Page 26 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I . . .’ she glanced down at her plate. ‘I always have.’

‘Why?’

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just . . . quicker, I suppose.’

Magnus cut into his food. Sammy’s fork hung above her plate. Quicker for what? She frowned, the thought catching. She wasn’t in a rush. Not really. There was nowhere else she needed to be. No one waiting. And yet . . .

Her phone rang. She pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Chloe.

Could you send me £20. For the electric. I’ll sort it next week. I’ve found someone for your room. Wendy.

Sammy’s thumb hovered. Then she typed back:

Of course. x.

‘Everything satisfactory?’ Magnus asked.

Sammy looked up quickly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fine, just a friend.’

‘In my experience personal matters are best handled outside working hours.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Sammy forced a small smile. ‘I was saying, well, not saying, but thinking . . . about family,’ she continued, filling the space. ‘That was my friend Chloe. And then there’s Jean, who’s . . . well, not my mum exactly, but also is, in a way. It’s a bit complicated, but she’s . . .’

Magnus reached into his pocket. The watch. He opened it with a click. Checked the time. Closed it again.

Sammy dropped her fork. ‘Let’s get this one sorted. Are you an orphan?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

He cleared his throat. ‘No.’

‘Right,’ she said quickly. ‘No, of course. I didn’t mean . . . well, I did mean, but not . . .’ She winced. ‘So,’ she tried again, ‘tell me about your family.’

Magnus adjusted the position of his teacup slightly. ‘Sit down and eat up, Miss Jenkins.’

Sammy lowered her gaze back to her plate.

She sat. ‘Right,’ she said softly. ‘Eating up.’

After lunch, Magnus led her down a whitewashed corridor and stopped outside a door marked ‘Laundry’.

It was far larger than she’d expected, clean in a way that felt industrial and smelled of heat and starch. Long worktops lined two sides, with deep double sinks set into them. Cupboards filled one wall, shelves another. A wide square table dominated the room, arranged beneath a wooden drying rack.

Against one wall was a machine that Sammy didn’t recognise. It looked important, as if it might be judging her already, and she had the sinking feeling she’d be expected to know exactly how to use it. She straightened her sleeves.

‘That,’ she said slowly, ‘looks . . . serious.’

Magnus followed her gaze. ‘The roller iron,’ he said. ‘Valerie will be here soon. She will show you how it operates.’

The machine was wide, solid, with a long, padded roller with what Magnus warned was a heated plate beneath it.

Valerie swept in.

‘Ah Valerie. Miss Jenkins is not familiar with the roller iron.’

Valerie grunted, bending to switch the machine on at the socket. ‘And did she claim she knew how to use this too?’

Sammy blushed wondering what had prompted that comment.

Valerie sat at the machine explaining that sheets were fed through one side, passed under heat and pressure, and came out the other – perfectly ironed. In theory.