Page 3 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I can see that,’ the man replied, huffing as he lunged and missed by inches. ‘He’s winning.’

Sammy and her fellow dog catcher tried again.

The dog doubled back, tail wagging furiously, thrilled by the game, which everyone appeared to be playing.

‘Stop it,’ yelled a male voice.

Sammy grabbed a fallen napkin, twisted it once, and tossed it lightly. The dog lunged. She moved with it, blocking the open lawn with her body. Her fellow chaser saw what she was doing at once and slipped into position opposite her to cover the other side, crouching, legs wide, hands outstretched, like a fielding cricketer waiting for the catch.

With the hedge behind it and humans no longer obliging enough to give chase, the dog finally slowed, panting happily, tail sweeping the air as though pleased with the outcome.

‘Stop It,’ said the butler.

Only then did Sammy realise. That’s his name.

The dog cocked his head to one side, deep black eyes assessing. The tail kept moving, but more slowly now.

Sammy’s gaze flicked between the dog and the butler. She knelt – skirt be damned – palms open. ‘Stop It,’ she said, softly. ‘Come. Come here, Stop It.’

The dog tilted his head its piercing eyes trained on her. He padded forward. Sammy grabbed the collar, slipping the napkin through it as a makeshift lead.

Polite applause followed, hesitant at first, then sincere.

The bull terrier surged, solid, powerful, all enthusiasm. The napkin went taut, and Sammy’s arm jolted. ‘Oh,’ she said, genuinely surprised.

The butler strode towards her. ‘I presume you’re Chloe. I’m Mr Magnus,’ he said, one arm reaching for the napkin. Up close, he was immaculate. Somewhere in his fifties, with dark hair combed neatly back from a lined, intelligent face. Every movement was precise, controlled, as though he’d spent a lifetime mastering the art of discretion. She handed over the wriggling dog. Mr Magnus hooked a slip leash over the dog’s head.

‘Chloe’s ill, I’m Sammy. Does this little scamp belong to the host?’

‘No. This dog does not belong to Sir.’

Her eyes scanned the destruction. The man from the hedge was nowhere to be seen. ‘I’ll clear up the broken glasses,’ offered Sammy.

A curt nod. ‘After that, fetch some fresh canapés,’ he pointed to a door, ‘through there, left at the end of the corridor to the green baize door. Mrs Williams is in the kitchen.’

He shortened the lead by an inch. ‘Come along, you little monster,’ Magnus said quietly, but there was affection in his voice. The dog attempted one last hopeful lunge toward the party – now assembled in small groups chatting and drinking – his muscles bunching, joy undimmed.

Magnus hustled Stop It away, lead stretched taut, composure intact, as if escorting a guest who’d had one glass too many.

Sammy never actually made it inside the kitchen. Following Magnus’s directions, she found the green baize door and balancing the tray of broken glasses, pushed her back against it.

A brisk woman’s voice called out. ‘Not in here.’

Sammy stepped back into the corridor, the door swinging shut against her legs.

‘Er . . . Mrs Williams?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Magnus sent me.’

A pause, followed by, ‘Are you the hired help?’

Sammy spun around, addressing the baize. ‘Yes.’

The door opened sufficiently to reveal a short woman with a weathered face, sharp dark eyes, and a cloud of wiry grey curls. She took the tray of casualties. The door shut. Moments later she reappeared with a silver tray of canapés, releasing mouth-watering smells of freshly cooked pastry and cheese into the corridor.

‘Here you go, love,’ Mrs Williams said, thrusting the tray into Sammy’s hands. ‘Come back and knock when you run out. Valerie will keep you stocked up.’