Page 62 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Sixteen

For the next week, Sammy looked forward to every morning.

Early, before the house stirred, she met Nate in the polytunnel. She always took a basket – a trug – with her. They moved together, checking what was ready – leaves cool to the touch, vegetables firm. He showed her what to take, what needed another day.

She often arrived a few minutes earlier than she needed to, even on her days off, pushing open the doors herself, a thrum of anticipation pulsing through her.

On Wednesday when she arrived, the doors were already open, the tunnel warm, the air close and damp against her skin. No hose running now. No movement. Just the low beat of insects’ wings and the faint creak of plastic shifting overhead. The beds had been watered – dark soil at the base, leaves still beaded from misting. Somewhere, water dripped.

She set the trug down and reached for a tomato plant, finding the small shoot tucked into the joint, pinched it cleanly between finger and thumb. Let it fall.

Another. Clean again.

She moved along the row, anticipation coursing through her veins.

When he didn’t appear, she wiped her fingers against her skirt, picked up the feed tin, and headed out. She wasn’t looking for Nate – the chickens needed breakfast. She would message Magnus and tell him she’d done it. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Inside the walled garden the raised beds stretched out in long, ordered lines, everything slightly behind the tunnel; peas climbing in loose tangles, courgettes spreading wide with thick leaves and bright yellow flowers. Sammy fed the chickens then walked the paths, scanning. No sign of him.

At the far end, a gate stood ajar. She pushed through into the rose garden.

Four square beds sat in strict symmetry, each planted in a single colour: pink, red, cream, and a yellow that looked almost too bright in the August light. Gravel paths cut between them, meeting at right angles beneath wooden pergolas where climbing roses twisted overhead, their scent overpowering in the heat.

Below the roses, catmint spilled out in soft grey-green mounds tipped with purple. Euphorbia grew in hazy green wisps that danced when the air moved. A month ago, she wouldn’t have known the names. Now she did. She knew which stems to cut for the house, and never to cut euphorbia in the sun – exposed to strong sunlight the sap could mark the skin.

Along the far wall, a small stone fountain fed a steady stream of water into a shallow basin. A robin dropped from the pergola and landed cleanly on the rim. It stepped into the water, dipped once, then snapped upright and shook itself hard, scattering droplets in a tight arc before lifting away again.

The gravel crunched beneath her shoes – as if the garden registered the intrusion.

And then she saw him, arms peppered with freckles, muscles rippling as he reached to cut a straggly branch from a climbing rose.

‘Good morning, Miss Jenkins,’ Nate said. He remained completely absorbed by the plant – always the plant, never her. What made plants so fascinating?

‘No vegetables for me this morning?’

‘Stiff onshore breeze last night – saw this on my rounds this morning, wanted to help her back into place before the weight of that branch pulled her over. Why not take some roses while I finish off?’

Sammy picked up her trug and moved to the opposite side, scanning for stems. The scent was thick and sweet.

She selected carefully. A pale pink, beginning to loosen at the edges. A cream one, petals opening wide. She cut them cleanly, placing them in the trug.

For a while they worked together, the steady trickle of water behind them punctuated by the snap of secateurs and the rustling of the rose branch Nate was wrestling into place.

‘Do you have a favourite rose?’ she asked.

A grunt.

‘You must.’

He stepped towards her. ‘Those.’ Nate said pointing. He didn’t look at her when he said it.

Sammy followed his gaze. The pink ones.

‘They’re nice,’ she said, sweeping her hand to the opposite quadrant, ‘but I prefer the yellow ones.’

‘Too bright.’

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘They don’t apologise for it.’