Page 43 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Nate picked up the empty feed bucket, dragging a hand over the back of his neck as he straightened. ‘What sort of cake?’ he asked.

‘You’ll have to try it and find out.’

‘I will.’

The last ripple from the ducks receded. The lake had settled again. Nate hadn’t.

Sammy pushed the cottage door shut behind her. The room felt stifling, the warmth engulfing her – along with the deep, savoury smell of the chicken casserole she’d left in the oven this morning. She tossed her phone on the table, opened the window, and lay on the sofa, feet up as she assessed the room.

In the centre of the table, a vase of flowers made the room feel lived in – she congratulated herself. ‘Proper alignment Miss Jenkins.’ Snapdragons and sweet peas, their stems cut a little unevenly, spilled out over the sides. She’d spent longer on them than she meant to that morning, turning the vase, shifting a stem, then leaving it alone. She smiled, imagining spending a day off in Swansea fiddling with flowers.

Jean’s housewarming present hung above the sofa. Sammy sat up and nudged the frame straight. It was her – smaller, stiff in her school uniform, caught mid-step as someone handed her a certificate. Her hair half-tamed, her grin wide and disbelieving, as if she hadn’t expected her name to be called at all.

Memories of an evening at Jean’s kitchen table rushed back – exercise books open, Jean opposite her, mugs of tea beside them. A pencil tapping lightly. A quiet, ‘Go on, you’ve nearly got this.’

Sammy’s gaze caught on the photo, then she reached up and ran her fingers over the image of her younger self.

Her phone rang. Jean. Sammy answered. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello, love,’ Jean said. ‘How are you?’

Sammy looked around the room. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m . . . good.’

‘That sounds like you mean it,’ Jean said.

‘I think I do. I’m learning so much. I’ve cooked a chicken casserole for tea tonight and I’ve met someone . . . well not met them in that way . . . but there’s someone working here, outside . . . he’s nice.’

Jean didn’t react immediately.

‘A gardener,’ Sammy said. ‘Nate.’

‘Ah.’

‘He’s . . .’ she searched for the word. ‘Difficult.’

Jean chuckled softly. ‘In what way?’

‘Closed,’ Sammy said. ‘Very closed. Won’t talk about himself. Calls me Miss Jenkins. How daft is that?’

‘And yet you’re mentioning him.’

Sammy snorted. ‘He’s kind,’ she said. ‘He helped me with the chickens. And vegetables and flowers. And he smiles. Sometimes.’

‘High praise,’ Jean said.

‘Exactly.’

‘So, you really like him?’ Jean asked gently.

‘Yes,’ Sammy said, recalling his recent ‘almost smiles’. Then she remembered their conversation by the lake. ‘Jean, can I ask you something?’

‘Anything.’

‘There’s someone at work,’ she said. ‘Valerie. I can’t quite . . . get her right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jean asked. ‘Give me an example.’

Sammy worried at a loose thread on her sleeve. ‘I don’t know. I’m probably being too sensitive,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think she likes me.’