Page 95 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘My cottage is not far from yours. Your guest,’ he said, ‘requires careful management.’

‘Chloe’s just visiting,’ she said. ‘She won’t be in the way. She doesn’t mean any harm.’ Sammy heard it as she said it – the effort those words took.

Magnus lifted a milk jug, turned it in the light. ‘Personal relationships blur accountability.’

‘She won’t affect my work,’ she said.

‘She already has.’

His gaze settled on her folded arms.

Sammy let her arms fall by her side. Magnus pursed his lips, then moved the position of the jug. ‘We will assess that in due course.’

Twenty-three

As soon as she walked into the kitchen Sammy wished she hadn’t. Valerie was laying the table for breakfast.

‘I can see you’re behind. Late night, was it?’ Valerie said, a sly smile on her face. ‘With your friend, the one who came to the front door, dressed as if she was looking for a cocktail bar . . . or business . . . Magnus said he couldn’t sleep for the racket. Oh, and that blouse could do with a press. Standards, Miss Jenkins.’

Sammy turned on her heal. A friendly face, she must see a friendly face. And she must check on the duck eggs. ‘I’m not hungry. Why don’t you two eat without me.’

If she was left alone with Magnus, would that soften Valerie? Possibly.

The heat inside the polytunnel met her first, pressing between her shoulder blades.

She heard Nate speaking. ‘Good girls, soak this up now, give you strength . . .’ The smell came next. Sweet, something overripe.

She spotted Nate at the far end with a watering can, delivering a steady arc of cloudy water to the base of the tomato plants. The leaves were dense, the fruit a rainbow from green through blushing pink to deep red.

Sammy took a step. Nate looked up straight away. ‘Morning, Miss Jenkins.’

She wiped her palms against her skirt without thinking. ‘Morning. Talking to them again?’ Her gaze went straight past him. ‘The eggs?’

He set the can down. ‘Still holding.’ In two strides he was at the propagator, lifting the lid a crack.

Sammy leaned in. Three. In a nest of straw. ‘They’re all right?’

‘They’re eggs,’ he said, lowering the lid, sealing them away. ‘They’ll do what they do. Or they won’t.’ Nate stepped away, picking up the watering can. ‘You can’t manage them into hatching,’ he said. He tipped the can, water soaking into the soil. ‘Nature takes its own time.’

Sammy wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s that smell?

‘Bananas.’ He nodded towards a bucket tucked under the bench. ‘Skins. I soak them. Good for tomatoes – lots of potassium.’

‘You’re a funny man.’

He gave a small shrug.

‘And you can stop calling me Miss Jenkins.’

He kept working. ‘Can I?’

‘You’re taking me to the pub,’ she said. ‘It’s going to feel a bit odd. Miss Jenkins, on a date in the twenty-first century.’

That made him look up. ‘Is that what it is?’

‘I think so.’

He tipped the last of the liquid out of the can. ‘Alright . . . Sammy.’ He said it carefully, as if testing out the name.