Page 87 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

The lake came into view. Tranquil and beautiful. She scattered feed, planning meals for Chloe – possibly a soufflé, definitely that plum crumble recipe from the dinner party. The feed floated untouched. No soft V-shapes cutting through the surface. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you’re late.’

She peered at the reeds, trying to make out Thyme sitting on her eggs, wondering how many there were, but her eyes were playing tricks on her; she couldn’t pick out the bird from the foliage.

Near the bank, a smaller shape caught her eye. Dark. Tipped with something shiny – brass? Half-hidden in the grass – a spent shotgun cartridge. She nudged it with her shoe, noticing feathers were scattered along the bank.

Her breath caught. No. She peered across the water, as if the ducks might still appear.

Footsteps behind her. ‘They’re late tonight . . .’ Nate said.

‘They . . . Oh, Nate . . .’

He took in the scene quickly – the spent cartridge, the untouched feed. His expression changed. ‘So not a fox problem,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘They were . . .’ Her voice broke. Bay, Juniper and Thyme. The names rose up before she could stop them. The way they slid in, the way they dipped their beaks, nibbling at the food – as daintily as if sipping champagne. Tears came without warning. Sammy pressed her hand to her mouth but couldn’t stop them.

‘I thought . . .’ she said. ‘I thought they were . . .’

Nate was close enough to reach her, but his hands stayed clamped by his sides. ‘I know,’ he said.

Sammy swallowed hard, swiping at her face with the heel of her hand. ‘I named them,’ she said, almost laughing through it. ‘I actually . . .’ Her voice failed again.

‘I could take you to the pub,’ Nate said. ‘Get you out of here for a bit.’

It landed late – what he’d said – like something thrown from a distance, finally reaching her. He’d offered to take her out, a proper date; no plants involved. She didn’t trust herself to reach for it too quickly in case it dissolved like sugar in rain.

‘That would be nice,’ she said, her voice catching roughly. ‘Okay – give me a minute, I’ll . . .’

He tutted sharply, smacking his palm against his forehead. ‘Ah . . . no, that’s no good. I can’t do tonight.’

He was already half-turning away, thought Sammy.

‘I’ll take you out though. To the pub. You can pick when.’

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice rough. ‘Okay.’

She wiped her eyes again, dragging in a breath, trying to steady her gulps. And that’s when she pictured Thyme, sitting on her own in the reeds, hunkering low. ‘The eggs,’ she whispered. ‘Thyme was sitting . . .’

Nate followed her line of thought, grimacing. ‘I’ll check.’ He moved towards the bank, scrambling along, boots slipping where the ground gave. The reeds closed around him with a dry hiss as he pushed through, parting them with his hands.

Sammy concentrated on the spot where he’d gone in, as if that might help him find the eggs. She dragged her sleeve across her face again and pressed her teeth into the side of her thumb. Hard enough to feel it. Not enough to stop. ‘Please’ she whispered.

Noise from within the reeds – the crack of a stem being flattened, a soft curse. Quiet. She shifted her weight, took half a step forward, before checking herself. Let him do it. Don’t . . .

A rustle again.

‘Nate?’

No answer. Just the sound of him moving, the reeds scratching. She chewed harder at her thumb. The rustling stopped. ‘Ah ha.’

Sammy’s breath left her all at once. ‘What? Have you . . .’

He pushed back through the reeds, clutching something close to his chest. ‘I’ve got them.’

Relief hit her so fast she nearly toppled over. ‘How many?’

‘Three.’

He clambered carefully back along the bank, then lowered his hands. Three huge eggs – white, and twice the size the chickens laid.