. The farmland is managed by an external agent. I am responsible for the house, and the staff. The agent deals with the agricultural side of the estate.’ His expression became more formal. ‘Though naturally Mr Hastings remains closely involved.’

Next door was the library, which opened into another reception room apparently known as ‘the morning room’.

By now Magnus was moving, revealing information faster than Sammy could process. ‘Morning room,’ he said, striding through. ‘Dining room.’

The dining room was the size of Jean’s house.

The walls rose, as high as they were wide; the length of the room was double the width, taking her breath away. The medieval hall was still there. Although the original rafters had long since been plastered over, their pattern remained, translated into a deep coffer shape that kept the old structure while making something grander of it.

Sammy felt it at once – the sense of history unfolding before her eyes. She could virtually see it – the high table set across the end, figures wearing rich velvets and furs, the rest of the hall filled with trestle tables crowded close together. Platters passed from hand to hand, cups lifted and refilled, the smell of roasted meat, spiced wine, and the heat from too many bodies in one place.

A long table ran the length of the dining room, the wood shiny and dark. Sammy could smell the beeswax, see her reflection in its polished surface.

Gilded paintings covered the walls – portraits, landscapes, all in heavy gold frames. At one end was a marble fireplace wide enough to stand in. A bell pull hung to one side, the cord straight, the tassel fixed at hand height.

She heard the butler’s voice and trotted to catch up. ‘Entrance hall,’ he said. That space at least she recognised.

‘Chinese room. And through there,’ said Magnus, indicating a polished mahogany door at the opposite end, ‘is the red room.’

Sammy stopped inside the doorway. The ceiling lifted high above her – easily sixteen feet – its plasterwork theatrically elaborate. Cherubs drifted between curling leaves; birds were suspended in mid-flight – herons amongst them with their oversized beaks and long spindly legs – caught in motion across the plaster.

It belonged to another age – Sammy could feel that much, even if she couldn’t date it. A time when the nation had turned its back on restraint, deciding to enjoy itself instead.

The walls were something else entirely. Not simple wallpaper. It was more like a faded tapestry. Chinese figures moved through it in muted colours – fishing, farming, standing beneath temple roofs. Each scene different, as if the room had been lined with a story not a pattern.

Silk curtains fell in heavy lengths at the windows, dulling the light. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘getting the hang of this place now.’

Beyond the far windows lay a paved courtyard flooded with sunlight. She’d spotted glimpses of that space from other windows. Room after room surrounded a disused courtyard, each one leading to another. Like a giant stone doughnut filled with antiques.

‘The courtyard helps with orientation,’ Magnus said, correctly interpreting her expression. ‘There are three main staircases. If you can locate one of them, you can generally find your way about.’

Generally. Not reassuring.

Sammy decided to draw a map and pin it to the wall of her office. A large map. Possibly several.

Magnus was moving again. ‘This way.’

He ushered her back into the corridor and towards a staircase.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she said, scurrying up the stairs after him.

‘If you must.’

She gazed back at the seemingly endless procession of reception rooms.

‘Don’t they . . . rattle around in here?’

Magnus stopped at the half landing, turned and peered at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Mr and Mrs Hastings. It just seems rather a lot of house . . . I mean . . . for two people.’

One eyebrow rose. The other joined it. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Why would they?’