Page 9 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Miss Jenkins,’ he repeated, perfectly politely, ‘you are two hours early.’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a small, helpless shrug. ‘I did notice once I got here.’

Something close to amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth but vanished before she could decide. ‘We are not yet receiving at the front of the house,’ he said. ‘If you would be so good as to proceed to the back entrance.’

Right. Wrong door. ‘Yes. Of course. Sorry. Again.’ She turned took a few steps before swinging back to face him. ‘Also . . . just to say . . . I’m fine with Sammy.’

Magnus regarded her, his face impassive. ‘In my opinion, all housekeepers should be addressed as “Mrs”, however, Sir has persuaded me to modernise; so you will be Miss Jenkins,’ he said.

Sammy made a small choking noise that might have been a laugh. ‘Right. Well . . . righty-ho.’

The formality of it all seemed not only unfamiliar but also faintly absurd. Titles. Pocket watches. Being redirected to the correct entrance, like a parcel that had arrived at the wrong address. And yet – he wasn’t joking. Not even a little bit.

‘Very good,’ Magnus said, still not allowing her into the house. ‘Around the side.’

‘Around the side,’ Sammy echoed.

She retraced her steps, acutely aware of the size of the place, of the fact that she had rung the wrong bell at the wrong time on her very first day.

Excellent start.

The house seemed even larger from the side – with endless windows and chimneys rising like sentries. This wasn’t simply a job. It was a system. A machine that had clearly been running long before her and would carry on quite happily without her if she got it wrong.

By the time her car reached the curve around the stable block, Sammy’s earlier nerves had sharpened into something tighter. What if she couldn’t do this? She rounded the last bend, the back of the house coming into view, less grand, but no less imposing. Sammy parked, switched off the engine, and sat staring at the door she could apparently use.

‘Well,’ she murmured to herself, ‘too late now, Miss Jenkins.’ She winced. ‘Absolutely not calling myself that,’ she added under her breath, before forcing herself out of the car and towards whatever came next.

The back door opened before Sammy had worked out whether she should knock.

‘Miss Jenkins.’

She tried once more. ‘Sammy’s fine, honestly.’

‘Miss Jenkins,’ he repeated, a touch more firmly. ‘If you’ll come this way.’

This time she made it through the green baize door. The kitchen hit her all at once – warmth, the comforting smell of coffee. It was vast. And immaculate. Every surface gleamed as if it had been approved by someone with very high standards. Not like the narrow galley at the flat, where you had to turn sideways if someone else came in, where nothing matched, the cold water tap dripped and the kettle never sat properly on its base.

Sammy shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, then moved further in, trying to look unphased.

‘You may leave your things here,’ Magnus said, already turning away.

‘Right. Yes.’

She set her bag down, then immediately shifted it a few inches to the left. Better. Less . . . in the way.

Sammy scanned the counters, searching for something – anything – that needed doing. Her eyes landed on a row of glass storage jars. They looked . . . slightly off. She stepped closer, peering at one: dried leaves. A couple of inches long . . . leaves. Was that a thing? Next to it, something that looked like bits of bark. Actual bark. And then a jar of what could only be described as twigs. Sammy frowned. What were you meant to do with that lot – rubbish from the garden – make tea?

She nudged one jar, followed by another, lining them up. Stepped back. They looked exactly the same.

‘Good,’ she muttered. ‘Strong start.’

She crossed to the table, ran her hand over it, grabbed a cloth and gave it a brisk wipe – quick, purposeful.

‘Miss Jenkins.’

She jumped, and spun round, hiding the cloth behind her back.

Magnus still with that same measured calm. ‘The kitchen is already attended to,’ he said.