Page 23 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

On the Tuesday, after her breakfast – a less than perfect omelette, but the eggs were free – she set off on foot to explore the village.

Halfway down the driveway, Brambleton came into sight. The land fell away gently, Brambleton spreading out below her – rows of pastel-painted cottages, lanes curving between them as if they’d never been planned, only worn into place. Beyond it all, the sea glistened flat and bright under the summer sun. Gulls wheeled overhead, loud and insistent, as if they owned the place. Just as they did in Swansea.

She followed the slope down, soon finding herself part of a stream of people heading the same way. There were families in sandals and sunhats, the parents carrying windbreaks and unruly bags with towels and toys spilling over the sides, while children darted ahead and back again. She kept her pace, not quite one of them, but close enough to absorb the feeling –unhurried, as if the day didn’t have deadlines.

The first place that caught her eye was a café about halfway down, its windows thrown open to the street. She glanced in as she passed, then stopped properly. Bookshelves lined the walls inside – hundreds, not a token stack – comfy looking armchairs tucked between tables and chairs, people talking over cups and plates. Someone laughed, and she leaned a fraction closer to the window.

There was a terrace tacked onto one side, visible through open bifold doors – sunlit, crowded with people sitting beneath parasols. She pictured herself there, gazing out at the sea with something cold in her hand. Soon, she told herself. End of the month. When she’d been paid. Provided Chloe reimbursed her for August’s rent.

Further down, the door to the village shop hung open, its doorway cluttered with postcards and buckets full of brightly coloured bats, all sizes of balls, shrimping nets, windbreaks. As she passed, voices drifted out – locals by the sound of them, layered over the brighter tones of visitors asking questions and laughing too loudly.

Attached to the shop, a pub stretched out along the harbour, its terrace overlooking the sea. Sammy slowed again. It would be nice, she thought – an evening on that terrace. With Nate. She pushed that thought away quickly, a small, automatic correction, and kept walking.

Before she quite noticed it, the road gave way to sand. She slipped off her sandals and hooked them over her fingers, the heat of the sand stinging under her feet. It shifted as she walked, soft and uneven, slowing her down.

No one looked at her twice. A couple passed her going the other way. ‘Another lovely day for us,’ the woman said, smiling.

‘It is.’ Sammy answered, smiling back. Tourist, they’d decided. Oh well.

At the shoreline, she inched forward until the water ran icy cold over her toes. She paddled, feeling the breeze ruffling her hair and the waves break over her feet, watching the light move across the surface and listening to the steady hush of it.

This was free, she thought, not unhappily. If Chloe was late repaying her, Sammy still had all of this.

Behind her, the village carried on – Sammy heard the squeal of children, a mother remonstrating with a child about a discarded sunhat, the low clink of rigging on boats. A fisherman cried out to a friend in a strong Devonian accent. ‘Us is got sardines this morning . . .’

Brambleton wasn’t hers. Not yet.

Not yet – what a ridiculous thought. She’d only been here for four days.

Seven

Magnus liked the aroma of a job well done. He could smell it now on his hands – sweet beeswax worked into the skin, and beneath it, the sharper note of silver polish. He turned them over, inspecting what the scrubbing hadn’t quite removed.

He cast a fond glance at the photo on his desk. He could almost hear the gruff voice now, ‘don’t be shy to use your hands Magnus. God made them for a purpose.’ Magnus had never quite shaken the habit.

A knock on his door.

‘Enter.’

Valerie with a tea tray. She looked as she always did – a stout woman of medium height, dark hair pinned back, blouse pressed, skirt falling straight. Solid. Capable. She had kept things going these past few weeks, taken on the housekeeper’s role on top of her own. She would be relieved to hand matters over, go back to working just three days.

Valerie set a cup of tea down. ‘Two minutes.’

‘Thank you, Valerie.’

‘Did she turn up then, that youngster with no experience . . . I don’t know what Mrs Hastings thought she was doing hiring someone like that . . .’

Valerie had taken the Monday off, Magnus had enjoyed having the house to himself. ‘Yes. Miss Jenkins arrived at the weekend; she’ll be here at nine. You’ll need to vacate the housekeeper’s room for her.’

Valerie put her own tea down. ‘Mrs Williams’s room?’

‘It belongs to Miss Jenkins now.’

‘I thought I’d wait until she’d settled in – no need to rush these things, she might not work out . . .’

Recalling Saturday’s attempts at omelette making, Magnus sighed. ‘I fear she may have exaggerated her cooking abilities to Madam.’

‘Who’s got less experience of hiring household staff than this cup of tea.’