Page 37 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘So I don’t embarrass myself in front of Magnus?’

That would be reason enough. ‘So you can do your job,’ he said.

‘Of course. Professional development.’ She chose flowers carefully. Then she reached for a few already past their best.

‘Those aren’t right for the house,’ he said.

‘They’re not for the house,’ she said. ‘They’re for mine.’ She rose, tucking the flowers into her trug. ‘Flower arranging. What could possibly go wrong?’

Nate let his gaze drop briefly to the flowers – noting the haphazard selection – before lifting his eyes back to her. ‘Plenty,’ he said.

Ten

As Magnus opened the last shutter in the red reception room, the back doorbell rang.

Striding back through the Chinese room, he tried to recall if any deliveries were due this Friday; he took out his pocket watch – 8.15 a.m. – early for deliveries.

He reached the door; outside, Valerie. Magnus immediately suspected trouble.

‘Good morning, Mr Magnus.’

Before he could reply, she slipped past him, heading straight for the housekeeper’s room, ‘I’ve brough flapjacks. Mrs Williams’s recipe. To go with morning tea. Nothing like a proper bit of home baking to start the working day.’

By the time Magnus finished checking the dining room, Valerie had installed herself in his office. The teapot was brewing, two cups sat ready on the desk, and a plate of flapjacks occupied the space normally reserved for his papers.

‘How did you manage yesterday on my day off?’

Magnus picked up his tea. ‘Manage?’

‘Well, you know.’ Valerie picked up a flapjack. ‘How did Miss Jenkins get on? With the cake and everything.’

‘Miss Jenkins is perfectly capable.’

‘She might be. Though I’ve seen more competent flower arranging from teenagers helping their mothers at the church fete.’

‘There is more to the role than flower arranging.’

‘Of course there is.’ Valerie smiled. ‘There’s also cooking. Ironing. Being able to recognise vegetables sufficiently to plan seasonal menus.’

Magnus reached for a flapjack.

‘And how did she get on with those things?’

He considered the question. ‘Adequately.’

Valerie’s expression tightened.

Curious, thought Magnus.

By the end of July, the kitchen felt like Sammy’s domain, even if Valerie’s scornful looks suggested otherwise. With the aid of her map – temporarily pinned to the pantry wall pending Valerie vacating the housekeeper’s room – she had also learned her way around the house.

Thursdays and the weekends were her favourites. Wednesdays and Fridays had their own shape. She woke with them already in mind, a small tightening she chose not to dwell on. Valerie days.

She’d learned to work around them, saving jobs that kept her out of Valerie’s orbit. The house was large enough for that, if you planned it carefully. Corridors, entire wings that allowed you to pass through a day without crossing paths. Mostly. Breakfast and lunch were fixed points Sammy couldn’t dodge.

Irritatingly, Valerie never overtly criticised. Instead, it would be a snide comment about timing or minor corrections offered as if they were helpful.

Magnus never commented – a man who would catch a watermark on a glass from across the room appeared unphased by Valerie’s ‘helpful hints’.