Page 21 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Don’t damage anything.

The words came back to him, uninvited. Nate let out a quick breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. He turned the tap off, drying his hands on a cloth.

The radio crackled before settling into Bach, each note perfectly placed.

He smiled, recalling finding her outside the walled garden earlier, the door wide and the chickens everywhere but where they belonged. Between the beds, under the hedge, pecking at the plants; one bold enough to hop up onto the low wall.

He’d watched from a distance for a few minutes – until they started damaging the flower beds. She’d turned in a slow circle, trying again, voice firmer as if they might respond to authority though laughter bubbled beneath her words. One bird had cocked its head at her, then wandered off as if bored.

‘Go on – back inside,’ she’d told them, hands indicating the open door, because of course, they simply lacked directions. ‘Come on. Back you go.’

They hadn’t even pretended to listen.

But she’d not been afraid to laugh at her own mistake – it would be interesting to see how her carefree spirit coped with Magnus. And with Valerie; Nate suspected that after fifteen years as the understudy, Valerie had assumed the title of ‘acting housekeeper’ would become permanent.

The pan clicked softly as it warmed. He added oil, waited until it shimmered, then laid the mackerel down. It answered with a steady hiss, skin tightening, scent lifting immediately – clean and sharp, something that belonged more to the coast than to this kitchen.

Next door, a cupboard door shut. Followed by another. She was settling in.

He flipped the fish, watched the colour turn. Perfect.

Friendly. That was the problem. People like that closed in. Asked too many questions. Shared time with you before you’d agreed to it.

He plated the food and carried it to the small table by the window. The plant propagation book lay open where he’d left it last night. He ate, eyes moving over the page without taking much in.

Somewhere above him pipes rumbled, and from next door came the sound of water running. Possibly a kettle being filled.

Don’t damage anything.

Helpful advice, really.

Shame it had made him sound like a complete idiot.

It took Sammy less than five minutes to unpack.

When she’d finished, the wardrobe still looked empty. One dress. Two pairs of shoes. A handful of tops, and a few pairs of trousers.

Chloe had urged her to pack lightly, ‘Don’t tempt fate by moving out – leave your gear here until you know you’ve got this job.’

Sammy stowed the empty bag under the bed. Downstairs, she tossed the employment contract on the table – unread – flopped onto the sofa and pulled out her phone.

Chloe answered on the second ring, ‘Saaammy!’

Sammy heard music in the background – Robbie Williams and Angels, Chloe’s go to choice for a karaoke night out – and felt a pang of longing for that cosy Swansea flat, picturing her friend with a wine glass in her hand singing along. ‘Tell me everything. All the details. Are you wearing a little frilly apron? Have you been fired yet?’

Sammy laughed, the strain of her less than perfect day sliding a notch. ‘There’s no frilly apron,’ she said. ‘It’s more . . . black skirt and white blouse. And no, I haven’t been fired. Yet.’

‘Disappointing,’ Chloe said. ‘I had money on day one.’

‘You don’t have money.’

‘Details.’

Sammy leaned back into the sofa. ‘It’s big, Clo. Properly big. And organised. Like . . . terrifyingly organised.’

‘You love that.’

‘I absolutely do not love that,’ Sammy said. ‘I was told not to interfere with things that don’t need interfering with.’