Page 85 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘You always make it sound simple.’

‘Usually, it is simple. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.’

Sammy picked up her fork and finally took a bite of egg. ‘Magnus likes me,’ she said quietly.

‘Course he does.’

‘He trusts me with things.’

‘Then trust that instead of trusting every little comment from this Valerie woman.’

Sammy leaned back in the chair. The truth was, she’d learned to read Magnus. An indeed could be approval. Adequate sometimes meant better than it sounded. Last night he’d praised her outright for the first time, but she’d been growing in confidence long before that. Around Magnus, she often felt capable. As though she was growing into the job. Then Valerie would appear beside her with one of her ‘mms’ and she felt twelve years old and in somebody else’s way.

‘Maybe she expects high standards,’ Sammy said.

Jean gave a dry little laugh. ‘And maybe foxes are misunderstood vegetarians.’

Sammy burst out laughing. ‘Jean.’

‘Well.’

Sammy forked food into her mouth. ‘How’s that man Nate you were on the beach with last week?’

‘I like him.’

‘More than like him?’

Sammy didn’t answer immediately. Last night in the pantry, when he’d joked about Valerie being keen on Magnus – had felt like a breakthrough. ‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘Make sure you think of you occasionally, love,’ Jean said.

Sammy’s gaze settled on the flowers. ‘I am,’ she said.

Sammy was half asleep when she heard a sharp sound. Her eyes snapped open. She pushed herself upright, listening, her heart thumping in her chest.

An owl hooted. Another crack. And another. Gunshots. She knew that sound. But at night in Brambleton. Why? She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Nate’s name.

Sammy scrambled out of bed and ran to the window – if Nate’s lights were on, she would call him. There was darkness across at Magnus’s; she leaned out, feeling the cool breeze riffling her hair. No sign of life from either of the cottages.

Foxes, she told herself. Or something like that. Sammy pulled the window shut and got back into bed. A farmer. That’s what they did in the countryside – here, foxes were vermin; they kill lambs and raid chicken coops. That’s why the hens lived in the walled garden. You’ll have to get used to it.

She lay back slowly, the tension easing by degrees, letting the phone slip from her hand.

Chloe would hate this, she thought. The idea of Chloe here now made Sammy smile into her pillow. Chloe would be dramatic. Probably demand they call the police, barricade the front door and huddle together somewhere until help arrived. With a bottle of wine for courage. It would be . . . fun.

Sammy’s thoughts drifted. Chloe visiting. Nate here. It would work. She knew it would. Sleep came easily after that.

Sammy got no further than the doorway to the master bedroom before she gasped. The guest bedrooms were gorgeous, but nothing like this; she instinctively lowered her voice, as if the room expected it.

Finally, she’d made it into this hallowed space. She hid a smile – Valerie wasn’t allowed in here. Sammy copied Magnus, slipping her shoes off before stepping inside. ‘Right,’ she said under her breath.

A bed dominated the wall opposite a marble fireplace. A four-poster, tall with silk hangings falling in long, controlled folds. In Swansea, a bed that size would touch two walls. Here, you could fit a pair either side and still see the floorboards.

Light poured in through tall windows, settling across polished floorboards and the thick rugs laid over them, each one soft underfoot, each one carefully placed.

Curtains fell in heavy lengths; acres of fabric trimmed with thick fringing. The voile beneath had been pulled high and fastened with matching tiebacks hanging at precisely the same height. Portraits and landscapes lined the walls – nothing showy.

The bathroom door hung open.