“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.
