Page 56 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Indeed.’

Sammy stared straight ahead. That was exactly what she’d done before Valerie interfered.

Nate was halfway through tying in a tomato plant when he heard footsteps outside the polytunnel. He already knew who it would be.

The heat pressed down, trapped under the plastic despite the doors at either end hanging open. Nate barely registered it anymore. The space smelled of soil, and the sharp green of the plants. It settled him these days.

He leaned over the propagator, lifting a tray of seedlings, careful with the stems. Fragile at this stage. All potential, no resilience yet.

Footsteps behind him.

He set the tray on the bench and saw Sammy just inside the tunnel.

Something in him lifted. Sense made him put that back where it belonged.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Miss Jenkins.’ He spotted a tightness in her expression. Not offence exactly – maybe disappointment?

She came a step closer than he thought necessary. ‘That’s not very friendly, Nate. I’ve been here over a month.’

‘House rules,’ he said, stepping aside. ‘You’d be Miss Jenkins if we’d worked together for three years.’

She made a quiet sound at that and moved towards him, a breeze catching at her hair, lifting it. ‘Magnus hasn’t found anything new for me to not interfere with,’ she said.

That earned something from him. A breath out, close to a laugh. This would be easier if she could be pricklier, less fun to be around. He shifted further away – to the raised bed, reaching for one of the tomato plants. ‘You can interfere with this,’ he said.

She came closer. Close enough that he was aware of the smell of laundry detergent clinging to her hands. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the junction between stem and branch. ‘See that?’

She studied it with more concentration than the plant really warranted. ‘That little bit?’

‘Yup.’ He pinched it cleanly away. ‘Side shoot. Leave it and the plant wastes energy. Take it out, it puts its energy where I want it – ripening the fruit.’ He dropped it to the soil. ‘Prevents it wasting itself.’

‘I see.’

She reached for a different plant and tried it herself. He winced slightly at the tear in the stem, mentally apologising to the plant – but it came away.

‘Like that?’

He didn’t want to reprimand her. ‘Sort of.’

She looked at the piece in her hand as if it might explain itself. ‘Wasting itself,’ she repeated. ‘Putting energy where it doesn’t need to go.’

Her eyes moved from the plants to the propagator. ‘What’s that?’

He followed her gaze. ‘Propagator.’

‘Which means . . .’

He stepped over, lifting the lid. Warm air escaped. ‘Keeps things steady while seeds germinate,’ he said. ‘Temperature, moisture. Better chance of taking, then it protects them from pests.’

She came to stand beside him, looking down at the trays of seedlings with a sort of earnest focus that surprised him. She must be the same age as him – how could she have spent nearly four decades on the planet and the process of horticulture still be new to her? He couldn’t quite decide if that was alarming or refreshing.

‘So, it’s . . . controlled,’ she said.

‘It is.’ He set the lid back in place. ‘Bit of help at the beginning.’

‘And then?’