by Cheryl Holt
Emeline would have to counter whatever falsehoods Mason told, and she was certain the earl would heed her. Contrary to the despicable reports that had drifted to Stafford, he had a conscience, and she would play on his sympathies—regardless of how deeply buried those sympathies might be.
They had forged a bond, and they were allies, both wanting what was best for Stafford. Together, they would move the estate in a new direction. Mr. Mason would be restrained and lives would vastly improve.
She had to believe it. It was too depressing to consider any other conclusion.
The door opened, and Emeline could feel the tension rise.
She turned and urged, “Remember: Stay strong. We’ve issued our demands, and we’ve warned of a strike. We have to let the earl know we’re serious.”
“Mr. Mason will have filled his head with drivel.” The shouted comment provoked a wave of nodding. “We don’t stand a chance.”
“Yes, we do. I will correct any misperceptions that Mr. Mason has created. The earl is a rational man, and we’ll get what we want. We merely have to exhibit a united front. We can’t waver.”
Lord Stafford walked out, flanked by his brother on one side and Mr. Mason on the other.
The two brothers had dressed in their army uniforms, their red coats blazing against the tan stone of the house. Their trousers were a blinding white, their black boots polished to a shine.
With their dark good looks, tall height, and broad shoulders, they were handsome and intimidating. The earl in particular was magnificent, his sleek hair pushed off his forehead, his arresting blue eyes sweeping across the huddled throng. He meticulously assessed them, making them shuffle their feet with concern.
The brothers towered over Mr. Mason. He was short and portly, with thinning gray hair, overwhelming muttonchops, and unremarkable brown eyes. He seemed small and harmless, while they appeared unapproachable, tough as nails, ready for a skirmish and destined to win it.
As if posing, they tarried at the top of the grand staircase, letting the mob gape up at them. A subtle message was conveyed: Nicholas Price had risen from humble antecedents, but he was far above them all.
It was everyone’s first glimpse of the dynamic siblings, and people were agog with shock and admiration. Emeline, too, was gawking, pining away as if she was a love-struck girl, and at the realization, she flushed with chagrin.
For the briefest instant, the earl’s gaze locked on hers, then he shifted his attention to the crowd, scrutinizing each individual. He was taking their measure, tallying their worth, and Emeline could sense them standing a bit straighter.
He stepped away from his brother and Mr. Mason, separating himself, but powerfully flanked by them nonetheless. Emeline ignored her surge of panic.
“I am Captain Nicholas Price, Lord Stafford.” His voice boomed out over the assembly. “I have proudly served King and Country for the past sixteen years. Now I am your lord and master. Do you acknowledge my authority over you?”
Men doffed their hats and bowed. Women curtsied. He was an imposing figure, and it was impossible not to respond with deference. Only Emeline was brave enough to show no sign of respect. She glared, and he glared right back.
“I have been informed by Miss Wilson,” he continued, as she blanched at being singled out, “that some of you are unhappy with how the estate has been run since I was installed as earl.” There was an embarrassed muttering in the ranks—with her name being disparaged. “I have also been informed that you might join in a strike and not plant any crops. Is this true?”
Emeline strode forward. She was trembling and couldn’t hide it.
“We don’t wish to quarrel, Lord Stafford. We simply ask for fair treatment.”
“The old earl was a gambler,” he said to the gathering, rather than Emeline, “and he didn’t value your contributions to Stafford. The fiscal condition of the estate is ominous. I need you to help me put it on a sound financial footing. I need your help and your hard work. Will you give it to me?”
There was an awkward silence. He was tremendously eloquent, a leader to be obeyed, his request for assistance difficult to resist.
“We’re eager to aid you,” Emeline said, “but we must be assured that our toil is not in vain.”
“This property is not a charity”—he replied to the crowd—“and I will brook no insurrection. If you would like to stay, you may, but on my terms. If you can’t abide my rules, implemented by Mr. Mason, leave immediately.”
No one moved. No one breathed.
After a dramatic pause, he added, “For those who choose to remain, I offer a free bag of seed and a jug of ale. They’re in a wagon out by the barn.”
Feet shuffled again, then one man, and another and another, shrugged and started off to collect the bounty he’d tendered.
Emeline shook herself out of her stupor.
“Wait!” she called to them. “We haven’t earned any concessions.”
“Don’t need no concessions,” someone grumbled.
“A free bag of seed!” a second gushed. “And ale! You’d have to be an imbecile to refuse.”
“He’s toying with us,” she pleaded. “Don’t let him win without a fight!”
Mr. Templeton patted her on the shoulder. “He’s bested us, Missy.”
“No, he hasn’t!” she implored. “Don’t take his . . . bribe!”
“You did what you could, but a fellow has to recognize when he’s been beaten.”
“Beaten!” she huffed. “The battle hasn’t even begun and you’re defeated?”
Mr. Templeton lumbered off, following the horde to the barn. She watched as he deserted her. Soon, she was alone, and she felt stupid, ill-used, and very, very foolish.
They had beseeched her to intercede with the earl. They hadn’t known how to save themselves, and they’d pushed her to lead their charge.
Go to London, they’d begged. Get us some justice.
She’d listened to their entreaties, had accepted the mantle, and this was her thanks?
Lord Stafford and his brother looked smug, delighted with how they’d played on the fears of the poor and desperate. Mr. Mason simply looked malevolent, and Emeline understood that he would retaliate and that she would bear the brunt of his vengeance. But what else could he do to her that he hadn’t already done?
He’d closed her father’s school and wouldn’t permit Emeline to keep it open. He’d expelled Emeline and her sisters from their home. He’d relocated them to a dilapidated cottage in the forest, and now, their eviction had been ordered, the hovel scheduled for demolition.
The previous year, when he’d initially arrived at Stafford, he’d developed an interest in Emeline that she hadn’t reciprocated. Her father had still been alive, and Mr. Mason had approached him about courting Emeline. In those days, Emeline had been cocky and confident, naively assuming that the world would continue on as it had been.
She hadn’t comprehended how quickly things could change or how badly Mr. Mason would view her rejection of his suit. Since she’d spurned him, his every act toward Emeline seemed executed for the sole purpose of reminding her how she shouldn’t have crossed him.
Lord Stafford was arrogantly appraising her. He appeared to expect an indication of surrender, but she wouldn’t be cowed, wouldn’t grovel. She wouldn’t let him see how terribly his behavior had wounded her.
“Will that be all, Miss Wilson?” he snidely asked.
“Yes, Lord Stafford, that will be all.”
“Your neighbors aren’t quite as concerned as you imagined them to be.”
“No, they’re not.”
“I presume I won’t have to hear any complaints from you in the future.”
“No, you won’t have to.”
“Don’t pester me. Don’t knock on my door. Don’t ever again harass me with your frivolous grievances.”
She wanted to say, they’re not frivolous, but what would be the point?
“I won’t, milord. I apologize for bothering you.” At having to beg his pardon, she nearly choked.
Having sufficiently demonstrated his authority, he gave an imperious, benevolent nod. “Why don’t you help yourself to the seed and the ale before it’s gone?”
If he’d slapped her, he couldn’t have been more insulting.
Anger washed through her, and she wished she had the temerity to march up the steps and shake him until his teeth rattled. But as swiftly as her fury had flared, it fizzled out, replaced by a desolate sense of betrayal.
Her burdens pressed down on her, so heavy that she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She was just a woman—with no skills or abilities worth mentioning.
The life she’d known, the life she’d wanted for Nan and Nell, had vanished, and she had no idea how to get it back. Was he aware that they were about to be tossed out on the road? Did he care?
She was sure he didn’t.
Because he’d kissed her, because he’d gazed at her with lust in his heart, she’d imbued him with honorable traits he didn’t possess.
He wasn’t the man she’d believed him to be, and the despair she was suffering over her mistake was all out of proportion to the facts of the situation. He was a brute, not a champion. Why had she anticipated a different result?
She was awfully close to crying, and she could barely keep from falling to the ground in a bereft heap.
Mute and defiant, she peered up at him, refusing to be the first to glance away. For a short, fraught interval, he met her stare, and apparently, he was capable of some shame.
He whipped away and went into the house. His brother and Mr. Mason tagged after him. As they departed, Mason glared down at her, his threat and menace clear.
What would happen now? In light of how easily her protest had been quashed, her trivial stand was pathetic. She had no power or influence to wield, so there’d be no stopping any further calamity.
From out by the barn, she could hear laughter and camaraderie, the ale jugs uncorked. There would be hours of merriment, then reality would sink in. She might have joined them, but at that moment, she didn’t want to see any of them ever again.
And when Mr. Mason evicted the next family, when people were outraged and they came knocking . . . well . . .
She turned the other way, toward the woods and the cottage that would be hers for a few more days, and started the long walk home.
“She always was a troublemaker,” Benedict Mason was blathering.
“Was she?” Nicholas asked, not really listening.
“Just like her father. He complained constantly.”
“Good thing he’s deceased then.” Nicholas was being sarcastic, but Mason didn’t recognize his mockery for what it was.
“Yes, his death was a blessing in disguise for us,” Mason rudely said. “He never should have taught her to read and write. It’s made her feel superior.”
Stephen chimed in. “There’s naught worse than an educated woman.”
“No, there isn’t,” Mason concurred.
It was only the second occasion that Nicholas had spent any time around Mason, and he had a brusque, curt personality that was grating. Nicholas had quickly figured out why his tenants were so upset. It was bad enough for an employee to be let go, but when the words were delivered in such a harsh fashion, by such a gruff, unpleasant individual, it had to be doubly hard to accept the consequences.
They were strolling down the hall, headed for Nicholas’s library, when he passed a window and could see down into the drive. Miss Wilson was still there. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she left? He yanked away, not anxious to view the dismal picture she painted.
He hated to admit it, but he’d been extremely proud of how she’d dared to confront him. She was so passionate, so devoted to her cause. It was rare to witness such blind, potent determination.
He’d known that he could crush her revolt in its infancy. But he was sorry for how he’d embarrassed her, and he was incensed at how she’d been deserted by her cowardly allies.
What kind of men were they? What kind of neighbors? They’d pushed her to be their leader, but at the first hint of conflict, they’d abandoned her.
He was glad none of the spineless oafs served in his regiment. He wouldn’t want any of them guarding his back.
In the library, he sat at the ostentatious desk, struggling to focus as Mason spewed numbers about crops and harvest and austerity measures, but he couldn’t concentrate. Miss Wilson kept distracting him. There at the end, she’d been so forlorn. For a wild instant, he’d thought she might burst into tears, but she hadn’t, and he was very relieved.
If she’d begun to weep, he’d have felt as if he was kicking a puppy.
“Where does Miss Wilson live?” he asked, interrupting one of Mason’s speeches.
“Miss Wilson?” Mason appeared confused, as if she—having been vanquished—was so far from his mind that he didn’t remember who she was.
“Is she still residing on the estate?”
“Yes, but not in the house her father occupied. I’ve supplied them with other quarters away from the main buildings.”
“Them?” Nicholas inquired. “She has family?”
“Her twin sisters, Nan and Nell.”
“How old are they?”
“They’re girls—ten or so.”
Nicholas let the subject drop, and he wasted another hour pretending he was paying attention. Thankfully, Stephen was interested in Mason’s accounting, and he asked the questions Nicholas should have asked.
Eventually, the butler announced the noon meal, and Nicholas was able to slip away. Pleading fatigue, he proceeded to his suite, but once he was out of sight, he sneaked down the servant’s stairs and went to the stables to saddle his horse.
It was easy to obtain directions to Miss Wilson’s cottage. She was notorious, and the stable boys knew where to locate her.
Though it was insane, he had to find out if she was all right. Strangely, he wanted to explain himself to her, wanted her to understand why he’d behaved as he had. Gad, he practically wanted to apologize. For hurting her. For shaming her.
Except that he never apologized, and he wasn’t about to start. Yet he couldn’t get beyond the impression that she could benefit from some wise advice and that he should be the one to give it to her.
She was too optimistic, and she needed to toughen up, to be more shrewd and cunning. She had to stop being so damned trusting and gullible. He was a renowned scapegrace. Why had she assumed he’d help her?
She was mad to have thought he would, and he felt compelled to set her straight.
He rode out of the woods and into a clearing, and he could see her cottage. It was tiny and decrepit, with boarded up windows and a sagging roof that probably leaked like a sieve when it rained. Behind it, there were foundations of several other ramshackle structures that had been torn down, the aged lumber piled in stacks to be burned.
It was a sorry, dismal spot, and he couldn’t imagine how she managed.
She and her sisters were extremely isolated, miles from the village and from the manor. There was no sign of a horse or carriage. How did they get around? How did she feed her sisters? How did she support them?
The concerns flew at him, demanding solutions, and he shoved them away. There were many, many poor women in England, and he wasn’t anybody’s savior.
He dismounted and walked to the door as it was opened from the inside. Two pretty girls emerged, younger versions of Miss Wilson, with the same blond hair and big green eyes. They were wearing identical dresses that had been mended too many times and were too small.
He was overcome by the worst impulse to purchase new ones for them, but he never would. Any gifts would be foolis
h and inappropriate and most likely tossed in his face by Miss Wilson.
“Hello. I am Lord Stafford.”
Their brows raised with surprise, but they knew their manners and they curtsied.
“I am Nan.”
“I am Nell.”
“I’m delighted to meet you.” He gave a theatrical bow that made them giggle. “Is your sister home?”
“No,” they replied in unison, but provided no more.
“Where is she?” he asked, and a visual exchange passed between them.
“We oughtn’t to say,” Nan hesitantly responded.
“Why not?”
“We wouldn’t want you to be angry,” Nan mumbled, as Nell added, “More angry than you’ve already been.”
He huffed with fake indignation. “Emeline said I was angry? I was not. She shouldn’t fib like that.”
“So . . . you’re not mad?” Nell cautiously ventured.
“No. She’s being ridiculous.”
“She told us you shouted at her.”
“I have never shouted at a woman in my entire life. Shame on her for claiming I did.” There’d never been a female who could resist him. He squatted down and flashed his most charming smile. “Where is she?”
They hemmed and hawed, then Nan admitted, “She’s fishing.”
It was the last answer he’d expected. “Fishing?”
“For supper. But she’s not very good at it, so you don’t need to worry. She doesn’t ever catch very many.”
Nell asked, “You’re not upset, are you?”
“No.”
“You won’t tell Mr. Mason?”
“Why would I tell Mr. Mason?”
“We’re not supposed to fish. It’s against the rules.”
At his confused frown, Nan clarified, “The fish in the river belong to you. We’re not allowed to have any of them.”
“Oh.”
“Sometimes though, we don’t have any other food, and we get very hungry. We don’t know what else to do.”
“Well . . .” he murmured. His heart turned over in his chest.