Page 82 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

And suddenly Nate was at a different table. Wider, with water, not wine, and a plate of untouched biscuits from a tin. His father sat at the head – always at the head of the table – his boardroom; his table. Nate had been wearing a suit and tie, his hair cut militarily short, his face clean shaven. Nate’s first opportunity to negotiate a supplier account. ‘This one’s easy, son. Just Christmas trees. I’ve not let him in before, so he’ll be keen as mustard to secure our business. I’ll let you handle it . . . I’ll be there in case you need advice.’

It had begun well.

‘We’d be looking at a stepped increase across the season,’ Nate said. ‘If we take the full allocation, we can . . .’

Opposite him, a man in a jumper and chinos. ‘If you want exclusivity, you’ll need to commit to volume.’

Nate kept going. ‘We can structure that across the centres. Phase . . .’

His father’s voice cut in. ‘We’re not committing to numbers we don’t control.’

Nate clenched his jaw.

‘Without volume, there’s no incentive for us,’ the supplier replied, leaning forward now, no longer speaking to Nate. ‘We’d be tying up stock for you – no reciprocity.’

‘You’d be securing a national account,’ his father said. ‘That’s the incentive.’

Nate tried again. ‘If we agree minimums per site, we can give you . . .’

‘We don’t do minimums,’ his father said. ‘We set the terms.’

The supplier looked at Nate, then back to his father.

Ivy’s laughter cut across the memory.

He’d picked the worst possible moment to challenge his father. Not in front of a supplier – never in front of outsiders. He took a sip of wine.

Sammy pushed through the door, Valerie behind her, both setting trays down on the sideboard. Sammy collected two dishes and approached Victor. The vicar leaned across to speak to Mabel, putting his arm straight through the space on his left that Sammy needed.

She checked herself.

Valerie moved in.

Nate heard a whisper. ‘Miss Jenkins, perhaps from the right . . .’

Nate’s eyes flicked upwards to Valerie – what was she doing; food was always served from the left.

‘Victor . . . how’s the roof fund coming on?’ Nate asked. Victor swivelled Nate’s way, creating a space to his left.

Quick as a flash, Sammy stepped in, setting the dish down cleanly.

Nate loosened his tie with a finger, trying to remember the last time he’d worn a dinner jacket as a guest. Probably that last New Year’s Eve party with Cassandra.

The pantry door grated against the floor as Sammy shut it. For a few precious minutes there would be no Valerie.

She stacked the plates to one side of the sink and gathered the cutlery in neat bundles, her ears still ringing with the gushing compliments from guests about her pudding – a plum crumble with homemade custard. Letting the tap run steadily, she worked through the crockery, her hands deep in hot, soapy water. Porcelain met enamel with a dull clink. Behind her, the dishwasher started up with a low mechanical grind.

She heard the door grate against the floor. Valerie with a tea towel in her hands. ‘You’ll want to keep those separate,’ she said, lifting a plate, checking it, then setting it back in a different stack. ‘They chip if they knock.’

Sammy rinsed another plate. ‘Thank you.’

From the corridor, Sammy heard voices – softened by distance and closed doors – and the occasional ripple of laughter

Valerie dried two plates, then set the cloth down.

Magnus popped his head around the door. ‘Coffee and peppermint tea for the Chinese reception room, after which I will polish the dining room table.’

He disappeared. Valerie followed – like a loyal spaniel trailing after her master.