Page 28 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘She’s been . . .’

‘Who?’

‘Wendy. She’s got some bloke in there; they’ve been at it all morning like rabbits. Honestly, I swear if I hear one more . . .’

‘Okay. Right. You’re alive, no one’s bleeding . . .’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’m going to have to call you later.’

‘Sam . . .’

‘Properly. I’ll listen properly. I can’t right now.’

A pause. ‘Fine. But call me.’

‘I will.’

The line clicked off.

Valerie was watching her; a full, appraising look. ‘Mrs Williams never took personal calls at work,’ she said. ‘Nor did Mrs Wood before her.’

‘Yes,’ she said, steadying her voice. ‘Sorry.’

‘Mr Magnus says emotions interfere with efficiency,’ Valerie continued. ‘He says this job requires discipline. A degree of detachment.’

‘Right.’

‘It is not simply a position,’ she said. ‘It is a way of life. Duty must take precedence, he says.’

‘Doesn’t that get a bit . . . Never mind.’

Valerie smiled, but her eyes told a different story – for some reason this woman was enjoying Sammys’s discomfort. Sammy shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

But her original thought stayed. Valerie needed a friend, she decided. Someone to . . . loosen her up a bit. Or tea, a biscuit and a natter. She picked up the sheet again, this time feeding it carefully into the machine.

‘Even. Tension,’ she murmured.

Valerie watched the fabric pass through the rollers. ‘Still not right. I can see I’m going to have to continue as acting housekeeper for some time.’

For the first time Sammy wondered whether Valerie wanted her to succeed at all.

Eight

He might still be working.

The thought was enough to slow Sammy on the gravel path. She wasn’t in a hurry to get back to the cottage.

Evening settled over the gardens, softening their sharp daytime precision. Colours deepened. The lawns stretched ahead in immaculate bands of green, the sort that required skill and a lot of hard work.

She took the long way home.

Hydrangeas flared along one side in heavy clusters – vivid blue, the occasional bruised purple – thick and blousy. Crocosmia arched through them in flashes of orange and red, and beyond, early dahlias were beginning to open, tight petals starting to loosen, promising something extravagant in a few days’ time.

She found herself naming them under her breath. ‘Hydrangea . . . crocosmia . . .’

When Magnus sent her to give the chickens their second meal, Nate had pointed them out. Not teaching, exactly. Just . . . stating. And she’d listened.