Page 66 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Not if you stop acting like your father.’

A silence settled between them as Sammy and Nate disappeared further down the lane. Valerie took another sip of cider and said calmly, ‘Besides. That girl won’t last long at the Hall.’

Jimmy glanced sideways at her. ‘No?’

Valerie smiled into her glass. ‘No. I’ll make certain of it.’

The village unfolded gradually, as if it had been waiting for Sammy to notice it properly.

She walked beside Nate, trying not to imagine what it would be like to feel his stubble rasp against her cheek. There was a rucksack slung over one of his shoulders, the strap worn thin where it crossed his chest. Tonight she noticed everything – the stone cottages with their pretty gardens, the narrow road that dipped and curved without ever quite deciding where it was going. There were people everywhere. Mostly walking in the opposite direction. A couple walked past, each trailing a young child while carrying overstuffed bags and a brightly coloured windbreak.

‘That’s the village hall,’ Nate said pointing to the squat, sturdy building she’d walked past unknowingly six weeks ago. This time she read the noticeboard, layered with posters: whist drives; Women’s Institute meetings, quizzes, something about a summer show.

‘Everything happens here,’ he added.

‘Everything?’

‘Everything that matters. Up ahead there on the left, that’s Prosecco & Prose.’

As they drew closer, she recognised the café that had caught her eye the first time she came into Brambleton. There were books stacked beside wine bottles, and fairy lights strung casually across the window. She heard a cork pop and tracked it down to the terrace, where a woman with an amazing tattoo stretching down one arm – writhing serpents – was pouring bubbly into flutes. Sammy imagined sipping a glass of wine, watching the sun go down. One day she promised herself. Soon.

‘The name . . . that’s . . . quite good,’ she said.

‘It does what it says.’

The door opened as they passed, a burst of laughter spilling out, along with the smell of coffee and something sweet.

The village green opened next – wide, soft grass, children running in circles, someone throwing a cricket ball badly and being laughed at for it. A man wearing a tie was cutting the edge of the grass with shears, ‘Evening Nate,’ he said.

‘Hi Fred. This is Miss Jenkins, the new housekeeper.’

Fred lowered the loppers and extended a calloused hand, ‘Welcome to Brambleton Miss Jenkins.’

‘Nice to meet you Fred, Sammy’s fine . . .’

He shook her hand – he had a firm grip, and a genuine smile. ‘Have a pleasant evening, Miss Jenkins.’

Ahead of them the sea stretched out, light skimming across it in long, blinding strips. A scattering of paddle boarders moved lazily beyond the shallows, their silhouettes rising and falling with the swell, and farther out a couple bobbed about in a bright inflatable dinghy, their legs trailing over the sides. The air held that salty tang. Gulls wheeled and called overhead. Further along the beach came voices, laughter, the hollow thud of a ball, the distant churn of a small outboard somewhere beyond the headland.

Sammy had grown up by the sea. Swansea, where the wind blew in off the bay, cooler than this, sharper. Chips in paper, salt and vinegar prevailing over everything. A long, open stretch of beach. But this . . . this was entirely different from the wide, restless sweep of Swansea Bay. This village felt smaller, neater somehow. The cottages leaned into one another, flowers spilling from windowsills.

Swansea had noise. This had . . . charm.

Sammy slowed. ‘It’s . . .’

‘Busy,’ Nate said.

‘Happy,’ she corrected.

They followed the path along the sides of the dunes, sand beginning to replace stone underfoot as they moved past the harbour. The cliffs rose in the distance, soft gold in the evening light.

‘Where exactly are you taking me?’ asked Sammy, with a short laugh.

‘You’ll see.’

They rounded a bend.

At the base of the cliff, a scruffy caravan sat wedged into the rocks. Ropes and metal anchors held it fast against the slope, giving a faint creak now and then as the breeze picked up.