Page 81 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

She stared at it, certain she had shut it firmly when she moved the potatoes. She always shut it. Sammy closed it hard, hand pressing flat against the enamel as if she could push the heat back in. Gone. Not all of it – but enough. Her eyes flicked to the clock.

She rose, already reaching for the electric oven, switching it on, mentally adjusting the temperature, accounting for the fan. It should reach the correct temperature in five minutes.

As if on cue Magnus walked in. ‘Nate will start moving the guests into the dining room in ten minutes. First course on schedule?’

‘They’ll be ready in a few minutes,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ Valerie said. ‘Running late?’

Sammy ignored her, sliding the soufflés into the oven and shutting the door with a snap.

‘Using the electric oven? Temperature dropped in the Aga, has it?’ Valerie knelt on the floor, eyeing the temperature gauge. ‘Look at that – left a door open,’ Valerie rose and threw a knowing look at Magnus. ‘Easy to miss, I suppose . . . if you’re not used to an Aga; nerves I expect.’

Sammy didn’t trust herself to speak.

An unhelpful tick from the kitchen wall clock.

Magnus’s watch was out. ‘First course, Miss Jenkins?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Very good.’

Valerie moved a fraction closer to him. ‘It’s often like that under pressure,’ she said softly. ‘The little things go first. Aga doors, timings . . .’A small, sympathetic breath. ‘You do have to be so precise.’

The seconds dragged. Sammy kept her eyes on the glass door.

When the timer rang, she peeked into the oven; the soufflés had risen high above the ramekin rims; as she reached for the oven gloves, one dipped before collapsing in on itself. Sammy glared at it for a few seconds as if that might convince it to right itself. The rest were steady. Good. She opened the oven and brought the soufflés out. Set them down.

Magnus edged closer, silver tray ready. The eyebrow twitched.

‘One’s lost the will.’ She said, plating the ramekins, setting the offending soufflé in line with the others. ‘That one’s for Nate,’ she added. ‘He can take it up with me in the morning.’

Valerie reached for a tray. ‘Shall I . . .’

‘No.’ Sammy picked up a tray. ‘Why don’t you open the dining room door for us – you’re good with doors, Valerie.’

‘Well, I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,’ muttered Valerie, following the soufflés down the corridor.

The main course ran late.

Magnus did not check his watch. He did not need to. The delay was already having an effect in the room: the subtle slowing of conversation as hunger replaced anticipation; a glass emptied too swiftly as thirst stepped in to compensate.

He moved to restore order. Wine first. Always wine. A half inch missing here, a glass untouched there; he moved like a ghost, silently restoring balance, keeping the table in motion even as the kitchen lagged behind it.

Sammy entered. There was tension in her now, her earlier steadiness beginning to fray.

‘Food from the left, drinks from the right,’ she murmured as she passed with her tray.

Valerie followed behind. Good woman that. Reliable. Knew how to conduct herself in a formal setting. Plates looked sound – meat not overdone, potatoes brown – not blonde – and crunchy vegetables – firm, not soggy. He picked up the decanter. There was an empty glass at Nate’s end. He filled it.

But his attention had shifted to the two women. Opposite him, a guest waited longer than they should have; he collected a plate and reached it before the pause became noticeable. Behind him, Valerie spoke. ‘Allow me.’ She wasn’t speaking to him, but to Sammy. A plate – already placed – lifted, reset. Why? He set the decanter down. ‘Miss Jenkins,’ he whispered, not looking at her, ‘continue.’

Nate tugged discreetly at his cuffs, his dinner jacket pulled uncomfortably tight across his shoulders – he’d added a bit of muscle since his mother had it made for him. The tie felt like a noose around his neck. He ignored it. Magnus had asked for his help, explaining tonight was to test her progress. And . . . he didn’t follow that train of thought.

Victor was seated on his right, all six foot seven of him, clerical collar slightly askew. Nate had a soft spot for the hapless young vicar – he had very big shoes to fill; Ivy, his predecessor had looked after the village for decades and everyone still loved her. Victor reached out too far for his glass, catching it with his sleeve. A quick apology, half-laughing at himself, water spreading before he could stop it. As if by magic, Magnus appeared with a cloth.

Ivy was on Nate’s left, wearing a voluminous aquamarine dress and next to her, Trish – already assessing, even while she smiled. She’d run Prosecco & Prose for nearly twenty years – Trish understood professional standards. Manuel her father beside her, neat as a pin, silver hair combed back, jacket sitting snugly. Manuel let out a short, sharp laugh – all eyes swivelled his way. It wasn’t so different from Nate’s father’s laugh. That, too, had commanded attention. As had, everything about his father.