Page 68 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

She sat. Her back straight, the plate balanced carefully – but down.

They ate side by side, Sammy discussing the spices, Nate the vegetables, the sound of the sea lapping at the shore their background music.

A woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a loose fitting kaftan and sensible looking sandals said hello to Nate. She leaned across, a wide-brimmed sunhat shading her face. Pinned neatly to the band was a small enamel badge with Protect Our Coast picked out in tidy lettering. ‘You must be the new housekeeper, up at the Hall,’ she said, smiling at Sammy.

‘Miss Jenkins,’ Nate said, ‘meet Mabel, she lives in the cottage next to the church and keeps the village’s moral compass – anything the wrong side of ethical, Mabel will see it off for us!’

Deciding there was little point in offering her Christian name, Sammy just said ‘Hi.’

‘I’ve a petition I need you both to sign,’ said Mabel, digging into her voluminous hessian bag. ‘We must stop all these pesticides leaching poison into the ground.’ She passed over a clipboard. Nate added his name before handing the pen and board to Sammy. ‘Couples often do your jobs,’ Mabel added, glancing between her and Nate.

Sammy signed, feeling the impact of those words; Nate didn’t react. She passed the clipboard back to him.

Mabel accepted the board back from Nate. ‘Thanks again, by the way,’ she added. ‘For rescuing those bees.’

‘A bee rescuer in your spare time?’ teased Sammy.

‘Swarm in someone’s garden,’ he said. ‘Needed identifying before the boss moved them to the orchard.’

She liked that – people calling him for help; Nate knowing what to do. Sammy reached for her drink and caught Nate watching her.

‘Your hair looks different . . . it’s . . . shorter,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘It suits you.’

‘Thank you. Jean, she’s my foster mum, she sent me some money for a treat. Yours could do with a trim. Or have you always kept it long?’

‘No.’

His answer was curt. Sensing she’d touched a nerve and regretting it, she quickly changed the topic. ‘I asked Magnus for ideas on how to spend it, and he told me no one ever sends him anything . . . can you imagine never receiving a gift.’

‘Mm.’

Blessedly, Sammy’s phone rang. Jean.

‘You should take that,’ Nate said.

‘It’s fine, I can call her back.’

He shook his head. Sammy rose, stepping away as she answered, chatting to Jean while Nate ate.

When he’d finished eating, he scrambled upright. ‘Take your time. I need to talk to a few people anyway. This is my village.’

Sammy turned, looking back at the scene – at the caravan, the groups of people, Magnus alone, Nate talking with someone nearby.

‘I can hear seagulls. You’re not back in Swansea are you love?’

‘On the beach,’ she said. ‘In Brambleton . . . with Nate.’

‘My, that sounds promising.’

‘It is,’ Sammy said.

‘Hmm,’ said Jean. ‘Don’t mess this one up, Sammy.’

Sammy huffed a laugh. ‘No pressure, then.’