Seek towards the field kitchen

The conversation you had overheard refused to leave your thoughts.

Every time you convinced yourself to stop thinking about it, Blackwood's words returned.

You had no chance without proof or credibility. The reminder echoed over and over.

Perhaps that was why you found yourself drifting towards the field kitchens instead.

The familiar bustle was somehow comforting.

Servants hurried between wagons, pots simmered over open fires, and the unmistakable voice of Martha could be heard directing half a dozen people at once.

"No, not that basket."

"The other one."

"If you drop those pies, I'll kick you in your damned arse."

A young footman hurried to correct his mistake.

Only once everything seemed to be moving as it should did Martha notice you standing nearby.

"Well."

"If it isn't Sir Edward's shadow."

"I thought I'd see how preparations were going."

She smirked.

"Looking for honest work, are you?"

"I thought I might."

"Careful."

"Keep saying things like that and Mrs. Wilcox will have you permanently transferred."

You laughed.

"I'll bear that in mind."

Martha studied you for a moment.

Then the smile faded ever so slightly.

"Something's bothering you."

You hesitated.

"What makes you say that?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one people get when they're carrying something too heavy to put down."

You looked away.

"There are... certain matters that aren't mine to speak of."

"I guessed as much."

To your surprise, she asked no further questions.

Instead, she handed you two tin mugs before filling both with fresh tea.

"There."

"Tea first."

"Worry afterwards."

You accepted the mug with a grateful smile.

The two of you wandered a short distance away from the busy cooks until the sounds of the camp became pleasantly distant.

"You know," Martha said after taking a sip.

"My father always said people think keeping secrets is the difficult part."

"It isn't?"

She shook her head.

"The difficult part is knowing which secrets are yours to tell and when."

You looked at her.

"That's wise."

She shrugged.

"He wasn't. He was a blacksmith. But he occasionally stumbled into wisdom."

You both laughed.

After a comfortable silence, Martha rested her elbows on a nearby fence.

"When I first came here, I thought I had to prove I was stronger than everyone else."

"You certainly give that impression."

"I know."

She grinned.

"It works. But the truth is... I was terrified."

"Of what?"

"Failing. Being sent home. Having everyone decide I wasn't good enough."

She looked down into her mug.

"So I learned to speak loudly. Walk confidently. And never let anyone think they could push me around. It became easier with practice."

"You've become rather convincing."

"Oh, I know."

She flashed another grin.

"Half the footmen think I'm terrifying."

"Aren't you?"

"Only before luncheon."

That earned another laugh.

Her expression softened.

"The funny thing is... The people I find intelligent and trustworthy always know when I'm pretending."

She looked directly at you.

"And I think you're rather like that."

You thought of the conversation behind the bushes.

Of the burden now resting quietly on your shoulders. Martha could see it.

"Perhaps."

Martha nodded.

"Whatever it is... You don't have to tell me. But if you're keeping quiet because it's the right thing to do... I respect that."

A horn echoed faintly across the estate.

"There goes my peaceful cup of tea."

She set her mug aside.

"Come on."

"If we're late getting back, Mrs. Wilcox will blame me."

"I suspect she'd blame you anyway."

"Almost certainly."

She bumped your shoulder playfully as the two of you walked back towards the field kitchen.

Somehow, the secret you carried still weighed heavily upon you.

But it no longer felt like a burden you had to bear entirely alone.