Sam closed the front door of the old gatehouse. 

Arthur’s Rest had been in his family for generations. It was a tall, narrow stone building with a stout, studded door and high-pitched roof. Beneath the swept eaves and ornate gables, climbing roses and ivy wound their way around narrow leaded windows and carved stone mullions. Sam’s bedroom was in the octagonal turret which overlooked the vast grounds of the Witheringham Estate and their own modest, quintessential walled English garden. 

He shrugged his bag onto the hall table and caught the edge of a neatly addressed envelope. The letter slid to the floor unnoticed and disappeared beneath the thick mahogany dresser. 

‘I’m home!’