Page 88 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘What do we do?’

‘I can try and hatch them.’

‘How?’

‘Propagator,’ he said. ‘It’ll hold temperature. I’ll rig up the humidity.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Not ideal.’

Sammy didn’t answer; she sensed it rising again, that instinct. Don’t be a bother. Don’t make more work. ‘I don’t want to . . . Okay,’ she said. ‘When you say not ideal, it won’t be the same as Thyme, but it will work won’t it?’

He held her gaze. ‘It might not.’

By the next morning, Sammy had convinced herself the eggs would hatch – Nate was downplaying his skills. If he could coax seeds to germinate in a propagator in winter, he would manage a few ducklings.

She tore through her tasks thinking about Chloe. After a quiche for lunch – Jean had taught her how to make pastry, and the skill soon resurfaced – she went upstairs to tackle the master bedroom with Magnus. The bed looked immaculate, as if it was not meant for sleeping in at all. Magnus’s hand was unmistakable in this, she thought. No crease left to chance.

Three eggs. The thought came without warning.

She glanced toward an open window where a breeze stirred the voile, making it lift and fall, lift and fall, soft, repetitive. It brushed lightly against the glass with each movement. Thyme’s eggs had been in the propagator all night. Nate would’ve set it right – he promised he would. Humidity, heat, all of it controlled. She pictured them as she’d last seen them – white – the colour of innocence; defenceless. Left to a machine and a guess. As if cocooned in an intensive care unit.

‘Corners,’ Magnus said. ‘Again.’

She folded, lifted, tucked – the fabric pulled tight, clean angles forming as she worked.

‘Hospital corners are not decorative,’ he continued. ‘They are functional. To work they must be precise.’

Sammy smoothed the sheet, pressing it flat.

A sound. Sharp. Electronic. A series of clipped buzzes, repeating in measured intervals. Sammy jumped staring at Magnus. ‘What was that?’

No eyebrows – no problem.

‘Perimeter alarm,’ he replied. ‘It indicates someone is at the gate.’

The buzz sounded again. Followed by tyres on the gravel, and more buzzing. The doorbell rang, echoing up the stairs. Followed by Valerie’s voice calling loudly, ‘I’ll get that . . .’

Magnus stepped back. ‘That is the front door. I will attend to it.’

Sammy stayed where she was, listening to his footsteps fading. The sheet tightened under her hands, settling into place.

Less than a minute later, she heard a throat clearing loudly. Magnus; just inside the room. His eyebrows had climbed high – both of them.

‘There is a visitor,’ he said. ‘For you . . . at the front door.’

Sammy’s stomach dropped. Chloe.

Her two worlds collided in her head, uncomfortable bedfellows. Sammy had said tonight, after work and given Chloe the cottage address. But when did Chloe ever follow instructions?

With her heart racing, Sammy took the stairs fast, her steps striking hard against the wood, each one echoing up through the stairwell, as if reprimanding her for the mistake. She was acutely aware of Magnus behind her; the contrast of his measured unhurried footfall made it worse. She could feel him there and wished – absurdly – that he would leave and find some silver to polish.

The entrance hall lay below, the front door wide open.

Valerie stood to one side of the black-and-white tiled floor, one hand resting on the hall table, wearing the expression of somebody pretending not to listen, or watch, while absorbing everything.

And in the doorway – Chloe. Platinum blonde hair set perfectly in place, full makeup, clothes cut tight and deliberately chosen to be seen. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a nightclub in Swansea and into Brambleton Hall without breaking stride. A hard-shell suitcase stood beside her.

‘Sammmmy!’ Chloe screeched, arms already opening.

Sammy stepped forward, caught in the familiarity, the energy. ‘Hi,’ she said.