Page 154 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘This isn’t that,’ she said. But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure he’d believe her.

‘I haven’t been honest with you,’ he said.

She knew he’d been hiding something ‘Are you on the run?’ Was that why he was so tough on Jimmy?

‘In a way . . . I guess I am, but it’s nothing like you’re thinking,’ he kicked at a tuft of grass. ‘My name isn’t Nate. It’s Nathaniel Carter,’ he said. He looked at her as if the name should mean something.

‘Nathaniel – that’s quite a mouthful.’

‘Carter Garden Group.’

That name sounded familiar, even if she couldn’t put her finger on it. Garden centres. The type you passed on the outskirts of towns. She tried picturing Nate being part of that sort of business, wearing a suit and a tie, working in an office.

‘My family owns it,’ he said. ‘I was meant to take over.’ He bent to pick up a small stone, turning it in his fingers. ‘Every holiday was spent in the office. Every weekend learning how it all worked.’ A rush of breath, something close to a laugh. ‘Dinner was the same. All we ever talked about was what was best for the company.’ Beside them the river slipped past – a gentle swirl of brown. ‘I liked the plants,’ he said. ‘Then it stopped being about that. I hardly spent any time with them – not unless I was doing a stock take. I met someone. Cassandra. She fitted in – with my family. With all of it.’

Sammy had guessed there been someone. The name made her real.

‘We got engaged. Big wedding planned, house hunting. Everything decided before I’d worked it out myself.’ The stone fell from his hand into the grass. ‘New Year’s Eve, I was in a stockroom doing inventory. Everyone else was out. She was waiting for me at a party I didn’t want to be at. I realised I didn’t want any of it.’

The wind gusted, rippling the surface of the river. ‘I called it off,’ he said. ‘Walked away. Paid what I owed.’

The clues settled into place – the way he spoke, the effortless way he hosted that dinner party and fixed his own bow tie without looking; the hospital corners. She swallowed; he was trusting her with all this; surely, he wouldn’t if there was no way back for them.

‘They don’t speak to me anymore,’ he added. ‘Not because they’re upset, but because I embarrassed them.’ he kicked at the grass, as if deciding how much more to say. ‘I came here. Work I could do with my hands. Something that was . . . mine.’

‘Magnus hired you.’

‘He asked very few questions.’

Her mouth opened. She could ask him again to speak to Magnus. Nate would be heard – he always was. But the words stalled. She’d spent weeks insisting she wasn’t the liability Magnus thought she was. If she asked Nate to save her now, what would that prove? That Magnus had been right – she blurred the lines between her personal and work life. That when her career was on the line, she reached for personal connections instead of standing on her own merits.

‘Nate . . . Nathaniel,’ she corrected herself. ‘I won’t ask you to get involved.’

‘Good,’ he said. Something in his voice had eased.

Sammy drew in a breath. It hurt. ‘I’ll sort it,’ she said.

‘I think you might,’ he said.

The mist had lifted now, the light clearer across the water.

She turned up the path, where the ground felt firmer underfoot. She didn’t look back at the river.

It wasn’t over. Not yet.

As usual, the cottage door stuck before it gave. Sammy thrust it open. The words were there now. She must say them.

Warm air, stale with tea and toast, hit her first. The window was shut. The heating on high. The television filled the room, bright colours flashing, the loud excited voice of a game show host – clapping, a bell, laughter, someone shouting out an answer.

Chloe and Jimmy had made themselves comfortable, sitting on the sofa with mugs in hand and plates balanced on their knees. Crumbs were scattered across the coffee table. The butter had been left out, now softening.

‘Oh, there she is,’ Chloe said, not looking away from the screen. ‘How was your day? Did you get everything sorted?’ Chloe asked. ‘Oh, oh . . . capital of . . . hang on . . .’

‘Warsaw!’ Jimmy yelled, slapping his legs.

‘No, it’s . . .’ Chloe leaned forward, then laughed. ‘I knew that one.’

The bell sounded on the television.