Page 40 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Yes. Of course,’ she said, a little too quickly.

Sammy slipped out to message Chloe.

When she returned – Chloe had been awake and wanted to chat – Valerie and Magnus were sitting at the table, tea poured, toast under the grill. ‘Good morning, Valerie,’ she said brightly.

Valerie didn’t look up. ‘You’re late.’

Sammy checked the toast. ‘The table was laid and I’m not hungry.’

Valerie blew on her cup of tea. ‘We’re usually set before that. Mrs Williams was always meticulous about timings.’

Sammy turned back to the toast. ‘It is set,’ she said. ‘Everything was ready.’

Magnus lifted his eyes; his gaze moved once along the table. No eyebrows. No comment.

Sammy brought the toast rack over.

Valerie lifted a slice. ‘We don’t usually let it brown that much.’

‘It’s not burnt.’

‘No,’ Valerie said. ‘But that’s not how it’s usually done.’

Sammy met her eyes – noting the mascara and eyeliner. ‘Thank you, I’ll know for next time.’ She turned away before Valerie could answer.

Magnus lifted his cup. ‘Tea is correct,’ he said.

‘Yes, I made it the way you like it,’ Valerie said, buttering a slice of toast. So not too overdone then, thought Sammy.

‘The ironing is taking ages, what with trying to teach Miss Jenkins how to use the roller iron and still doing the job myself. Should we make some adjustments to the roles?’

Magnus drank his tea. ‘It’s temporary Valerie, while Miss Jenkins familiarises herself with the machine.’

‘It puts pressure on everything else. I was thinking perhaps Miss Jenkins could take on one of my jobs. Balance things out.’

Sammy’s hand faltered on her teacup; she lifted it as if nothing had happened. ‘Such as?’

Valerie bit into her toast, chewing as if thinking. ‘The staff cloakroom. It needs doing properly. Floors, skirting boards, all of it.’

Sammy hid her irritation behind a long gulp of tea.

Magnus put his cup down. ‘No.’

Valerie’s expression did not alter. ‘It would free up . . .’

‘No,’ he repeated. ‘It is not appropriate.’ His gaze swivelled between the two women, and Sammy wondered if he had finally spotted Valerie on manoeuvres. ‘You cannot have your hands down a lavatory one moment and preparing vegetables the next. Standards. And have you finished packing up your belongings . . . from Miss Jenkins’s room?’

Valerie gave a theatrical sniff. ‘I don’t know when you expect me to find the time to do that . . .’

‘Find the time Valerie.’

The rooms upstairs didn’t feel lived in. They looked like somewhere waiting for actors in waistcoats and long skirts to wander into shot.

One after another: vast four-poster beds dressed in heavy fabrics, velvet covers pulled tight, silk cushions trimmed with elaborate fringes. Chairs that looked as if they belonged in museums. Curtains falling in perfect lines from ceiling to floor and puddling there, as if the maker had allowed extra fabric for the windows to grow into. She’d seen nothing like it – not outside of the cinema, or behind a rope to prevent any touching.

‘Be mindful of the fabrics,’ Magnus said.

‘Yes, Mr Magnus.’ She replied, moving into the first room, dusting the surfaces, moving a cushion by a fraction before stepping back to check it.