Page 58 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I was thinking,’ she said, as she polished the Aga handrail. ‘The opening and closing of the house – we could take it in turns.’

The pocket watch appeared. Click. Open. A glance. Click. Closed. ‘That does not require amendment,’ he said.

‘I was only thinking you wouldn’t have such long hours every day.’

Magnus replaced the watch. ‘This is a way of life,’ he said. ‘I do not clock on and off.’

‘Of course,’ she said, lifting the cloth again. Working through the last section. When she finished, she stepped back. ‘Not bad.’

‘Indeed,’ said Magnus.

Sammy let out a breath. A second correct – she was getting the hang of this.

Sammy kept finding excuses to visit the garden, telling herself it was crucial; after all, to perform the role ‘adequately’, a housekeeper must liaise with the gardener. Shame she didn’t feel the same way about the cleaning lady.

That Friday, the polytunnel doors were wide open, but the heat still held inside, thick and damp. It wrapped around her as she stepped in, carrying that dense, living smell – warm compost. Water beaded along the inside and dropped at intervals, plopping softly onto the ground.

There he was – halfway down, hose in hand, misting the plants. The spray hung briefly in the air before settling, catching the light in a fine drift. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘Promise me you’ll start ripening in this heat. You can do it. We both know it.’

Nate seemed engrossed in the task. Hands steady on the hose.

‘Talking to them again?’ she said.

He flicked his eyes her way, and she asked herself if it was her imagination, but she was sure his expression softened – briefly.

‘Morning, Miss Jenkins.’

She stepped further inside, the heat pressing closer; she felt her blouse sticking on the damp patch between her shoulder blades. ‘You’ll have to drop that at some point,’ she said.

‘It suits you,’ he said.

‘You don’t wear a watch,’ she said.

He dropped his gaze, as if checking. ‘No.’

‘How do you know what time it is?’

He looked past her, out through the open end of the tunnel. ‘Sun’s there,’ he said. ‘Height, direction. You get a feel for it.’

‘And when it’s cloudy?’

A small shrug. ‘Still works. Light changes. Air’s different. You . . . know roughly.’

‘That’s either very impressive or completely made up.’

‘Bit of both,’ he said, meeting her eyes.

She smiled, before tearing her gaze away from his. She liked this, being here, with him. The way it didn’t feel like work in the same way. And she sensed that he did too, but wouldn’t acknowledge that there was something more to their relationship than simply working together. Not yet.

She reached for a tomato plant, pinching out a shoot cleanly. ‘You sort of drift through the day, then,’ she said. ‘Untethered.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Too much needs doing to drift.’

Something was holding him back; she couldn’t put her finger on it. But she didn’t want to push. ‘Magnus wants menus,’ she said. ‘I need to know what I’m working with.’

‘You’re looking at a lot of it.’

‘Helpful.’