But then he looked down at the costume Amelia had laid out for him. The costume he’d never have worn a bare month ago. A costume he’d put on without thought this evening.
Idiot.
Impatient, Wildeforde climbed onto the platform, holding out his hands as if he could physically quiet the men with his presence. At least he’d had the sense to divest himself of jacket and waistcoat. His cravat was undone and limp around his neck; the pristine white of his shirt was marred by dirt. The duke, striving to seem accessible.
The crowd wasn’t believing it. A bottle thrown from some unseen hand nearly clipped him on the ear. It was quickly followed by another.
Wilde’s shock was palpable. He’d grown up the heir and then the duke. Few people dared to disagree with him. No one threw garbage at him.
Bloody hell.The crowd looked ready to rip him apart. Benedict climbed onto the platform to stand shoulder to shoulder, knocking a bottle aside as it flew toward his head.
“Brandon Stewart, that was a full bottle. Don’t waste good ale. Finish the bloody thing first.” He’d hoped a little humor might bring them back together. A couple of men laughed, but not enough to sway the hostile atmosphere.
Benedict pointed to one of the farmers standing toward the edge of the crowd. He had a grim look on his face but was steady on his feet and less visibly sloshed than much of the crowd. “Clayton, talk to me. What’s this about?”
The farmer shoved his hands in his pockets, pushing out his chest. “It’s those that live in big houses with fancy food not giving a bloody fig for the people that farmed their land and made them money.”
There was a murmuring of agreement from the crowd and a handful of applause.
The farmer continued. “It’s about having no job, no home in three months’ time, while the rich sit there on a pile of money, never having to worry about nothing.”
The murmuring turned into shouting as Clayton’s words spurred another wave of anger.
“You will have a home,” Wildeforde called out, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. “I’ve been in discussions with Karstark and he’s agreed to hold off his…renovations…until we’ve built suitable alternatives in the village.”
The local pig farmer called out. His eyes were glassed over, and he swayed as he spoke. “Give up our land for a poxy cottage on a tiny block? The hell we will.”
The statement was met by the rhythmic pounding of feet on the ground and a clapping that shook the foundations of the rickety stage on which they stood.
As the mood worsened, Benedict’s chest tightened, viselike. The situation was quickly getting out of hand. He needed to calm them down before they put Cassandra and Amelia in further jeopardy.
“What do you plan to do about it?” Benedict yelled over the din. “Take the land by force? How long before the army shows up?”
Too long, he knew. They were hours away at best. And if they did arrive to such a hostile crowd, the end result would be bloody.
“Bollocks to the army,” came the reply.
“We just need to stand our ground,” came another.
“Stand your ground?” Wildeforde yelled. “You all heard what happened in Manchester. St Peter’s Field ran red with blood not four months ago. Fifteen men dead, seven hundred injured, and for what? Standing their ground.”
The Peterloo Massacre had made headlines for weeks but done nothing to ease the tension between the workingman and the parliament. Women and children had been killed in the carnage, and all for nothing.
Abingdale would not be another Peterloo.
Tucker stepped in front of them. “We’re talking about the liberation of the working class, throwing off the yoke of the oppressors. This isn’t just about today, about the men on this field. This is about men across the country. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made to change the world. Who’s with me?”
He raised his fist into the air, a gesture met by the raising of torches, a terrifying sea of fire in a perfect storm.
And Benedict could take no more.
He grabbed Tucker by the shirt front, lifting him until the Irishman’s toes barely scraped the ground. “You talk about sacrifices, you worthless bastard. You talk about standing together. But where were you when the soldiers charged at Peterloo? Where were you at the Pentrich Rising, Spa Fields riots, or on the streets of Littlefield? You’re a man of many fine words, but somehow when the cavalry charges and the arrests begin, you’ve disappeared.”
He hated this man. Hated what he’d done to Benedict’s community. Hated himself for being the fool that had brought him here in the first place.
Despite hanging in the air, Tucker smirked, as if holding a trump card that would win him the night.
By this point, the crowd had gone eerily silent, desperate to hear the exchange. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.
