Page 74 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘It is nothing. It’s what they do.’

Sammy stepped back, scattering the rest of the feed further out, drawing the others away from the brooding hen.

He looked out across the lake, then back to Thyme without meaning to.

She got it, when she let herself. That was the problem. Why couldn’t she be like that with this Chloe woman? He kept his eyes on the water. Magnus was right. Keep things separate.

Sammy watched Nate climbing back up to the path, then her eyes strayed to Thyme, still tucked into the bank. Left alone warming her eggs. As she should be. She sat on the grass with the light fading and the lake spread out before her. There was space beside her.

Enough for someone to sit. Close enough to lean into.

Peter used to fill that sort of space – next to her on the sofa, on walks. She had taken it for granted. Relied on it and expected him to bend to fit her life. Until she asked too much of him. She could recall it as clearly as if it had been yesterday, not a decade ago.

The old Swansea kitchen, in that tiny shared flat. Light through the blinds. The kettle already boiling because she knew he liked tea before difficult conversations.

‘Could we set aside Saturday?’ Peter had asked. ‘Not all of it. What about dinner out, just us. Something that’s ours.’

She’d smiled, already reaching for his favourite mug. ‘I’ll try,’ she’d said. ‘I promised Chloe I’d help her move flats.’

He hadn’t made a fuss. That had been the problem. ‘I’m not asking you to stop being there for everyone,’ he said. ‘I need to know there’s a place for me as well.’

It had sounded so reasonable. So simple. ‘There is,’ she’d said. ‘Of course there is.’ Even as said it, she’d been shunting things around in her head, moving him between others. Love was flexible. That’s what she’d told herself. He’d smiled. And she’d been relieved. But she should have realised she was suffocating their relationship.

Sammy was startled from her memory by loud, clattering wings – a pheasant breaking cover from the reeds. Followed by stillness. The water lay flat and calm. She wrapped her arms lightly around herself, a small, private smile forming despite it all.

With Nate, it was slower. As if he was holding something back. It was like coaxing a wary animal – no sudden moves, no loud voices. Just . . . one inch at a time

Nineteen

Magnus’s pocket watch clicked open. He checked the time, snapping it shut. ‘This should take you two hours to do thoroughly,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ Sammy replied gazing around the splendour of the Chinese reception room.

She moved to the fireplace and began removing each ornament from the mantelpiece, setting each down carefully on side tables. Cloth – correct one. The lighter weave. The type she always used for the Harrisons’s pottery pig collection in Swansea. Funny how she now double-checked things she’d been doing perfectly well for years. Valerie had that effect.

She lifted a small porcelain figure – no bigger than her hand. The folds of the dress so finely shaped they seemed to move, the face detailed enough to hold an expression. Not painted on. Sculpted. She held on to it, running a finger over the porcelain, before setting it back exactly where it belonged.

Handling these treasures was sharing the privilege of ownership. And suddenly, she understood why Magnus lived for his job. She picked up the next ornament and carried on.

Her hand moved along the top of a table, following the grain, the curve. Without thinking, she reached for the beeswax. The lid came free with a soft twist. The scent lifted immediately – warm, honeyed – a smell she wouldn’t have recognised a couple of months ago. She worked it into the cloth, then into the wood, slow at first, then more firmly, building the heat under her palm as she buffed. The grain darkened slightly where she’d passed, the surface taking it on. Back and forth, steady pressure, until her arm ached. She stopped and squinted at the table. Spotting a faint mark, she worked it out with the heel of her hand, one last pass to bring it up even.

She stepped away. The table gleamed.

Whatever Valerie might say, Sammy knew good work when she saw it.

Then she moved on to the next table.

Magnus pushed open the door to the Chinese room and paused, taking her in. Two hours. Enough time for someone with the right instincts.

But that, of course, was the question. Had he judged her correctly? Promising. Or dangerous.

‘Miss Jenkins.’

She turned quickly, checking her watch. ‘Two hours gone,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘The afternoon . . .’

‘I intend to test your progress,’ he said. ‘A dinner for selected guests from the village. This is an assessment, not entertainment.’ He watched her closely. There – her face broke open into a grin. Enthusiasm: he would have preferred caution. Unease stirred in his gut. ‘Fourteen,’ he added.

‘Yes. I can do that.’