Page 11 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

A hint of an eyebrow. That one looked like a correction. ‘Mr Magnus.’

Sammy folded her hands in her lap.

‘You will wear uniform,’ he continued. ‘Black skirt. White blouse. You will be given an allowance to purchase suitable garments.’

Garments. Honestly. Sammy kept her expression neutral, but it was as if he’d stepped out of somewhere else entirely. A different century. Clothes. Just say clothes. Not that she could remember the last time she’d bought anything new that wasn’t strictly necessary.

She glanced again at the photograph. At the man’s severe expression. Generations of this, she wondered? Is that how you end up with eyebrows like Magnus? He followed her gaze, then raised his eyes to look at her.

Definitely a language, she decided. One she did not speak.

She nearly smiled. Don’t laugh. Do not laugh in this intimidating man’s office.

He reached into his pocket and produced a brass key, holding it out to her.

‘You will need this,’ he said. ‘For the back door.’

Sammy took it, turning it once between her fingers before closing her hand around the metal. It was only a key; even so it felt strangely like being invited in.

‘Do you have experience with chickens? If so, you might begin by letting the chickens out,’ he said, ‘while I finish opening the house.’

Sammy got to her feet. As a childhood treat, Jean used to take her to feed the ducks in the park. Sammy liked birds. Chickens. That couldn’t be difficult.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Yes. Chickens. Of course.’

‘I usually feed them. Out the back door, follow the path to the walled garden. When you return, we will eat breakfast and I will show you around the house, and where the housekeeper’s room is.’

That idea caught her by surprise. A housekeeper’s room. A space attached to the role itself; a sign of rank and responsibility. It made the position suddenly feel rather more real. She sensed an unexpected flicker of pride. Jean would be thrilled when she told her. And Chloe would undoubtedly insist on seeing photographs before she believed a word of it. Sammy lowered her eyes, hoping the butler had not noticed the smile threatening to appear.

She turned toward the door. Three months to prove she could do this. Chickens sounded . . . manageable.

Probably.

Following Magnus’s directions, Sammy reached the walled garden and inside found the little wooden chicken shed painted a pastel blue. Soft clucks and contented trills, a sort of feathery chatter that seemed welcoming.

‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘at least someone’s having a good morning.’

She lifted the hasp on the hatch.

A flurry of movement – feathers, feet, wings, purpose. The chickens scuttled out in a determined little rush, as if they’d all agreed in advance on an escape plan. One paused to look at her, head tilting, then carried on with brisk importance.

Sammy laughed, the sound surprising her. ‘All right, all right . . . no need to thank me all at once.’

They spread out across the neatly mowed grass paths, pecking industriously. It was . . . charming. Simple. See, she thought. Chickens. You can do chickens.

She leaned against the shed, watching them strut about, their tiny bodies full of confidence.

Then one wandered further away.

And another.

And another.

Sammy followed them with her eyes. Lost in the simple pleasure of the birds, she didn’t immediately clock what was happening.

‘Oh . . . hang on . . .’

The flock was heading for the door. A door she had, helpfully, left open.