Page 33 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

He said it as if it were nothing. As if her heart hadn’t done a small, hopeful lift at the idea.

‘You could come,’ he said.

She hid her smile behind a hand. ‘Lead on.’

This counted, Sammy decided. Being invited – however casually – to feed the ducks. Progress.

She folded her arms loosely around herself: a small, contained excitement she didn’t want to examine too closely.

As they walked away from the house, the path dipped gently, the air cooling. The formal gardens gave way to towering beech and oak trees, and banks of dense bushes the size of small houses – mature rhododendron bushes, which mostly flowered in May and June, Magnus had informed her.

She walked beside Nate, content simply to keep pace with him.

The path narrowed, grass growing a little wilder at the sides. The air changed too, damper, carrying the faint, mineral scent of water before she could even see it.

Then the lake opened out, glistening in the morning light.

Reeds fringed the sides, whispering faintly in the breeze, and giant leaves flared along one bank – prehistoric-looking things, their leaves spread out in huge green fans, wider than her arms could reach, thick and ridged like something architectural.

Spotting her staring, Nate explained. ‘That’s gunnera.’

‘Gunnera,’ she repeated, keeping her eyes on the leaves.

The lake lay still, dark blue, almost black, the surface marked only by ducks gliding across it, their wakes spreading out in soft V-shapes.

‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Nate was already reaching into a bag. ‘They’ll come in when they see food.’

‘Of course they will,’ she said. ‘Highly motivated animals seem to be a theme here.’

He nearly smiled.

Nate scattered a handful of feed across the water. The ducks reacted instantly, sliding in. ‘Not too much,’ he said. ‘They don’t need it. They’re wild.’

‘Right,’ Sammy said, watching them gather. ‘Measured encouragement.’

‘Something like that.’

She crouched, careful not to get too close. ‘What are their names?’ she asked.

Nate huffed a short laugh. ‘They’re not pets,’ he said. ‘They just stay here.’

She pulled a quizzical face. ‘They could still have names.’

‘The drake,’ he said, indicating a larger bird with a darker head. ‘He’s been here a couple of years now. The smaller hen’s new this season. The one with the damaged wing . . . she’s been around a while, and the one with the bent beak.’

Sammy followed his gestures, trying to keep track. ‘You know them all,’ she said. ‘Properly.’

Nate didn’t answer straight away. Seeming to realise he’d said more than he meant to, he explained himself. ‘Looks like we’re going to be work colleagues.’

Sammy caught his eye. A tiny thaw. But there. ‘I think we might be,’ she said, ‘I certainly hope so.’

Briefly, he held her gaze before breaking away. She kept her eyes on him, as if there might be more; when there wasn’t she nudged, ‘You know, you could call me Sammy.’

He stared out at the ducks, tossing another handful of feed. ‘Magnus wouldn’t like it.’

‘Don’t you mean Mr Magnus?’ she said, giving him a small, playful nudge in the ribs. He recoiled from the touch.