Page 93 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Nate,’ Sammy said, unable to prevent a smile. Again. ‘He’s . . .’ she stopped to reset, but the excitement bubbled up inside her and spilled out – this was good, Chloe being here, not just on the other end of a phone. ‘We went to the beach,’ she said. ‘For a meal . . . he said he was showing me the village, so I didn’t take too much from that but . . . we’re going to the pub. Later this week.’

Chloe watched her over the rim of her glass. ‘A date?’

Sammy chewed her lip. ‘I think so.’

Chloe smiled, but not widely this time. ‘And he lives here?’

Sammy’s attention drifted towards the kitchen wall, imagining Nate cooking his own meal. She’d yet to see inside his cottage. He would set the table, eat properly. She was sure of that. ‘Next door.’

Chloe tipped her glass, finishing it, and banging it on the table. Sammy winced; she reached out for the glass, then picked up the bottle instead, topping up Chloe’s glass.

‘Convenient,’ said Chloe.

‘It’s not like that,’ she said.

‘No, no,’ Chloe cut in, light. ‘I’m not saying anything. It’s nice. You, doing this.’ She gestured vaguely. ‘Very . . . wholesome.’

Sammy didn’t answer.

Chloe leaned back into the sofa, eyes still on her. ‘Sam, ask yourself. Now?’ she said. ‘With everything else going on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve seen you like this before,’ Chloe said. ‘I don’t want you getting hurt again. Not after last time.’

Peter. ‘It’s not like that,’ Sammy said.

‘Course it isn’t,’ Chloe replied lightly. ‘So anyway, this job. Cleaning other people’s mess. I’d lose my mind.’

Sammy pictured the white blouse she’d set aside for tomorrow. Still creased. It wasn’t optional; after that ‘adequate’ she couldn’t turn up tomorrow with wrinkles – especially not when Valerie had swapped her usual Wednesday for tomorrow. She should have said it, told Chloe what Magnus said – except something in Chloe’s manner niggled at her. ‘It’s not just that,’ she said.

‘If you say so,’ Chloe replied, already reaching for more wine. ‘Why don’t we go to the pub? All of us. It’d be fun.’ Chloe pulled out her phone, thumbs scrolling.

‘All of us?’

‘You, me, gardener boy,’ Chloe said. ‘And I can be Magnus’s date.’ She laughed at her own idea. ‘Imagine.’

Sammy sensed the wrongness of the idea. This place wasn’t Swansea. Nate wasn’t that. Magnus definitely wasn’t that. ‘I don’t think . . .’

Chloe focussed on her phone, ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘That way you won’t have to worry about poor me sitting here all on my lonesome, will you?’

‘Why not,’ said Sammy.

Chloe smiled, ‘Good. It’s what we need. Let’s go tomorrow – we’ll have a laugh.’

Sammy picked up the dirty plates, carrying them to the kitchen and turning on the tap. She rinsed a plate, slowly. It’ll be fine, she told herself. She was being oversensitive.

Behind her, Chloe laughed at something on her phone, the sound filling the cottage.

And the blouse stayed unpressed.

Magnus turned the radio up. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony filled the room; there were few soft furnishings to dull the sound. Bare walls. A single armchair and a narrow shelf fixed along one wall, displaying a line of silver – a pair of candlesticks, a cased set of gilt metal berry spoons, the box propped open, the gilding winking in the evening sunlight.

Sitting in the only armchair, Magnus picked up the parcel – wrapped in brown paper and secured with string – which he had found on his doorstep when he returned from work. He had assumed it had been left at the wrong cottage. Only after carrying it inside had he noticed the neat block capitals.

FOR MAGNUS.

He untied the string. Inside a slim hardback – A History of English Silver.