Page 94 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

He opened it almost automatically. A note fell out:

Thought you might enjoy this.

Magnus turned a few pages, Jacobean chalices, Georgian salvers, Regency candlesticks, Victorian entrée dishes. Whoever had chosen this had chosen well. He poured himself a glass of wine and read the first chapter.

Laughter sliced through his concentration.

He put his finger on the page, reached across and nudged Beethoven up a notch.

Laughter again – too loud to ignore – from one of the nearby cottages. He didn’t have to guess which.

Magnus twisted the dial higher. Beethoven rose to the challenge. So did the laughter.

He closed the book, set it down, and walked to the window. The night air came in warm. Voices carried easily between the cottages. He shut the window. The music ran on for a few seconds, then he switched it off. In the quiet, the laughter thinned, before dropping away.

Magnus padded through to the kitchen, filled the kettle, switched it on and measured cocoa into a mug. He returned to his chair, picked up the book and read, sipping.

The other cottage again. Voices, a loud cackle then nothing. Three cottages. Enough distance for privacy if people observed it. Nate did. This disturbance was Miss Jenkins and her ‘guest’; the one she hadn’t asked permission for.

Magnus carried the empty mug to the kitchen, rinsed it out, dried it. He folded the cloth and left it on the centre of the towel rail.

Upstairs in his bedroom, he took out a white shirt, holding it up to the light. Not good enough. Back downstairs – another burst of noise from that cottage; he shook his head. ‘Shame, shame . . . she was doing quite well.’ Magnus plugged in the iron. Collar first. Then cuffs and sleeves. Each crease pressed out.

Back upstairs, Magnus switched off the light and lay down. He closed his eyes. A shout of laughter cut through his thoughts.

The key stuck in the back door before turning, a small resistance that gave way under pressure. Sammy’s gaze fell on her wrinkled blouse. Last night came back in snatches – the wine, Chloe insisting on a second bottle; Chloe laughing, fit to break a rib at her own stories about ‘the couple from hell’. Tonight – if she could convince him to join them – Magnus would see how much fun Chloe was and forgive her for arriving at the front door; after all, Sammy had made the same mistake on her first day too. And now Sammy was ‘on track to pass’.

She smoothed her blouse flat. The creases stayed. She pressed them once more anyway. Magnus wouldn’t spot it. Even if he did, he wouldn’t comment.

But Valerie might. Sammy shut the door behind her. She’d tie an apron on before breakfast. First find Magnus – sell him on the pub outing.

The kitchen was silent except for the purr of the Aga. Sammy tried the pantry, then his office. Both empty.

It came to her easily – where he always went when things disturbed him. Which meant something was wrong. She stole a guilty look at her blouse – what else?

Sammy knocked.

‘Enter.’

Magnus was polishing a teapot which to Sammy’s eyes seemed already gleaming. He dipped a cloth in the tin of silver polish. ‘Miss Jenkins.’

She stepped inside, folding her arms to cover the worst of the creases. ‘Mr Magnus.’

The cloth moved in slow, even passes.

‘Anything in particular you want me to see to today.’

‘Only your duties.’

Sammy held her ground, watching the silver instead of him – what had slipped, what was she missing? Something had upset him. It always had, when he retreated to polish silver.

He set the teapot down, turned it a fraction. Still not looking at her.

‘I thought I’d change the flowers this morning.’

Magnus lifted his gaze. ‘Indeed.’

A placeholder. Here it comes.