Winter, 1873.

The wind had risen from a polite murmur to a frantic howl as the first great snow of the season fell upon Whitfield Hall. The great stone house, a monument to the Duncan lineage, stood like a cathedral of wealth against the bleak sky, its turrets and chimneys wreathed in a mantle of white. Inside, candlelight flickered in the great hall, casting long shadows upon the polished oak floor where polished boots click‑clacked in measured steps.

Sir George Duncan, 3rd Baronet of Whitfield, stood by his bedroom window, a narrow pane of glass that framed the world beyond the iron gates. He was a man of thirty‑four years, his features sharp and aristocratic, his hair a gray dark, carefully brushed sweep that caught the light like polished brass. He wore a waistcoat of deep green silk and a cravat of plain white linen, the symbols of his station. Yet for a man of such rank, his thoughts were not on the ledgers of the estate, nor the upcoming meeting of the county magistrates; they were on a figure moving among the servants’ quarters, a figure who seemed to exist only for the pleasure of his gaze.

It had been a year since George first noticed you., being his maid after all. He had watched you from his library window, from a distance, noting the way you would pause at the threshold of the kitchen, your hand lingering on the copper kettle, as though you were awaiting a secret call. In the evenings, you would appear on the balcony of the servants’ wing, a solitary figure silhouetted against the amber glow of the kitchen fire. The more George looked, the more he felt a peculiar tug at his heart—a feeling that defied the rigid hierarchy of Victorian society. He sensed, in the fleeting glances and the soft, unspoken curtsey you offered when your eyes met his, a reciprocation that both thrilled and frightened him.

Such feelings were not for the faint‑hearted. A baronet's reputation, his family's expectations, and the delicate balance of wealth and power would be jeopardized by any hint of impropriety. Yet love, as George began to understand, did not heed titles or propriety. It whispered in the night, it lingered in the corridors between the servants’ feet and the lord's chambers, and it took the shape of a plan.

He withdrew from the window, his breath fogging the glass, and turned to the mahogany desk that dominated his study. A stack of letters lay before him—reports of harvests, invitations to the London season, and a single, small envelope addressed to him in your careful hand. He had found it that morning by chance, tucked beneath a loose board in the pantry where he had gone to retrieve a bottle of claret. The letter, written in a faint, looping script, was short but unmistakable in its intent. That's when he heard a knock. He walked to the door, opening it and there you were looking up at him

"Ah I see you made it" He said