Since Darcy's departure a few weeks ago, Stephanie had been diligently conducting interviews with Pemberley's staff, familiarizing herself with the workings of the grand estate. Thankfully, Darcy had arranged for a secretary to take notes during her meetings, sparing her the frustration of grappling with a quill—a skill she had yet to master. Today, she sat across from James, a handsome and cheeky footman, in one of the smaller sitting rooms.

Richard stood near the fireplace, arms crossed but his focus entirely on Stephanie and James. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to be here—other than propriety, of course—but the way Stephanie navigated these interviews had a way of captivating him, much as it seemed to captivate everyone else.

"So, James," Stephanie began, her tone friendly and light, "I'd like to start with a little background, if you don't mind. Could you tell me the names of your family members? For the record, of course."

James grinned, leaning forward slightly, clearly relishing the attention. "Well, there's my father, John, the blacksmith. My mother's name is Clara—she's the one who keeps us all in line. Then there's my sisters: Mary, the eldest, though she'll say I'm still her responsibility, even at my age. Then Sarah, who's taken after Mother in bossing the rest of us about. And little Beth—she's the one always getting into trouble."

"Beth sounds like a handful," Stephanie said with a smile. "Climbing trees and running through the village, you said?"

James laughed, nodding. "Aye, miss. She's wild, that one. Took the neighbor's goat on a walk through the market square once. It caused quite the scene."

Stephanie laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "That's fantastic. Sounds like she has a lot of spirit."

"She does," James said with a fond smile. "Though my poor mother might say she has too much."

Richard couldn't help but smile at the exchange, though he remained silent, observing the way Stephanie made James feel at ease.

"And what about you?" Stephanie asked, her tone encouraging. "What were you like as a child?"

James leaned back slightly, his grin turning cheeky. "Oh, I was the perfect son, of course," he said, a playful twinkle in his eye. "Always helpful, always obedient."

Stephanie raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Uh-huh," she said, her voice dripping with mock skepticism. "Somehow, I doubt that."

James laughed. "Alright, maybe not entirely. I might've been caught nicking an apple or two from the neighbor's orchard. And there was the time I got into trouble for… well, let's just say a certain chicken found its way into our pantry, and Father had to apologize to old Mrs. Turner."

"Sounds like you were quite the troublemaker," Stephanie teased, leaning forward with interest. "And now look at you—buttoned up and professional. I bet your family wouldn't believe it."

"Oh, they wouldn't," James replied with a wink. "Mother says she's still waiting for me to grow out of my cheek."

Stephanie laughed, shaking her head. "I think a little cheek keeps things interesting."

Richard, still watching intently, found himself suppressing a smile. James's confidence and humor were infectious, but what truly struck him was how effortlessly Stephanie drew people out. It wasn't just her questions—it was the way she genuinely listened, the way her curiosity felt real, not rehearsed.

"And what about life here at Pemberley?" Stephanie asked, steering the conversation back. "What's been the most surprising thing about working here?"

James tilted his head, thinking for a moment. "I suppose it's how grand everything is," he said. "You grow up hearing about estates like this, but seeing it for yourself—living and working here—it's another thing entirely."

Stephanie nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It really is stunning. Do you ever get used to it?"

"Not really," James admitted, his tone softening. "Every now and then, I'll stop and take it all in, and it still feels a bit like a dream."

"And what about your work?" Stephanie pressed gently. "What's it like being a footman? What's your day-to-day?"

James shrugged lightly. "It's busy, but I don't mind it. I like having a routine, and there's a certain pride in doing things right, you know? Making sure everything's in its proper place.

Stephanie nodded again, smiling. "That makes sense. And what about when you're not working? Any hobbies? Interests?"

James's grin returned. "I like to fish, miss. There's a good spot not far from here. And every now and then, the other lads and I will have a bit of a game—a race or some football, though we've got to keep it quiet so we don't scuff the boots."

"That sounds like fun," Stephanie said, her eyes lighting up. "Do you ever let the maids join in?"

James laughed. "Oh, they'd put us to shame, miss. Especially Maggie—she's got a kick that'd knock you over."

Stephanie laughed with him, the sound bright and full of life. "I'd love to see that," she said, her grin wide.

As the conversation continued, Richard couldn't help but admire the ease with which Stephanie managed to draw out such personal details, not just about James's work but about his life. It wasn't until James excused himself with a polite bow that Richard finally stepped forward.

"You have a way with people," Richard said quietly as the secretary packed up her notes.

Stephanie turned to him, her brow lifting. "Do I?"

"You do," Richard replied, his voice thoughtful. "He spoke to you as though you were an old friend. That's no small thing for someone in his position."

Stephanie smiled faintly, her gaze soft. "I just think everyone deserves to feel like their story matters," she said simply.

Richard held her gaze for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I think you're right"

The door closed softly behind James, and Stephanie sat back in her chair for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She glanced at Richard, who stood silently near the window, his arms crossed as he observed her with his usual quiet intensity. Before she could say anything, the door opened again, and Samuel stepped inside.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark, weathered skin, curly hair, and an air of quiet dignity. His uniform was clean and pressed, though simple compared to the finer livery of Pemberley's higher-ranking servants. He bowed his head slightly as he entered, his eyes briefly meeting hers.

Stephanie offered him a warm smile, though her heart was already tightening in her chest. She stood and motioned toward the chair opposite her. "Samuel, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."

Samuel hesitated briefly, then nodded and sat, his posture straight and composed.

"I really appreciate you taking the time to speak with me…and please, do not answer anything you don't wish to." she began, her voice soft. "I've heard nothing but good things about you."

Samuel gave a faint smile but said nothing, his hands resting on his knees. Richard shifted slightly at the window but remained silent.

"I'd like to start by learning a bit more about you," Stephanie said, her tone gentle. "Where are you from?"

"Virginia, miss," Samuel replied. His voice was steady, but there was a weight behind his words that made Stephanie's chest tighten.

"Virginia," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "And your family? Were they there as well?"

Samuel nodded slowly. "Yes, miss. My parents and siblings worked on a tobacco plantation."

Stephanie swallowed hard, her heart beginning to race. "Were you… were you born into slavery?"

"Yes, miss," Samuel said quietly. "My parents were enslaved, and so was I."

Stephanie's hands trembled. "I can't imagine…" she began, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

Samuel's expression didn't change, but he nodded slightly. "Thank you, miss."

"How did you come to England?" Stephanie asked softly, her throat tight.

"The plantation was sold," Samuel said simply. "My mother and I were sent to a merchant in London. My father and siblings… they stayed behind."

Stephanie bit her lip, tears already welling in her eyes. "Do you know what happened to them?"

"No, miss," Samuel said. "We were separated. My mother passed not long after we arrived here, and I've been on my own since."

Stephanie couldn't stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks, and she reached across the table to take Samuel's hands in hers. He stiffened slightly but didn't pull away, his gaze fixed on her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No one should have to go through that."

Samuel looked down at their joined hands, his expression softening. "It's kind of you to say, miss. But it's just the way things were."

"It shouldn't have been," Stephanie said firmly, her voice cracking. "It's not right."

Samuel met her gaze, his dark eyes steady. "No, miss. It wasn't right. But it was life."

Stephanie took a shaky breath, her hands still holding his. "What… what was it like? Growing up there? On the plantation?"

Samuel hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to Richard, who was now watching the scene with a tense expression. When Richard gave him a small nod, Samuel turned back to Stephanie.

"It was hard, miss," he said quietly. "We worked from sunrise to sunset, planting and harvesting tobacco. There wasn't much food, and we lived in small cabins with no windows. And… there was always the fear of punishment."

Stephanie's grip on his hands tightened. "Punishment?" she echoed, her voice barely audible. "For what?"

"For anything," Samuel said simply. "Speaking out of turn. Not working fast enough. Even just being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Stephanie closed her eyes briefly, her tears falling freely now. "How… how did you survive that?" she whispered.

Samuel shrugged slightly. "You just did, miss. You didn't have a choice."

Her hands trembled as she held his, her chest aching with a mix of grief and helplessness. "Did you have any… moments of joy?" she asked softly. "Anything that made it bearable?"

Samuel's expression softened slightly, and a faint smile touched his lips. "Sometimes, miss. When we sang together in the evenings. Or when my mother told us stories. Those were the good times."

"Would you be able to share with me some of your mother's stories so I can't write them down and preserve them in this book?"

"She would have loved that miss"

Stephanie let out a shaky breath, her tears falling harder. "I'm so sorry," she said again. "You've been through so much, and… and you're still here. You're still standing."

Samuel gave her a small, reassuring smile. "You're kind, miss. But there's no use dwelling on the past. I've made a life here at Pemberley. And it's a good one."

Stephanie nodded, though her tears didn't stop. "Your story matters, Samuel," she said softly. "You matter."

Samuel's gaze lingered on her, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the faint crackle of the fire. Then he nodded again, his voice quiet. "Thank you, miss."

As the interview ended, Samuel gently pulled his hands from hers and stood, bowing his head slightly. "I hope this helps with your work, miss."

"It does," Stephanie said, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Samuel. Truly."

As the door clicked shut behind Samuel, Stephanie stayed frozen in her chair. The weight of his story hung heavy in the air, suffocating in its rawness. Her breath hitched once, and then the dam broke. She let out a guttural sob, her face crumpling as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Richard stiffened, his posture immediately alert. He crossed the room in two strides and stood beside her, his expression a mix of concern and helplessness. "Stephanie," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

She couldn't answer. Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in her hands, her sobs only growing louder.

The secretary, who had been dutifully taking notes from the corner, glanced at Richard uncertainly. He gave a subtle nod, his voice firm but quiet. "You may leave us. I'll ensure Miss Williams is seen to."

The secretary hesitated, casting one last worried glance at Stephanie before gathering his papers and slipping out of the room. As soon as the door closed, Richard knelt down beside Stephanie's chair, his hand hovering awkwardly near her arm, unsure whether to touch her.

"Stephanie," he tried again, his tone gentle but insistent. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

Her head snapped up, her tear-streaked face filled with anguish. "What's wrong?" she repeated, her voice cracking. "Everything's wrong, Richard. Everything."

Richard frowned, his hands hovering near hers but not quite touching. "What do you mean?"

She took a shuddering breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I know what's happening in Virginia right now. I know exactly what Samuel was talking about. The whippings, the beatings, the forced labor—it's horrific enough on its own, but it's not just that."

Her voice broke again, and she covered her face with her hands. "The women," she whispered. "They're being raped, Richard. Constantly. By the plantation owners, by the overseers—by anyone who feels like it. They have no protection, no rights. And the children—" She choked on her words, her sobs intensifying. "They take their children away. Sell them like… like livestock. It's—it's monstrous."

Richard's expression hardened, his jaw tightening as he absorbed her words. "Stephanie," he said softly, but there was a rough edge to his voice. "Are you certain of this?"

She dropped her hands, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. "Yes," she said fiercely. "I studied it. I read the accounts, the letters, the documents. I know what's happening. And hearing Samuel talk about it, knowing he lived through it—" She broke off, shaking her head as fresh tears streamed down her face. "It makes me sick, Richard. It makes me hate the world."

Richard's face was grim, his fists clenching at his sides. "I cannot fathom such cruelty," he said quietly, his voice strained. "It's barbaric."

"It's worse than barbaric," Stephanie said, her voice trembling with anger. "It's systemic. It's deliberate. They built their entire economy on it, and they justified it with lies about race and superiority. And the worst part is, no one does anything to stop it."

Richard's eyes darkened, and he reached out, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "You're not alone in this," he said quietly. "You're not the only one who feels this way."

Stephanie shook her head, her voice rising in frustration. "But what can I do, Richard? I'm just one person. I can't fix it. I can't stop it. All I can do is sit here and listen to Samuel's story, knowing that millions of others are still living that nightmare."

Richard exhaled sharply, his gaze steady. "You're doing more than you realize. By listening to him, by documenting his story, you're giving him something most people never get—validation. Dignity."

"It doesn't feel like enough," Stephanie said, her voice breaking again. "It'll never be enough."

Richard hesitated for a moment, then reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. "It's enough for now," he said firmly. "And it matters more than. You're overwhelmed. That's understandable. But you mustn't let this consume you."

She looked up her tear-filled eyes blazing with fury. "How can I not let it consume me, Richard? He was born into slavery—into a system that treated him and his family like property! And it wasn't just in America; your country is just as guilty. The British are responsible for so much of this suffering!" she said dropping his hand.

Richard stiffened, his jaw tightening. "That's an unfair characterization," he said, his voice clipped. "Britain abolished the slave trade years ago. We're working to end it altogether."

"Years ago?" she echoed, her voice rising. "You mean in 1807, when you banned the trade but not the actual practice? When you still allowed slavery in your colonies? And even now, in 1812, people like Samuel are being exploited under the British flag! Don't sit there and act like your country's hands are clean, Richard."

Richard stood abruptly, his fists clenching at his sides. "You're speaking as though I personally sanctioned these atrocities. Do you think every Englishman condones such practices? Do you think I do?"

Stephanie rose to her feet, her tears now replaced by indignation. "No, I don't think you do, but that doesn't change the fact that your country—your empire—built its wealth on the backs of enslaved people and colonized nations. You exploited entire continents, and you're still doing it. People are suffering while the aristocracy sits in their grand estates, sipping tea and pretending they're civilizing the world."

Richard's face darkened, his composure cracking. "You're oversimplifying matters you scarcely understand."

"Am I?" she snapped, her voice trembling with emotion. " I know exactly what colonization does to people. I know about the stolen lands, the destroyed cultures, the lives ruined for the sake of profit and power. And it's still happening in my time! The effects of what your empire started are still being felt centuries later."

Richard's jaw tightened, his face a mask of tension. "Do you think it's easy for me to hear this? To hear that my country—my heritage—is responsible for such horrors? I won't deny the injustices, but don't paint us all with the same brush."

Stephanie crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. "I'm not blaming you personally, Richard. But you have to see the bigger picture. You have to acknowledge what's been done—and what's still being done."

Richard let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. "And what would you have me do, Stephanie? Singlehandedly dismantle the empire? Rewrite history?"

"I'd have you see it," she said, her voice softening but no less impassioned. "Really see it. Acknowledge it, so that maybe—just maybe—things can start to change."

For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. Richard's face was stern, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"I do see it," he said quietly. "At least, I'm trying to. But it's… difficult. The world is not so easily divided into right and wrong."

Stephanie's expression softened, her anger giving way to exhaustion. "I know it's not. But ignoring the wrong doesn't make it go away."

Richard looked at her, his gaze steady but conflicted. "You have a way of forcing a man to confront things he'd rather not think about, Miss Williams."

She let out a humorless laugh, brushing a tear from her cheek. "It's a gift."

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the weight of their conversation. "You're impossible."

"And you're stubborn," she countered, though her tone was gentler now.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the tension easing slightly. Then Richard stepped closer, his voice quieter. "You care deeply. That's admirable. But don't let that care consume you. The world's burdens are too heavy for one person to carry."

Stephanie nodded, her shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of her. "I just… I don't know how to let it go."

Richard hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch firm but comforting. "You don't have to let it go," he said softly. "But you can share it. You don't have to carry it alone."

Stephanie blinked, her throat tightening with gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered.

He gave her a small nod, his expression unreadable but kind. And for the first time since Samuel had left, Stephanie felt like she could breathe again.

Half an hour later Richard and Stephanie were sitting having tea to try and calm down from the heat of their conversation.

"I'm such a hypocrite," she muttered, shaking her head.

Stephanie's voice faltered as the reality of her own words sank in. Her hands dropped to her lap, and she stared at the sugar bowl with a mix of anger and shame. Richard, his expression unreadable, waited for her to continue, but instead, she let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

Richard's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

She looked up at him, her eyes red and brimming with fresh tears. "I'm sitting here, getting furious at you, at your world, for the horrors of slavery. And yet… I'm no better, not really. I don't even know where half the stuff I use in my time comes from. My phone, my clothes, my shoes—they're probably made by modern-day slaves. And I never think about it."

Richard's confusion deepened. "Modern-day slaves? What do you mean?"

Stephanie ran a hand through her hair wincing as she hit her pins, exhaling shakily. "It's not like slavery disappeared when it was outlawed, Richard. It just… changed. I don't know enough about how to compare it to the slave trade, but here are factories in other countries—sweatshops—where people, even children, work for almost nothing in horrible conditions, making the things we use every day. Clothes, electronics, toys, you name it. Mines and God knows what else in third world countries refining the resources my country needs. And the truth is, I know about it. I've read the articles, I've seen the documentaries. But I still buy those things because it's easy. Because it's convenient."

She clenched her fists, her voice trembling with self-loathing. "So who am I to sit here and judge you? My world is supposed to be better, more enlightened, and yet… we still exploit people. I still exploit people."

Richard's face softened, his stern expression replaced with something gentler, almost sad. "Stephanie," he began, his voice low, "you're being too hard on yourself."

"No, I'm not," she snapped, though her tone lacked venom. "I'm just being honest. I like to think of myself as a good person, but the truth Is, I've looked away too. I've ignored the suffering of others because it's far away, because it's easier not to think about. And now I'm sitting here, lecturing you, like I have the moral high ground. What kind of person does that make me?"

Richard leaned forward, his voice firm but kind. "It makes you human, Stephanie. Flawed, yes, but also capable of change. You can't hold yourself accountable for every injustice in the world, just as you can't hold me personally responsible for the sins of my country. What matters is that you care, that you see these injustices and want to make a difference."

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "But what difference am I actually making? What am I doing that's so great? Sitting here, crying about it? That doesn't help anyone."

"It's a start," Richard said quietly. "Acknowledging the problem is the first step to changing it. You've opened my eyes tonight, Stephanie, in ways I didn't think possible. That alone is something."

Stephanie let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her eyes. "So what, I get to feel good about myself because I taught one guy that slavery is bad? That's not enough."

"It's more than you think," he replied, his gaze steady. "You said yourself that people in your time look away because it's easier. But you're not looking away now. That takes courage."

She stared at him, her chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. "You really think so?" she whispered.

"I know so," he said firmly. "You have a good heart, Stephanie. And while the weight of the world may feel unbearable, you don't have to carry it alone."

Her lip quivered, and she let out a shaky breath, nodding. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Richard gave her a small smile, his hand resting gently on the table between them. "You're stronger than you realize," he said softly. "And the fact that you care as much as you do—that's more than enough."

For the first time that afternoon Stephanie felt a flicker of hope. It was small, fragile, but it was there. She took a deep breath, her tears slowing as she reached for her cup of tea. The sugar bowl sat untouched on the table, a stark reminder of the conversation they'd had.

After a few minutes of silence Stephanie pushed back her chair with such force that it nearly toppled over. Richard's eyes widened as she shot to her feet, her hands trembling as they hovered at her sides.

"You're too nice, Richard!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with frustration.

Richard blinked, utterly baffled. "I… beg your pardon?"

"You heard me!" she said, her tone sharper than he'd ever heard it. "You're too kind, too understanding, too… ugh, too perfect! It's maddening."

He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Maddening? Stephanie, I was merely trying to offer support—"

"That's exactly the problem!" she interrupted, throwing her hands in the air. "You shouldn't be nice to me. I don't deserve it."

His frown deepened. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because I'm a hypocrite!" she snapped. "I sit here lecturing you about injustices when I've done nothing to fix them in my time. I buy things without questioning where they come from, I ignore things when it's convenient, and I screw things up all the time. And yet, you're just sitting here being so... so damn nice! It's infuriating!"

Richard opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly struggling to follow her logic. He tilted his head, studying her as though she'd just started speaking in riddles. "I'm afraid I still don't see how offering kindness constitutes a fault."

She groaned, pressing her hands to her temples. "Of course you don't! Because you're perfect! You're polite, composed, steady—and it makes me want to scream!"

Richard stiffened, his bewilderment deepening. "Perfect? Stephanie, I assure you, no one has ever accused me of such a thing."

"Well, I am!" she shot back, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and emotion. "Because you never get angry, you never mess up, and you never make me feel like the mess I know I am. And I hate it."

Richard's jaw worked silently for a moment before he finally spoke, his voice careful and cautious. "You hate… that I don't make you feel like a mess?"

"Yes!" she shouted, tears welling in her eyes. "Because I am a mess, Richard. I screw up, I say the wrong things, I make mistakes. And you just keep being so… calm and gentlemanly about it. It's too much."

Richard stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, his confusion palpable. "I'm sorry… would you rather I scold you? Or perhaps lecture you? I admit, I don't entirely follow—"

"Exactly!" she cried, her voice breaking. "You don't follow, because you're too bloody good to understand what it's like to feel this way!"

Richard sat back slightly, his brows knit tightly together. "Stephanie, I truly cannot fathom what has brought this on."

"Of course you can't," she muttered bitterly, swiping at her tears. "You're too perfect to understand."

"I… perfect?" he repeated again, blinking in shock. "I hardly think—"

"Forget it!" she interrupted, spinning on her heel. "I'm going to my room. Don't follow me."

And before he could say another word, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed in the now-empty room, leaving Richard sitting alone in the wake of her outburst.

He stared at the door, his brows furrowed so deeply they nearly touched. "I… don't understand," he murmured to himself, running his hands through his hair. "I was kind, and now she's angry? How…?"

He let out a sharp breath, leaning back in his chair as though trying to make sense of a complex battle strategy. "First, she's upset with herself. Now, she's upset with me for not being upset with her?" He looked toward the door again, half-expecting it to swing open with further explanation. It did not.

Richard rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath, "Women… truly an enigma." After a moment, he exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "Whatever I said wrong, I'm sure I'll never know."

Richard sat still staring at the door Stephanie had stormed through, utterly bewildered. He rubbed his temples, muttering, "Too nice? Too perfect? What on earth does that even mean?"

The door opened, and Mrs. Reynolds stepped in, her expression calm but curious. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, I noticed Miss Williams retreating to her room. Is everything all right?"

Richard sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. "I wish I knew. She was upset earlier, blaming herself for things beyond her control. I tried to reassure her, to be kind, and somehow, that made things worse."

Mrs. Reynolds raised an eyebrow. "Worse, sir?"

"She said I'm 'too nice.' That I'm 'too perfect,'" he said, exasperated. "Then she stormed out. I don't understand."

Mrs. Reynolds offered a faint smile. "Colonel, she's not truly upset with you. She's upset with herself. Your kindness likely reminded her of how harshly she judges herself."

Richard frowned. "So by trying to help, I made it worse?"

"In a way, yes," Mrs. Reynolds said gently. "She values your opinion, Colonel, likely more than she realizes. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is give her space to process."

He sighed again, glancing toward the door. "Space. Of course. I'll never understand women."

Mrs. Reynolds chuckled softly. "Perhaps not, sir. But you're doing better than you think. Give her time."

With a small, reassuring smile, she left, leaving Richard alone to mutter under his breath, "Too perfect. Women truly are impossible."