Page 165 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Particularly you, apparently.’

‘Oh . . . I . . . well. I try.’

Jean continued in the same matter-of-fact tone. ‘Sammy says you know the workings of the house better than anyone. She told me more than once she hoped she might eventually learn to manage things as efficiently as you do.’ For the first time in fifteen years, Magnus saw Valerie blush. Then Jean added, almost conversationally, ‘though I expect that only works if knowledge is actually passed on.’

Valerie’s smile held, but with an effort now.

Magnus opened his office door. Jean walked in, carrying the biscuit tin. Valerie hovered near the threshold.

Jean turned. ‘Thank you, Miss Valerie. I won’t keep Mr Magnus long.’

He closed the door before Valerie could decide whether to object.

Jean remained standing until he indicated the chair opposite his desk. She sat neatly, placing her handbag beside her feet and the tin on her lap. Magnus returned to his side of the desk.

When Jean unclipped the lid of the tin, Magnus caught the scent of spices, and rum. Fruit cake. Proper fruit cake, the sort that belonged to winter afternoons, log fires, polished silver and conversations conducted at a sensible pace.

‘I baked it yesterday,’ she said.

Magnus looked down at the dark cake, nestled inside the tin. The fruit glistened beneath the crust. ‘Jean,’ he said gravely, ‘that appears to be an exceptionally fine cake.’

‘I hope so. It took half the day.’

Magnus rose. ‘Then it deserves proper treatment.’ He crossed to the pantry, returning several minutes later with a laden silver tray: teapot, matching cups and saucers, plates, linen napkins and two cake forks. The arrangement would not have disgraced the drawing room.

‘You don’t do things by halves, do you?’ said Jean.

‘Not where cake is concerned,’ Magnus replied.

He poured the tea, cut two generous slices of cake and laid them on plates. Magnus resumed his seat. Jean settled comfortably opposite him with her plate balanced on her knees.

For a few pleasant minutes they discussed baking. Jean described the endless experiments required to satisfy growing children. Magnus offered observations acquired from decades of serving afternoon teas and assisting at charity events. They discovered a surprising agreement on the importance of soaking fruit properly and a mutual distrust of excessive icing.

‘But you didn’t come to see me to discuss cakes, did you?’ said Magnus at last.

‘No. I appreciate you contacting me,’ Jean said. ‘I’m glad I came.’

Magnus felt a jolt of satisfaction. Good. He had hoped the visit might provide Miss Jenkins with some support. ‘How did you find her?’

Jean considered the question. ‘About how I’d expected.’

‘She’s fortunate to have someone who cares for her.’

‘Yes.’ Jean set her empty plate on the floor by her feet. ‘Though loving Sammy and agreeing with her aren’t always the same thing.’ Something in her tone made him study her more closely. ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you,’ said Jean.

‘Indeed.’

‘Why did you fire her?’

‘You consider my decision was unfair.’

‘I consider it was incomplete.’

That made him pause.

‘You dismissed her. Fair enough. But when the dog went missing, who searched for him? Who waded into the mud to drag him out? Sammy should have told you the truth about what happened in the master bedroom.’

‘Yes.’