Page 8 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Course I am.’ Chloe managed a smile. ‘I don’t even want it . . . well. Not enough to fight you for it.’

The words were light. The meaning wasn’t.

Chloe shrugged and picked up her phone again, thumb tapping harder than necessary. ‘Go on. Take your fancy live-in job.’

Sammy watched her – the smile, the shrug, and knew exactly where this was heading. She should sort this. Make it better.

Chloe went to bed early, the door half-closed.

Sammy lay on the sofa staring at the gap; Chloe had never been subtle when annoyed. The air still held the heat, trapped and stale. She peeled her blouse away from her skin and let it hang over the back of a chair, darkened at the collar.

Sammy picked up the tablet and searched for Brambleton Hall, instantly recognising the imposing country house. She scrolled through photos of the interior, each room grander than the last – high ceilings with ornate cornicing, elegant curtains, priceless-looking furniture, and gilt-framed paintings. The sort of rooms where people like Sammy were careful not to touch anything.

Wikipedia said the estate had belonged to the Hastings family for generations. There was virtually nothing about the current owners beyond a link to a business website: cider making.

Her phone lay face down on the coffee table. Sammy turned it over. The number was still there. Brambleton. A place she hadn’t known before that morning.

She pictured the distance. The dog. Magnus, so sure of his place, so much in control in a way Sammy never quite managed. She thought of Jean’s voice – do you want it? Chloe’s laugh not quite working. But that was unfair; Sammy pushed that thought away.

Sammy picked up the phone but didn’t dial. She set it back down, more carefully this time.

Tomorrow.

Three

On the first Saturday in July, at seven in the morning, gravel announced Sammy’s arrival. It crunched loudly beneath the tyres, too loud for the stillness of the morning. Sammy eased the car to a halt.

Brambleton Hall rose in front of her, warmed by the first light of the morning.

It looked staged, like a period drama set. The sort of film Chloe would half-watch while scrolling, and Sammy would pretend not to be interested in – until she was. The main portion looked Tudor – all gables and tall chimneys. You could imagine someone in a heavy velvet dress standing at one of those windows, waiting for news about a distant battle.

Off to the left, a long extension stretched out in a greyer stone – added later and not quite matching, as though space had won over symmetry.

Sammy watched shutters opening – one by one, pale-painted wood folding back, to let in the light, like eyes blinking awake.

She kept her gaze on the house, fiddling with her collarbone. Right. No pressure. Sammy checked the dashboard clock. Still seven. Still far too early.

‘Brilliant, Sammy,’ she muttered. ‘Absolutely nailed that.’

When she got out of the car, a chill lingered in the air, sharp enough to wake her properly. It smelled of damp earth and cut grass, a clean scent that only seemed to exist in the countryside. Somewhere nearby, a robin launched into an enthusiastic, entirely unbothered, tinkling warble.

She smoothed her skirt, then smoothed it again, and walked towards the front door, her shoes sounding too loud on the stone steps. The shutters protecting the front door were still closed, blanking off her view inside the hallway. Sammy sensed the house waking up – the thump of opening shutters, distant purposeful footsteps within. Someone who knew what they were doing. What if she didn’t? The thought slipped in neatly, as if it had been waiting. What if you can’t fix whatever Mr Magnus wants you to fix?

She pressed the bell before she could talk herself out of it. The sound echoed somewhere deep inside – resonant, expensive-sounding.

The door didn’t open immediately. Instead, she heard the firm, measured pace of someone approaching, the distinct clank as bolts slid. A clatter of the bar securing the shutters being released followed by a decisive thud, the wood folded back revealing the upper glass portion of the door, and someone clad in black bent over, fiddling with keys. The door opened.

Now upright, Magnus was exactly as she remembered: tall, not a crease or a hair out of place. He looked to be early fifties, his facial muscles still taut with faded good looks beneath dark hair. His uniform – because it was a uniform, there was no other word for it – seemed less something he wore than something he inhabited. He checked his pocket watch before looking at her. There was something kind about those eyes, as if they longed to smile at life. One eyebrow lifted.

Her stomach dipped.

‘I . . . sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I know I’m early. I thought . . . well. Traffic and everything. Better to be early than late.’

Magnus snapped the watch shut.

‘Miss Jenkins,’ he said, inclining his head slightly.

Sammy gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Sammy’s fine.’