Page 30 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

He repositioned the fork ‘Good evening, Miss Jenkins,’ he said.

Conversation over.

Sammy watched Nate move away, absorbed once more in his work. She remained a moment longer, the scent of roses drifting on the air. The thought came uninvited. Peter had always given her roses on special occasions: birthdays, Christmas. Peter had been nothing like this. Peter had talked. Filled silences before they could settle. Three years of uncomplicated life. Until it wasn’t. She pushed the thought aside before it could take hold.

Nate seemed closed. A challenge.

A man who needed fixing. Or at least loosening.

Her egg and chips would probably fail a Valerie inspection. But Sammy didn’t care.

Sammy was in her kitchen, a plate balanced in one hand, fork in the other. Slightly overdone at the edges, but solid food. And free. The window was open a crack, letting in the warm air and the faint scent of honeysuckle wafting in from Nate’s garden.

The blanket Jean had bought her years ago was draped across the sofa. On the wall above it, she’d pinned a photograph of Swansea Bay, all grey-blue sea and wide sky, a view that made you feel small in a good way. Next to it, hanging slightly crooked, was a photo of her and Chloe – mid-laugh, windswept.

Sammy dipped a chip in an egg yolk and bit the end off. She chewed, taking in the room, and allowed herself a small, private chuckle. Better.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen table: Jean. She propped the phone upright, swallowing her mouthful of food. ‘Hi!’

‘How’s the new job?’

‘Good. I mean, it’s hard, but good. Magnus – he’s the butler – he’s teaching me so much.’

Jean smiled down the line, you could hear it. ‘I’ve sent you a little something for your

room. Nothing fancy. You sound happy.’

Sammy speared another chip. ‘I am. And it’s not a room; it’s a whole cottage with two bedrooms. Bigger than the flat I share with Clo. Chloe called. She needed help with . . .’ Jean sighed. Sammy exhaled. ‘I sent her some money.’

‘I thought you might have.’

Sammy frowned. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because you always try and sort things, love. Even when they’re not yours to fix.’

Sammy poked a fork at the egg. ‘She’s my friend.’

‘I know she is,’ said Jean. ‘I’m not saying don’t help her. I just wonder sometimes . . . who’s looking after you.’

Sammy didn’t reply.

Jean’s voice softened. ‘I want you to be happy. You don’t have to be the reliable one every time.’

As Magnus reached his office on Monday morning, Valerie overtook him. ‘I’ll make tea and bring it through,’ she said, letting herself into the housekeeper’s room.

‘Please find the time to clear your things from in there, Valerie.’

Valerie gave a loud tut ‘Do you think that’s wise . . . I don’t want to tell tales, but I’m not sure she’s focussed on this job.’

‘What gives you that impression?’

‘She seems to take a lot of personal calls.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And she hasn’t a clue with that roller iron – she ripped a sheet last Wednesday.’

He stiffened. ‘A good one?’