Dinner is served soon.

As you made your way towards the dining room, the servants' corridors hummed with controlled chaos.

Every member of the household seemed to be carrying something. Trays of polished silver disappeared through one doorway, baskets of fresh bread through another, while the unmistakable aroma of roasted game drifted from the kitchens.

{if Relationship_Martha = 0} Just as you reached the service entrance, the kitchen doors swung open.

A young woman emerged carrying an enormous serving platter that looked far too heavy for one person.

"Out of the way," she called cheerfully. "Unless anyone fancies explaining to Cook why dinner ended up on the floor."

The nearby servants stepped aside without hesitation.

She caught your eye as she passed.

"You must be Sir Edward Harrington's valet."

"I am."

"I'm Martha Green."

“Thomas”

Martha was perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four, a little older than most of the younger servants, with dark auburn hair pinned back in a practical fashion. A handful of rebellious strands had escaped their pins, giving her an appearance that was more spirited than untidy.

She had sharp hazel eyes that didn’t look like they missed anything happening around her and a confident grin that suggested she was more than capable of winning any argument she entered.

Years spent working in kitchens and stables combined with her small height had given her a strong, plump build. Her voluptuous curves were hardly concealed by her dress - her large breasts lay perfectly in place and when she bend forward you could catch a glimpse of her cleavage. Rolled sleeves revealed toned forearms, while every movement carried the confidence of someone entirely comfortable with hard work. She walked with purpose rather than delicacy, and somehow that suited her perfectly.

She was undeniably attractive, though not in the polished manner of a noblewoman.

She shifted the platter slightly in her hands.

"I'd shake your hand, but I rather like having somewhere to put this."

A footman held the dining room door open for her.

"Come on," she said over her shoulder with an easy grin. "If we're late, they'll think the hunt started without them."

With that, she disappeared into the dining room, leaving you with the distinct impression that Martha Green rarely walked calmly anywhere when there was work to be done. {endif}

The great doors to the dining room were opened, and the guests took their places with the quiet confidence of people long accustomed to such occasions.

From your position behind Sir Edward's chair, you allowed yourself a brief glance around the room before your attention returned to your duties.

The splendour of Kingsmere Hall had lost none of its power to impress.

Candlelight danced across polished silver and crystal goblets. Fresh flowers from the estate adorned the centre of the long mahogany table, while the portraits of generations of Ashcombes looked down upon the evening's gathering with silent dignity.

Every servant knew precisely where to stand.

Every movement was measured.

Every course arrived as though the household shared a single mind.

Lord Ashcombe welcomed his guests warmly before raising his glass.

"To old friends, new acquaintances, and another successful hunting party."

A chorus of agreement followed as glasses were raised around the table.

The first course was served.

As you discreetly refilled Sir Edward's wine, your eyes briefly wandered towards Lady Charlotte.

She was seated only a short distance from her father, listening with genuine interest as an elderly gentleman recounted a tale from a hunt many years before.

Though she occupied one of the most prominent seats at the table, there was nothing attention-seeking about her.

She smiled readily.

She listened patiently.

When another guest struggled to join the conversation, she gently drew them into it with an effortless question, ensuring no one remained overlooked.

You found yourself recalling your walk through the gardens earlier that afternoon.

There, away from the formality of the house, she had seemed every bit as gracious as she appeared now before the assembled company.

Whatever kindness she had shown you had not been reserved for a quiet path beneath the trees.

It was simply part of who she was.

The courses continued one after another.

Clear soup gave way to roasted chicken, followed by venison taken from Lord Ashcombe's own estate. Fresh vegetables, delicate pastries and rich sauces appeared and disappeared in an endless procession that demanded the full attention of the household staff.

The guests admired the meal.

The servants ensured there was never a pause long enough for anyone to notice the work required to present it.

Across the table, Nathaniel Blackwood entertained several gentlemen with stories of previous hunts.

He possessed an undeniable talent for holding a room's attention.

Even Lord Ashcombe laughed at one particularly elaborate tale involving a stag that seemed to grow larger with each retelling.

Yet whenever a servant approached, Mr. Blackwood's pleasant expression cooled ever so slightly.

He acknowledged them only when absolutely necessary, his thanks offered more from habit than sincerity.

The contrast did not escape your notice.

Nor, you suspected, Sir Edward's.

Your master rarely interrupted the conversation, but neither did he encourage its louder voices.

When addressed, he answered thoughtfully before returning to his meal, seemingly content to let others compete for the evening's attention.

Several times throughout dinner, Lady Charlotte's gaze wandered around the table.

Once, while accepting a fresh glass from a footman, she happened to look in your direction.

Recognition flickered across her face.

It was accompanied by the faintest of smiles before she politely returned her attention to the conversation beside her.

The gesture lasted scarcely a heartbeat.

Yet somehow it lingered with you.

As the final course gave way to fruit, cheeses and port, the ladies gradually excused themselves for the drawing room.

The gentlemen remained behind, settling comfortably into stories of horses, estates and the coming hunt.

Predictions were made.

Friendly wagers quietly arranged.

Opinions offered with complete certainty despite tomorrow's outcome remaining entirely unknown.

Sir Edward allowed the conversation to continue for a respectable time before quietly setting down his glass.

"If you'll excuse me, Lord Ashcombe."

"Of course, Harrington," your host replied pleasantly. "We'll expect great things from you tomorrow."

"I shall endeavour not to disappoint."

As Sir Edward rose, you stepped forward without being asked.

Together you left the dining room behind, the voices of the remaining gentlemen fading into the distance as you walked through the quieter corridors of the house.

"It has been some time since I've attended such a gathering," Sir Edward remarked."Lord Ashcombe appears to be an excellent host."

"He does, sir."

"And his household is exceptionally well run."

There was a brief pause before he added, almost thoughtfully,

"I find that says rather a lot about a family."

You nodded in agreement.

Once inside his chamber, you helped him remove his evening coat before preparing his clothes for the following morning.

"The hunt waits for no one," Sir Edward said with a weary smile.

"No, sir."

"And I imagine Lord Ashcombe intends to have us all awake before the sun has properly decided to rise."

You allowed yourself a small smile.

"I expect so, sir."

Sir Edward glanced at his neatly prepared attire and gave an approving nod.

"As always, thank you, Thomas."

"It is my pleasure, sir."

"Get some rest."

"You too, sir."

With a respectful bow, you withdrew from the room.

The servants' corridors had grown quiet by the time you reached your own chamber.

The bustle of the day had finally given way to silence.

You removed your jacket, extinguished the candle beside your bed and lay back against the mattress.

For a brief moment, your thoughts drifted once more to the gardens...

...and to Lady Charlotte's easy smile beneath the afternoon sun.

Tomorrow, there would be little time for idle reflection.

The first day of the hunt awaited.