Page 110 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘And don’t change the subject. You need to tell Magnus.’ Sammy chewed her lip. ‘About Sunday,’ he added.

‘I know,’ she said.

But she dreaded the thought of telling him, worse still of Valerie telling him – but Sammy had a plan to ensure Val the Vampire would never find out about Chloe’s nap; Sammy would slip the freshly laundered linen into the house on Thursday – no one to dodge in the laundry room – and push it through the roller iron to give it that crisp finish. ‘I don’t want to . . .’ she stopped. ‘Magnus trusts me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to . . . break that.’

‘You will if you don’t tell him.’

Sammy looked down at the eggs, her eyes drawn to the motionless one.

‘You don’t have to fix everything for Chloe you know.’

Sammy shook her head – Nate would never understand the bond between her and Chloe. ‘She doesn’t mean any harm.’

‘I’m not sure she cares.’

‘Chloe,’ she added quietly. The name sounded strange on her tongue. ‘I will talk to her,’ she rubbed her thumb along the side of the propagator. ‘Twenty-five years,’ she said. ‘You don’t just . . .’ she couldn’t find a way to finish that could make sense of damaging a friendship that had shaped her life.

The freed duckling tottered forward, finding its feet with small, uncertain steps.

‘Easy,’ Nate whispered. ‘You’re all right.’

Sammy watched the stumbling chick. ‘You talk to them as well,’ she said.

‘Talk to everything,’ he replied, still watching the bird.

‘Do they respond better to encouragement?’

‘Most things do,’ he said.

The egg with the crack rocked again. Stronger this time.

Sammy leaned over the propagator, close enough to see the crack begin to widen.

At lunchtime, Sammy set the pot of boeuf en daube on the table. Magnus lifted the lid, releasing rich aromas of beef, and herbs.

‘Miss Jenkins, that smells excellent,’ said Magnus.

Catching herself smiling, Sammy busied herself with a serving spoon before anyone noticed.

Valerie sniffed. ‘Smells like stew to me. Mrs Williams never served stew.’

Sammy ignored her and set down bowls of mashed potato and shredded cabbage. ‘The recipe’s George’s,’ she said. ‘From the Smugglers Inn.’

‘A very good choice,’ said Magnus. ‘Mrs Williams understood that good food is good food.’

Valerie’s mouth tightened.

Sammy kept her eyes on the vegetables. For weeks, Valerie had chipped away at her confidence; today, at last, it felt as though she was gaining ground. A small, uncomfortable voice suggested she ought to mention Chloe’s recent mishap to Magnus.

Sammy ignored it.

By the time Sammy reached her cottage, the day had caught up with her. She felt it in her shoulders, her neck, her back and in the way her thoughts homed in on her secret. She had tried to find an opportunity to tell Magnus. There hadn’t been one.

She reached the door. Music hit her before she touched the handle. Loud, the bass beat pulsing. Voices over it – laughter, rising and breaking. With a sinking feeling, Sammy pushed the door open.

A makeup bag was upended on the table – tubes of foundation, lipsticks, mascara, brushes scattered nearby; a phone charger was stuck randomly in a wall socket, the lead trailing across the floorboards. A plate lay abandoned on the floor, grease settling into a dull film.

And then she spotted who Chloe was talking to . . . Jimmy, with his shoes off, kicked somewhere under the table. His shirt was completely open now, sleeves rolled up, that chain hanging loose as he leaned over something on the table.