Page 75 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Ideas came from her at once, spilling out before he could frame the task. ‘I could do something layered – a light starter . . . some canapés . . .’

He fingered his pocket watch. Too elaborate. This was precisely the risk. ‘Keep it simple,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she replied, but he could already see it behind her eyes – the architecture of something far more ambitious. Soufflés again, perhaps. Fragile things. Impressive when they worked. And it would be his responsibility if it unravelled, in his dining room.

He held the door open. ‘This way, Miss Jenkins.’

‘I’ll draft something,’ she said, gathering her cloths, still energised.

‘Indeed.’

He allowed her to pass him, then followed, the thread of doubt tightening further.

This needed to succeed. It had been his idea, after all.

It occurred to Sammy, as she sat in the stifling kitchen, that she would prefer to be planning the menu privately – in the housekeeper’s room. The Aga pushed out heat in a steady wave, catching at the back of her neck, settling between her shoulders. Her tights clung to her legs, her arms felt sticky. Even with the windows thrown open, the air barely moved – just enough to lift the pages of the books spread open across the table.

Sammy pulled her chair closer to the window, angling herself into what little breeze there was. With one hand she fanned herself with her notebook, with the other she flicked through the cookery books.

Goat’s cheese soufflé with a thyme cream sauce.

She wrote it down in her notebook, pursed her lips, and sat back, reading it over. Sammy drew a line through the dish, and scribbled: roast chicken, tarte tatin. She shifted a book aside, reached for another.

The kitchen door swung open. Valerie came in carrying a basket of folded laundry, trailing that chemical mixture of hairspray fighting sweet perfume. ‘You look busy.’

Sammy lifted her eyes, then dropped them back to her notebook a finger tracing down the menu. She’d spent weeks wondering whether she belonged here. Magnus, apparently, had already decided. ‘Magnus is organising a trial dinner.’

Valerie gave a short laugh. ‘You?’

‘Apparently.’ Sammy smiled nervously. ‘For fourteen.’

Valerie set the basket down, inches away from Sammy’s notebook. ‘Well. That’s ambitious.’

Sammy laughed weakly. ‘That’s one word for it.’

Valerie’s eyes moved across the open cookery books. ‘What’ve you got so far?’

‘Nothing definite. I was thinking something classic?’

‘Mm.’ Valerie picked up the notebook. ‘You want something memorable.’

‘In a good way!’

‘People expect theatre in houses like this.’

‘Do they?’ Valerie would know; over fifteen years, she’d witnessed countless dinner parties. Valerie pushed Sammy’s notebook aside, chose a cookbook and flicked through it. ‘You could do lobster.’

‘For fourteen? Isn’t that a bit expensive?’

‘Shows confidence.’

‘Right.’

‘Or venison.’ Valerie turned another page. ‘Guests love venison.’

Sammy hesitated. ‘I’ve never cooked it.’

‘No better time to learn.’