“You believe I am the one with influence over Stanton? That I can dictate his decisions, when the law—”
“The law is nothing but a cudgel for men like him!” Broadshaw interrupted, stepping forward. “Do you think we are fools, sir? Do you think we do not see what is happening? They tell us it is all for progress. But progress leaves us empty-handed while their coffers grow fat.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the group. One of the younger men standing near the back stepped forward, his face taut with a mixture of defiance and desperation. “And what are we supposed to do, then? Bow and scrape? Watch our families starve? You tell us violence is not the answer, Mr. Darcy. Tell us, what is?”
Darcy looked at him. The young man was perhaps nineteen, his frame still awkward with youth, but his gaze burning with something dangerous. Darcy thought of the mobs in France, of the fires that swept through the cities and left only ash in their wake. “Violence will only bring soldiers to your doors,” Darcy said. “And soldiers answer with blood.”
“That is what they want you to say,” Broadshaw shot back. “That is what they want us all to believe, so we will roll over like sheep and accept it.”
Darcy turned his gaze back to Broadshaw. The man’s shoulders were set in defiance, but his hands trembled where they hung by his sides. There was no strategy in his rebellion, only despair.
“You believe I am the one holding you down? That because I stand here with an estate and the duty to steward the land, I am the same as Stanton? Let me assure you, I am not.”
“And what difference does that make?” Broadshaw’s voice cracked as he stepped closer. “You are comfortable at Pemberley. You have your land, your family, your fine house. We have nothing but promises, and promises do not feed our children.”
The younger man spat on the ground. “France happened because of men like Stanton, because of men who turned their backs on the people. If the gentry will not listen, sir, we will find ways tomakethem listen.”
Darcy felt the air shift, the gathered men nodding, the agreement unspoken but clear. He thought of Georgiana, of the people at Pemberley who trusted him, who expected him to ensure their safety and prosperity. He could see the faces of those who had fled to the towns, abandoning generations of work because there was nothing left for them.
”Iwillspeak with the magistrate, Sir Frederick,“ Darcy repeated. “I will make it clear that these grievances must be addressed.”
“You will speak,” Broadshaw repeated. “And what then? More talk? More promises? It will not be enough, Mr. Darcy. Mark my words. It will not be enough.”
Darcy did not flinch. He kept his eyes steady on Broadshaw’s until the man broke away with a muttered curse. The younger man lingered for a moment longer, his stare hard and unrelenting. Then he, too, turned and walked away.
As the men dispersed, Darcy stood in the center of the clearing, unmoving. A single thought burned through his mind. It was not the defiance in their words or the bitterness in their faces that disturbed him most. It was the undeniable truth behind them.
He could not stop this from coming. Not by standing still.
Darcy returned to his horse and mounted without a word. His steward approached, his expression anxious, but Darcy raised a hand to silence him. He would think on this later. He would decide what must be done.
For now, the only certainty was that he would not sleep that night.
Darcy stepped into thelibrary, the air thick with the remnants of a dying fire. His cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was already leaning against the mantle, arms crossed, wearing his “colonel” expression. His uniform was as neat as ever, but his boots were caked with dust, as though he had come straight from the road without pause. Darcy closed the door with more force than necessary.
“You sent no word of coming,” Darcy said, walking to the decanter on the sideboard. He poured a glass, ignoring Richard’s raised eyebrow. “I thought you were still in London.”
“Would you have responded if I had?”
Darcy swirled the liquid in his glass. “What is it this time, Fitzwilliam? More tales of revolution from your travels? More speeches about the duty of the privileged class to preserve the order of society?”
Richard pushed off the mantle and walked to the table, where a stack of correspondence lay untouched. “I have no speeches for you today, Darcy. Only facts.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Does it? That is what I was hoping for. I had word from Sir Frederick that there was some little ‘misunderstanding’ between one of your tenants and Miles Stanton’s steward.”
“There was. Sir Frederick was kind enough to promise to speak with Stanton himself. I hope that shall be the end of it.”
“You know better than that, Darcy. Six months… eight incidents. Stanton’s men are throwing their weight around.”
Darcy did not respond. He took a measured sip of his drink and gestured for Richard to continue.
“Miles Stanton,” Richard said, “has held his seat for two decades by playing both sides—just enough to appease the gentry, just enough to quiet the rabble. But things are changing. You saw it yourself this week, did you not? The farmers are no longer whispering about their grievances; they are shouting them.”
Darcy set the glass down with a deliberate clink. “And what would you have me do about it?”
Richard’s gaze sharpened. “Stanton is not invincible. He used to be—five years ago, his position was unassailable. Even your father could say or do nothing against him, but he has become complacent. His allies are still numerous, but they are starting to dwindle, and there are men—young men—who would see him replaced. Men who look to you, Darcy.”
