Page 157 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

She moved on, drawing Mabel away with her. Sammy watched them go, then switched her gaze to the sea.

Waves burst white against the harbour wall. Seconds later the wind reached the terrace, fluttering paper napkins; the café umbrellas shuddered overhead. Sammy reached to steady Nates mug. Simultaneously Nate reached for his coffee. Their hands met. She felt the roughness of his fingers, willing him to curl them around hers.

‘Ivy and Mabel . . . They mean well,’ she said.

‘They do,’ Nate replied, drawing his hand away.

‘That’s what everyone thinks, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘That it’s simply a matter of saying the right thing.’ Sammy rocked in her chair. ‘I sent them away,’ she said. ‘Chloe. Jimmy.’

Nate picked up his cup. He took a gulp, replacing it on the table. ‘I know. I heard them packing up the car.’

‘It wasn’t . . . easy.’

‘I didn’t think it would be.’

Sammy glanced down at her coffee, then back up. ‘I don’t want to pretend this is something it’s not,’ she said.

Nate looked sharply at her.

‘I want you,’ she said.

Nate’s knuckles went white around his cup. The terrace carried on around them – orders being taken, the hiss of the coffee machine, the smell of grilling bacon seeping from the kitchen, the steady movement of people with somewhere to be.

‘I know,’ he said.

Sammy held her breath, hoping for more. Briefly, he looked at her, then away out towards the water. ‘I’m not in a place where I can do that.’ Nate’s mouth creased, not quite a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

After another full day at the Hall – with no sign of Magnus changing his mind – Sammy plodded down the familiar path. The cottages came into view – she would miss coming home to this.

There was a car parked just beyond the gate. She groaned. Surely not Jimmy. Sammy screwed up her eyes. No, not Jimmy’s. This one was smaller and a lot cleaner.

Sammy’s heart lifted. She would have recognised the woman at the wheel anywhere. The sensible navy anorak. The no-nonsense cropped hair, more silver than brown these days. An expression that said she’d driven three hours across two countries and wasn’t about to make a fuss about it.

The car door opened. ‘Hello, love.’

Sammy blinked back tears. ‘Jean, what are you doing here?’

Jean reached for a small box on the passenger seat. ‘Someone told me you could do with a friendly face around you.’

Jean got out of the car, holding the box. Chocolates. The sort Jean always bought, not too fancy, not too plain. Sammy took them without thinking. Then pieced the puzzle together. Chloe, this was so like her. For all her faults she was a good mate.

‘It’s an awfully long way to come,’ Sammy said.

Jean shrugged, then opened the boot removing a small overnight bag. ‘I had to make sure you’re all right.’

Sammy unlocked the cottage door. ‘I should ask,’ she said, already reaching for her phone. ‘About you staying.’

‘Yes. Do that.’

‘Magnus? It’s Miss Jenkins . . . My foster mother is here. I’d like her to stay. For a few nights.’

‘Yes,’ he said. That was all.

Jean set her bag down neatly by the chair. ‘All sorted?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’