Page 57 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Then they go out,’ he said, pointing back at the bed. ‘And get on with it.’

She walked back over to the tomatoes. ‘Miss Jenkins, learning fast,’ she said, reaching for another side shoot.

He watched her pinching out. This time, cleaner. More confident. It didn’t take much for some people. Others never got there at all.

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Reputation like that, you’ll be running the place by September.’

She smiled at that, pinching out another shoot.

He watched her, imagining guiding her hand, holding it. ‘I hope you stay . . .’ Nate whispered. He kept his eyes lowered when he said it. Easier that way.

‘It’s peaceful in here,’ she said, glancing around.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the pull of the day in them. ‘Maybe it’s lonely,’ he said. ‘Not peaceful.’ He didn’t mean to say that either. He braced himself for a quick reassurance. When it didn’t come. He filed that away – interesting.

‘Hey,’ she said, lighter now. ‘Do you fancy a trip to the pub later?’

He was about to say yes when his mind caught up: one day you enjoyed someone’s company, the next, you were rearranging your life around them. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Because of how Magnus thinks?’

He didn’t answer, simply reached over and pinched out another shoot.

‘More tomatoes, then.’ She said.

‘More tomatoes.’

He worked his way down the row. Beside him, she did the same. Their shoulders came close to brushing. He shifted sufficiently to keep the space between them.

Fifteen

By Thursday morning, Sammy had forgotten about the laundry incident. Mostly.

The kitchen held its usual warmth, but without the interruption of claws on stone or the low, restless movement at her feet, it seemed different – too quiet and flatter somehow.

Sammy wiped her wrist lightly across her forehead, aware of the heat gathering at her collar, the small of her back. The Aga radiated a dry, enveloping heat that filled the room. She reached for the cloth.

Above the Aga, on a ledge, was a small arrangement of ornaments: a brass bull terrier, polished to a dull gleam, and two pottery roosters. She lifted them, one at a time, wiping carefully – object, surface – setting each back exactly where it had been. Her hand rested a fraction longer on the bull terrier, before moving on.

Behind her, at the table, Magnus wrote in his ledger, pen steady, posture upright. His jacket was off, but Sammy thought he must be impossibly hot in both a waistcoat and tie. Unless, she thought with a tiny smile, butlers – like Victorian ladies – didn’t ‘perspire’. The quiet scratch of his pen carried across the room.

Sammy became aware he was watching her. She altered the angle of the bull terrier. Stepped back, her arm went forward again, stopped. No. That was right. She left it.

‘Indeed,’ Magnus said.

That one meant correct.

Sammy moved on, cloth working in steady strokes. The heat built under her blouse, and she wondered if it would be sloppy to turn up with bare legs; her tights were clinging to her like a second skin. ‘It’s like working inside a kettle,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t this thing have an off button?’ She asked resting a hand on the Aga.

‘The temperature is consistent,’ Magnus replied.

‘Relentlessly so,’ she said. ‘You could roll your sleeves up, you know. For survival.’

Magnus picked up a delivery note, read it, replaced it, wrote something in the ledger. ‘That would be inappropriate.’

‘Even in the interests of not overheating?’

‘Especially then.’