Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

  He didn’t like bossy females, and he didn’t think they had any reason to conduct business. Why was she a miss anyway? Why wasn’t she at her home in Stafford, tending the hearth fires and chasing after her dozen children?

  Obviously, with that disagreeable attitude and sass, no man would have her.

  “You’re being deliberately condescending,” she charged. “Is it just me you don’t like? Or do you treat everyone this way?”

  Her impertinent remark stirred Stephen’s ire. “Miss Wilson, you have some nerve, insulting the earl. We don’t have to put up with it.”

  “You don’t scare me,” she blithely responded, “and I’m not afraid of either of you.”

  Stephen looked as if he might determine if her boast was true, as if he might march over, pick her up, and throw her out again. Nicholas didn’t want any bickering. He had to let her state her case, for he was quite sure that if he didn’t, she would become a squatter on his stoop.

  He held up a hand, urging Stephen to restraint.

  “Miss Wilson,” Nicholas asked, “what is your position at Stafford?”

  “My father was the schoolteacher for thirty years.”

  “A school! How very modern.”

  “Yes, it was. The old countess was very devoted to the project.”

  “What is your father doing now?”

  “He’s deceased.”

  “Oh. And you? You seem like a very…ah…bright individual. Have you taken over his post?”

  “No.” She glared as if he was stupid. “You had the school closed, remember? You claimed you wouldn’t waste your money teaching the offspring of peasants.”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,” he mumbled again.

  He recollected no such decision and no such comment. He himself had been educated at the very progressive orphanage where he and Stephen had been reared. He was a great believer that everyone should learn to read and write.

  Would he have closed the school in such a haughty manner? He was disturbed that she might be raising a point he didn’t wish to hear.

  “Continue,” he demanded, wanting her to finish her harangue, then go away.

  “I’m presenting our grievances.”

  “Your grievances?” He oozed skepticism.

  “Yes. We have many.”

  “Who is we?”

  “I told you, the entire village, plus the tenants and the servants at the manor.”

  “The entire village? All the tenants and servants?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re some sort of…spokeswoman for the whole town?”

  “Yes.”

  She was sitting very still, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. A ray of sunlight was cast across her, making her golden hair glow. She looked placid and serene but filled with energy, a Joan of Arc, without fear and ready for battle.

  The strangest sensation slithered through him, that by her arrival, their fates had been twined together. A frisson of dread wended down his spine. He didn’t want their fates connected; he didn’t want anything to do with her, at all.

  “Why would they choose you?” he snidely queried.

  “Because I know right from wrong.”

  “There is no wrong occurring at Stafford.”

  “Mr. Mason is a cruel bully.”

  “He is not,” Nicholas insisted without reflecting.

  He wasn’t overly familiar with Mr. Mason. The man had impeccable references, and during their sole interview, he had proved himself knowledgeable and competent.

  The old earl had been a gambler not a farmer. Nicholas had inherited a place careening toward bankruptcy, with too many employees, too few crops harvested, too few animals sent to market, and not enough income generated.

  Mason’s mandate was clear—Get the accounts into the black. The large property wasn’t a charity, and Nicholas couldn’t treat it like one. People at the estate had to be essential to its financial survival or they had to go.

  “Since you’ve never been to Stafford,” Miss Wilson taunted, “how would you know if Mr. Mason is cruel or not?”

  “I don’t need to be there. As I mentioned, I receive full reports.”

  “I’m here to give you a different view.”

  “And I’ve been more than patient in listening to it.”

  He stood, indicating the meeting was over and she should leave, but she was very obstinate and she didn’t move. Instead, she began citing a list of transgressions, and short of walking over and clapping a palm over her mouth, he had no idea how to make her shut up.

  She described a parade of outrages—a widow with six children tossed out on the road; elderly servants fired without pensions; the park closed to hunting so tenants couldn’t stock their larders with meat as they always had in the past.

  She hurled words like famine and starvation and catastrophe. Surely, the situation couldn’t be that bad?

  Could it?

  The longer she talked, the more animated she became. Her cheeks flushed a fetching pink, her eyes blazed with moral fervor. She was pretty and vibrant and persuasive, a martyr on a mission, a savior bent on success.

  He was starting to feel ashamed, starting to regret that he was such a sorry excuse for a landlord, when one of her criticisms had him jerking to attention.

  “What was that?” he asked. “Repeat your last sentence.”

  “If you don’t rein in Mr. Mason, I’ve been authorized to inform you that we’ll strike.”

  She grinned, as if they’d been playing cards and she’d drawn an ace.

  “You’ll…strike?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what fashion?”

  “The tenants will plant no crops, so you’ll have no income.”

  “Then they will have no food to see their families through the winter.”

  “You’ve pushed them to the brink. They’re willing to risk it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  His temper exploded.

  He’d thought she was a harmless scold, that she would merely reprimand him as if she were his nanny or tutor. He’d planned to humor her, then send her on her way, ignored and forgotten the instant she was out the door.

  Due to her small size and her female gender, he hadn’t recognized the danger she posed. She was a bloody menace, a radical troublemaker who idiotically assumed she could thwart him with her foolishness.

  She’d intruded into his home, had disturbed his peace and quiet, had insulted and offended, and now had threatened.

  What sorts of revolutionaries was he harboring at Stafford? What sort of mischief was fomenting?

  He wondered about Mr. Mason. Did Mason know about the tenants’ plotting? Was he aware that Miss Wilson was in London at their instigation and behest?

  Nicholas would brook no rebellion. If Miss Wilson and her cohorts believed he would, she was insane.

  He had spent a goodly share of his life commanding men. He’d learned how to mold them, how to coerce them, how to lead them. Miss Wilson presumed she’d bested him, that he would meet her demands rather than suffer the indignity of a mutiny.

  My, wasn’t she in for a surprise!

  “Thank you for your stirring presentation,” he mildly said. “Your concerns have been noted, and I will take them under advisement. You may go.”

  She frowned. She’d expected theatrics, shouting or denials of guilt, so his calm dismissal confused her.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if they don’t plant any crops, you’ll be bankrupt.”

  “I certainly will be.”

  “You’re not worried?”

  “Oh, I’m worried, Miss Wilson, but not in the manner you suppose. Please rush to Stafford and notify your cabal that I shall personally arrive on Wednesday to investigate their complaints.”

  “You’ll visit the estate?”

  “Yes.”

/>   “You mean it? You’re not jesting.”

  “Trust me, Miss Wilson, I never jest.”

  His easy capitulation had her perplexed. He’d called her bluff, had given her what she wanted, and she was afraid it was a trick. And it was. He would travel to Stafford, but he would never forgive her for forcing him to make the journey.

  “Well then”—she stumbled to her feet—“I appreciate your time. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  “You definitely will.”

  “You won’t regret this.”

  “I already do.”

  Stephen ushered her out, and Nicholas listened, breathing a sigh of relief as the front door was shut behind her.

  He went the window and watched her walk to the street. As Stephen returned, a teamster’s wagon pulled up, an older man at the reins. Miss Wilson climbed aboard, and they lumbered off. She was chattering a mile a minute, apparently regaling him with her success. They disappeared from view, and Nicholas spun around.

  “What in the hell are you up to?” Stephen inquired.

  “I can’t let that little termagant provoke an insurgency, can I?”

  “No, you can’t. Her bravado is galling.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So…we’re finally going to Stafford?”

  “We finally are,” Nicholas fumed, “and Miss Wilson will be very, very sorry that she asked me to come.”

  Chapter Three

  “What do you think is happening in there?”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Emeline heard the men grumbling behind her, and she spun and flashed a confident smile.

  “Lord Stafford is here to set things right,” she insisted.

  “According to you.”

  “Yes, according to me. He promised he’d come on Wednesday, and he has. He’ll straighten out this mess.”

  “Not bloody likely,” someone mumbled, and another said, “Mr. Mason’s in there with him—alone—telling tales. He’ll screw us further. Just see if he doesn’t.”

  Emeline ignored them and studied the manor. They were in the driveway, Emeline at the front of the crowd, with old Mr. Templeton beside her. There were dozens of people hovering, all of the tenant farmers, most of their wives, many of the shopkeepers and tradesmen from the village.

  No one was sure when Lord Stafford and his brother had arrived at the estate. Eight o’clock that morning, word had spread that they were present and sequestered in the library with Mr. Mason. Everyone had raced to discover what was occurring and what the result would be once the earl emerged from the meeting.

  Emeline’s trip to London was the talk of the neighborhood. Lord Stafford was viewed as a rogue and an ingrate, and it was commonly assumed that he’d duped Emeline, that he’d never show his face where he was so thoroughly despised.

  Emeline herself had been a tad skeptical. Yet he’d traveled to Stafford as he’d agreed he would. At that very moment, he was inside and conferring with his land agent. She was an optimist and always had been, and she refused to accept that he had come with malicious intent.

  If she was anxious, it was only because he’d spoken with Mr. Mason before anybody else. Mason was such a convincing liar, and he would distort the facts so that he looked reasonable and they looked like recalcitrant complainers.

  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 shuff
led 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.