Page 31 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Valerie shook her head. ‘You know me better than that – I looked out an old one for her to practise on, and thank goodness I did too. Silly girl burnt herself . . . but you’d know about that.’

Magnus pursed his lips. ‘What’s this?’

Another loud tut. ‘I told her to report it, so you could log it in the accident book; she’s a bit forgetful isn’t she.’

‘Hmm . . . about the room . . .’

‘Well of course I’m a bit short of time, since I’m doing her job for her really. I wanted to avoid extra work . . . packing and unpacking.’

Magnus turned the door handle. Miss Jenkins hadn’t mentioned the room, but then she hadn’t mentioned ripping the sheet either, or the burn incident. No harm in letting things stay as they were for another week. ‘Leave it for now, Valerie.’

‘That’s best, isn’t it.’ She smiled brightly at him. ‘I won’t be long with that tea.’

Magnus let himself in; he thought he’d impressed on Miss Jenkins the importance of honesty. Shame.

Nine

By her second Wednesday, Sammy had to admit that she enjoyed visiting the walled vegetable garden. Raised beds lined the paths in neat rows, filled with dark soil turned and tended, each section bursting with produce. But none of that explained her fondness for the space.

She shut the door and started down a path, picking out the vegetables she recognised. Potatoes, she thought – fairly sure this time – eyeing the dense banks of dark green foliage, pleased to identify them despite the potatoes being buried somewhere under the earth. Nearby, onions and shallots pushed up in tidy lines, their leaves yellowed by sun. Further along, pumpkins sprawled unchecked, broad leaves crowding the beds, thick stems snaking outwards as if they might take over the village if left long enough.

Chickens wandered freely between the beds, confidently pecking and scratching.

Sammy scanned the garden.

‘Nate?’ she called, not too loudly.

No answer.

She followed the path, peering between rows of vegetables, until she heard a voice.

‘Come on,’ Nate whispered. ‘With all that fertiliser, you can do better than this.’

Sammy stopped short of the bed, hidden behind a bank of sweetcorn. Nate had his back to her, kneeling, speaking – very obviously – to a plant.

‘Buck up there – copy your neighbour; plump out a bit.’

‘Morning,’ said Sammy.

‘Morning, Miss Jenkins.’ He said, still addressing the vegetables.

‘Magnus said I should come and get some root vegetables,’ Sammy said. ‘He’s after teaching me knife skills.’

Nate picked up a trowel.

A sudden breeze cut through the garden, Nate’s hat lifted off his head and skidded across the path, revealing hair that would soon reach his collar if he didn’t get it cut.

‘Oh . . .’ Sammy darted after it, catching it before it reached the chickens. ‘Got it.’

She held it out.

Nate’s mouth twitched – almost into a smile – before he took it from her. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry.’

‘For what?’

She asked herself why she apologised – could it be from habit? Perhaps because she’d spent the morning listening to Valerie point out things that weren’t really wrong? A towel judged incorrectly hung from the rail. A fragment of a fingerprint on a mirror – visible only from one angle. After two hours, Sammy had started doubting her own eyes.