Page 51 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘All present.’ She replied.

They stood without speaking, the quietness sitting easily between them. Her phone buzzed. Chloe. She waited, before answering. ‘Hi . . .’

‘You hung up on me,’ Chloe said.

‘I . . . Magnus was . . .’

‘. . . was there . . . I know, I guessed,’ Chloe cut in. ‘God, you sound like you’ve been caught shoplifting.’

Sammy huffed a breath. ‘He didn’t like it.’

‘It’s only a job,’ Chloe shot back. ‘You don’t stop being a person because you’re holding a tray.’

Beside her, Stop It shifted, his attention caught by something in the reeds.

‘What did he actually do?’ Chloe went on. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘No. He . . . looked.’

‘Oh, a look,’ Chloe said. ‘Terrifying.’

Sammy glanced sideways at Nate, a few feet off, now watching the dog. ‘It wasn’t nothing. And he told me no personal calls while I’m working.’

‘It’s never nothing with you,’ Chloe said, and there was a trace of familiarity in those words. ‘You always go straight to “I’ve done something wrong”.’

‘I had, though.’ She heard the edge in her voice and wished she hadn’t.

‘You were on the phone. Look,’ Chloe said, ‘. . . don’t do it in front of him. That’s all. You want to make a call, make it. Just . . . be smart about it.’

Out on the water, a duck tipped forward, its tail feathers briefly vertical before disappearing beneath the surface.

‘So,’ Sammy said slowly, ‘your advice is to hide it better.’

‘Yes,’ Chloe said. ‘Exactly. See? You’ve got this.’

Sammy’s gaze carried out across the lake, then returned – inevitably – to the house.

The phone dropped from Sammy’s ear, her grip loosening around it. Something didn’t quite sit right. An unfamiliar thought crept in . . . was this what works for you, Clo? She pushed it away. ‘Don’t be unfair,’ she muttered under her breath.

Nate looked at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m . . . thinking.’

Heat pressed against Sammy as she held her ground in front of the oven, arms folded tight, gaze fixed on the glass, as if looking away might ruin everything. Inside, the soufflés were rising. Actually rising. She checked the recipe again, every step marked off in neat, careful order. Exact measurements. The timer ticked steadily beside her. Two minutes to go.

She drew a slow breath, then let it out again. ‘Come on,’ she muttered.

The back doorbell rang. Stop It shifted in his sleep.

Not now. Sammy kept her eyes forward, hoping whoever it was would go away if she didn’t react. The bell sounded again. Her eyes flicked to the timer. One minute. If that was Nate, she wanted him to see her culinary success.

She grabbed the timer, slipping it into her apron pocket, and scurried to the door, pulling it open.

Not Nate; a man with a toolbox at his feet. Mid-fifties, steel rimmed glasses, clean shaven with a mop of silver hair. Ironed trousers, shirt tucked in. The sort who looked as if he turned up when he said he would. Something about him – probably the glasses – caught at a memory of a teacher she’d liked.

‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘You must be Miss Jenkins. I’m Tom. The electrician. Here about the lights in the master bedroom . . . Mr Magnus called.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course. The lights.’