Lady Whiskerton's ears twitched at the suggestion of al fresco dining, her tail curling thoughtfully. You stood poised with your silver serving tray, awaiting her decree. The grandfather clock in the hallway marked the passing seconds with solemn ticks.

'An outdoor luncheon,' she mused, her voice like silk over velvet. 'But only if the china is the Wedgwood set with the forget-me-not pattern.' You bowed slightly, already mentally cataloguing where the specified dishware was stored in the butler's pantry.

As you turned to make preparations, Her Ladyship added, 'And see that Mr. Pawsley doesn't intrude. That scoundrel of a tabby has been loitering near the herb garden again.' You nodded gravely, well aware of the territorial disputes between Lady Whiskerton and the neighbor's tomcat.

The morning sun had warmed the south lawn perfectly by the time you returned with the luncheon trolley. You'd arranged the Wedgwood on a lace tablecloth beneath the willow, with a crystal water goblet reflecting dappled sunlight. The tuna was presented in delicate florets, garnished with edible flowers from the greenhouse. A small silver bell sat beside the plate for summoning refills.

Lady Whiskerness settled onto her cushion throne with regal grace, surveying the spread with half-lidded satisfaction. 'You may pour the cream,' she commanded, extending one impeccable paw toward the antique cream pitcher you'd polished to a mirror finish that morning.