Page 151 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I’ve learned from you,’ she went on. ‘About standards. Let me prove that.’

He reached for a coffee pot, running the cloth along the curved body.

‘I can fix it,’ she said. ‘Chloe’s going. I’ll never speak to that Jimmy man again. It won’t happen again.’

Finally, she stopped speaking. Magnus set the pot down. ‘Good grief, Miss Jenkins.’ He rested his hands on the table. ‘You would not have been my first choice of hire. I took a chance on you,’ he said. ‘I did not do that lightly.’

‘I know.’ She meant it.

‘I didn’t dismiss you because of them, because of their mistakes,’ he said. ‘I dismissed you because you let them become yours, and it affected your work.’

‘I was trying to . . .’

He held up a hand. ‘Stop right there. Don’t try and fob me off with excuses.’

‘I thought I could keep it separate,’ she said.

Magnus reached into his waistcoat and took out his watch, opening it and turning it once in his hand before closing it again. ‘You did not,’ he said.

‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘I know I can.’

Magnus put the watch back into his pocket. He had thought the same. That was the difficulty.

‘I won’t make the same mistake again,’ she said.

‘I expect you would not,’ he said.

He picked up the cloth, smoothing it once across the pot. ‘But I will not reverse my decision.’ She took that in without speaking. ‘You may remain beyond the end of the month while you make arrangements,’ he said. ‘That is all.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘When you have completed your task list, I would like you to go into the village – I require more silver polish; they stock it at the village shop for me. Put it on the house account.’ Magnus turned back to the shelves.

Behind him, the door opened, then closed.

He adjusted the tray – the one with the tarnish – bringing it back into line with the others.

A pity. It had been nearly right.

Thirty-six

The shower came from nowhere.

One moment the air held, warm and still, and the next the sky broke. Rain came down like a sheet, heavy enough to sting where it hit Sammy’s hands, bouncing off the pavement, turning dust to sodden dark patches. Sammy ran for it, head down, bag pulled close to her chest, the thin cotton of her sleeves already clinging to her skin.

She ducked under the awning of Prosecco & Prose, breath catching, water dripping from her hair onto the step. With her back to the door, she listened to rain pounding on the canvas above her, the sharper rattle where it hit the metal guttering. This storm wasn’t passing quicky. She pulled the door open and rushed inside squeezing water from her blouse.

A few tourists sat by the window, watching the shower, cups held between their hands.

Sammy debated staying for a coffee until the rain cleared, then she spotted him, at the shelves near the back. Nate, a book open in his hands, head bent over it. He didn’t look up straight away. He used to. Her heart skidded. He turned the page, then closed the book, as if he’d sensed her there. ‘Miss Jenkins.’

Miss Jenkins. Not Sammy.

‘Hi Nate.’

Rain hammered against the windows.

‘That book looks serious.’