Yvonne Bailey put poison in the wine, intending to create the illusion that he died of a sudden illness. In fact, Yvonne Bailey and the person behind her did not want his death to cause too much commotion. Otherwise, that night, they could have simply stabbed him, and he would have died more swiftly than anyone.

Henry Foster didn’t know why the poisoned wine ultimately failed to kill him. At this moment, perhaps he didn’t need to worry about Yvonne Bailey or other assassins barging in to kill him directly, but he still had to guard against them poisoning him again.

Now that David Grant wasn’t coming, who would help him test whether there was poison in the food?

At this point, he had no excuse, so he told Ethan Carter to sit down and taste every dish first!

He cursed Charles Grant the old bastard in his heart, his face dark, eyes fixed on Ethan Carter and the kitchen maid helping to serve the dishes. He forcefully suppressed his anger, barely stopping himself from flipping the table.

Stay calm, he told himself, you must stay calm.

Flipping the food and refusing to eat was only a temporary measure; it couldn’t change his situation. Henry Foster thought to himself, if it were Simon Blake from his dreams in this situation, what would he do?

Ethan Carter and the kitchen maid stood to the side, not daring to breathe, afraid the young master would pick up a bowl or plate and hurl it at them. After a while, the young master let out a long sigh and said:

“Since I can’t get someone to come here, I’ll just go over myself.”

Henry Foster headed straight for the north courtyard.

The north courtyard had forty or fifty rooms scattered about, all quite simple, with mud walls and thatched roofs. When the wind and rain picked up, the rooms would leak everywhere.

The north courtyard was where the household soldiers and their families lived, and it also served as the kitchen, stables, and storage area. The conditions were limited and naturally couldn’t compare to the east courtyard where Henry Foster and David Foster lived.

It was mealtime, and Henry Foster walked through a narrow alley, following the noisy sounds, and entered a small courtyard.

An old pomegranate tree stood lush and full, and smoke curled up from the northern rooftops—this must be where the kitchen was.

The west wing consisted of three connected rooms, with seven or eight square tables set up. Around them, fifty or sixty people were waiting for the meal to begin—these must be the household soldiers and servants’ dining hall.

In the north courtyard’s dining hall, all seven or eight tables were in one room, but there were still clear distinctions in status.

Charles Grant sat alone at one table by the window, able to see the creek outside. On his table were a bowl of fish, a bowl of chicken, a plate of cured meat, and a plate of greens.

Next were sixteen household soldiers sitting at two tables, eight at each. Each table shared a large bowl of fish and a large bowl of stewed chicken, but no cured meat. The greens were served in a big bucket, enough for everyone, with just a few drops of oil floating on top.

The rest were the household soldiers’ families and those serving as servants, sitting around four large tables. On their tables were only greens and dark pickled vegetables, no white rice, just yellow millet or cornmeal.

Henry Foster had been living at the manor for over a month, but this was his first time entering the servants’ dining area. He hadn’t expected the household soldiers’ food to be so simple, and for those serving as servants, the food in front of them was worse than dog food.

No one expected Henry Foster to barge in suddenly. The lively, noisy atmosphere instantly vanished, as if a puddle of water had been sucked dry by a sponge, leaving complete silence.

In the corner, a big black dog lay on the ground. Sensing something was wrong, it lifted its head and saw a stranger enter. It bared its teeth and barked twice, then tucked its tail and arched its back, ready to pounce. But a household soldier sitting nearby kicked it hard, and it slunk back to the corner, whimpering, not daring to act up again.

At this moment, Henry Foster saw the two golden pheasants he had personally rewarded to Kyle Sullivan hanging from the beam. Clearly, Kyle Sullivan had already told Charles Grant about running into the poacher in the mountains earlier and hadn’t dared to keep the pheasants for himself.

“Young master, the tenant farmers in the mountains are all cunning and sly. If we let them into the mountains, who knows how badly they’ll ruin the back hills.”

Seeing Henry Foster staring at the two pheasants hanging from the beam, Charles Grant slowly stood up and said.

“Since the young master has spoken, the manor won’t drag Uncle Sullivan and his son to the county office for punishment. After I finish eating, I’ll have someone retrieve the other game. The mountain ban absolutely cannot be lifted lightly; this must be reported to the master. Also, the Black Cloud Bow was a gift from the master to the young master, hoping you would diligently practice riding and archery. How can you just give it away to a tenant’s son?”

Henry Foster glanced at Charles Grant, pressing him: “James Sullivan is young, yet he can shoot down a hawk. His archery must be quite good. I was even thinking of having him serve by my side in a few days. You sent people to snatch the game and take back the Black Cloud Bow—what’s the meaning of that?”

“……” Charles Grant was slightly taken aback. He hadn’t expected the usually carefree young master Henry Foster to have such thoughts.

Of course, Charles Grant didn’t agree with Henry Foster, but he didn’t want to argue with him in front of so many people.

Henry Foster saw that Charles Grant remained silent, clearly disagreeing. He turned to look at the other household soldiers—some sneered in disdain, others lowered their heads or looked away. David Grant also lowered his head, shrinking into the corner, not looking this way; only Walter Grant, after hearing his words, looked hesitant.

“Your saber looks nice. Let me have a look.” Henry Foster said to a household soldier sitting nearby.

The soldier was startled, glanced at Charles Grant, then took off his saber and handed it to Henry Foster, shrinking back as if afraid the temperamental Henry Foster might suddenly draw the blade and stab him.