Page 53 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

The soufflés had shrunk. Sammy slid one onto a plate, then the other. She lifted hers, dipped in a spoon and took a bite. Still warm. Still good.

Behind her, Stop It sat very still, his gaze fixed on Sammy’s plate. One paw slid forward on the flagstone.

‘No,’ she said.

The dog held his position.

At the table, Magnus took a spoonful, chewed, then swallowed. ‘The mixture is smooth, and light.’

Sammy took a bite, trying not to assess Magnus’s reaction to the food. His spoon dipped into the mixture for a second helping, and a third.

She turned back to her own dish. At least she’d got one thing right.

Fourteen

After two enjoyable days off – mostly spent reading on the beach – Sammy counted to three on the back step; no Stop It. He’d gone back to Mrs Hastings on Monday, and worse, today was Wednesday. A Valerie day. She reached for the door handle.

Mercifully, breakfast was uneventful. Valerie focussed entirely on Magnus until he rose to leave. ‘Laundry today, isn’t it?’ said Valerie. ‘Shall I give you a hand Miss Jenkins?’

Which sounded generous. Sammy finished her tea grateful for the thaw in her co-worker.

The laundry room would never be Sammy’s favourite place, not with ‘the machine’ looming in the corner and the sharp scent of detergent. Sammy pushed a strand of hair off her face and checked the piles. White sheets and pillowcases in one, dirty tea towels and aprons in another. All separated, all stacked. She had taken her time.

Behind her, Valerie stood at the square table – apparently a ‘folding table’. Sammy couldn’t quite see what Valerie was doing – only that her hand kept dipping into a wicker basket.

Sammy turned back to the washing machine, pulling out the detergent drawer.

‘That’s all the linen I brought down from the rose suite,’ said Valerie. ‘You know what you’re doing now don’t you?’

She shuffled backwards. ‘Yes. All the whites together.’

Valerie stepped closer. ‘Temperature?’

‘High.’

‘Whitener?’

She gestured to the measure already in the drawer. ‘Yes.’

Behind her, the wicker basket scraped lightly across the folding table; Valerie was beside Sammy, peering in at the soiled linen.

‘Any whites you want to go in with this wash?’ Sammy asked, half-turning, while stuffing another pillowcase into the drum.

Beside her, Valerie’s hand dipped into the basket.

‘I didn’t see what you put in,’ said Sammy. ‘Are those meant to go in with . . . ?’

‘Yes.’

Sammy tossed the last pillowcase in. Valerie knows what she’s doing; she’s been doing this for fifteen years. Sammy closed the door with a firm click. She rested her hand on the machine. ‘I’ll set it going . . .’

‘No. Let me.’

‘Oh, shouldn’t I . . .’

‘I’ll do it,’ Valerie said. ‘You’ve other things to get on with.’

Sammy wiped her palms lightly against her apron. If she wanted to win this woman over, she must trust her. ‘Thank you.’ Behind her, she heard the machine door open again, click shut, followed by the firm turn of the dial and finally the dull shift of weight inside.