ACCLAIM FOR SARAH E. LADD
“A gently unfolding love story set amid the turmoil of the early industrial revolution. [The Weaver’s Daughter is] a story of betrayal, love, and redemption, all beautifully rendered in rural England.”
—ELIZABETH CAMDEN, RITA AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
“Once again, Ladd delights readers with a skillfully plotted, suspenseful page-turner. As always, her characters jump from the page, each one a realistic and achingly human assembly of merits, flaws, doubts, and faith. Like all superior novelists, Ladd doesn’t default to pat endings, offering even her villains a potential happily-ever-after by putting her faith (not to mention the characters’ and the readers’) in God’s abiding mercy.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS FOR A STRANGER AT FELLSWORTH
“This novel reads well and fast; its vivid imagery and likeable characters fill the pages. The well-crafted metaphors and tight sequences make for an absorbing read. Though set around the Regency period, the style is fresh and the voice genuine. The spiritual aspect of the novel does not overpower; it is woven into the plot and provides a graceful way to unite the beliefs and morals of Annabelle and Owen Locke. I want to read more in the series.”
—HISTORICAL NOVELS SOCIETY FOR A STRANGER AT FELLSWORTH
“[A Stranger at Fellsworth] can easily stand on its own, but readers who enjoy this book will want to devour the trilogy.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL
“With betrayals, murders, and criminal activity disrupting the peace at Fellsworth, Ladd fills the pages with as much intrigue as romance. A well-crafted story for fans of Regency novels.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY FOR A STRANGER AT FELLSWORTH
“Beautifully written, intricately plotted, and populated by engaging and realistic characters, The Curiosity Keeper is Regency romantic suspense at its page-turning best. A skillful, sympathetic, and refreshingly natural author, Ladd is at the top of her game and should be an auto-buy for every reader.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK !
“An engaging Regency with a richly detailed setting and an unpredictable suspenseful plot. Admirers of Sandra Orchard and Lis Wiehl who want to try a romance with a historical bent may enjoy this new series.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE CURIOSITY KEEPER
“Ladd’s story, with its menace and cast of seedy London characters, feels more like a work of Dickens than a Regency . . . A solid outing.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY ON THE CURIOSITY KEEPER
“A delightful read, rich with period details. Ladd crafts a couple the reader roots for from the very beginning and a plot that keeps the reader guessing until the end.”
—SARAH M. EDEN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
FOR ELISE ON THE CURIOSITY KEEPER
“My kind of book! The premise grabbed my attention from the first lines, and I eagerly returned to its pages. I think my readers will enjoy The Heiress of Winterwood.”
—JULIE KLASSEN, BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
“Ladd proves yet again she’s a superior novelist, creating unforgettable characters and sympathetically portraying their merits, flaws, and all-too-human struggles with doubt, hope, and faith.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS, ON A LADY AT WILLOWGROVE HALL
“This book has it all: shining prose, heart-wrenching emotion, vivid and engaging characters, a well-paced plot, and a sigh-worthy happy ending that might cause some readers to reach for the tissue box. In only her second novel, Ladd has established herself as Regency writing royalty.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK !
ON THE HEADMISTRESS OF ROSEMERE
“If you are a fan of Jane Austen and Jane Eyre, you will love Sarah E. Ladd’s debut.”
—USATODAY.COM ON THE HEIRESS OF WINTERWOOD
“This debut novel hits all the right notes with a skillful and delicate touch, breathing fresh new life into standard romance tropes.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS, ON THE HEIRESS OF WINTERWOOD
“Ladd’s charming Regency debut is enhanced with rich detail and well-defined characters. It should be enjoyed by fans of Gilbert Morris.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE HEIRESS OF WINTERWOOD
BOOKS BY SARAH E. LADD
THE TREASURES OF SURREY NOVELS
The Curiosity Keeper
Dawn at Emberwilde
A Stranger at Fellsworth
THE WHISPERS ON THE MOORS NOVELS
The Heiress of Winterwood
The Headmistress of Rosemere
A Lady at Willowgrove Hall
The Weaver’s Daughter
© 2018 by Sarah Ladd
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Interior design by Mallory Collins
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Epub Edition February 2018 9780718011895
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ladd, Sarah E., author.
Title: The weaver’s daughter : a regency romance novel / Sarah E. Ladd.
Description: Nashville : Thomas Nelson, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017049556 | ISBN 9780718011888 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Family-owned business enterprises- -Fiction. | Man-woman relationships- -Fiction. | Weavers- -Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3612.A3565 W43 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record
available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017049556
Printed in the United States of America
18 19 20 21 22 LSC 5 4 3 2 1
For A. D.
In loving memory
CONTENTS
Acclaim for Sarah E. Ladd
Books by Sarah E. Ladd
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
An Excerpt from The Curiosity Keeper Chapter
One
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Summer 1801
Amberdale, West Riding
Yorkshire, England
Alarm’s menacing sting pricked Kate Dearborne’s consciousness and hurried her steps. Clutching the note in her hand, she climbed the wooden steps over the stone fence separating Amberdale’s main road from the churchyard.
The church’s bell struck the eight o’clock hour as her booted feet landed on the other side with a dull thud. She was late, but it was not from a lack of effort to meet Frederica at the appointed time. Kate wiped the perspiration gathering on her brow with the back of her hand and then shielded her eyes to see in the light of the setting summer sun.
Her dearest friend was waiting in the grove, just as her note said she would be. She jumped up from the bench beneath the willow trees at the edge of the yard. “There you are!” Frederica rushed to meet her, her lips tugged into a pretty pout. “I’ve been here half an hour!”
Kate leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees, pausing to catch her breath. “Sorry. I couldn’t get away.”
As Kate straightened, Frederica’s eyebrows shot up and her deep-mahogany eyes widened in horror. “Your gown! What’s happened?”
Kate pushed her hair from her eyes and followed Frederica’s gaze to the blue stains marring the front of her linen skirt. “It’s only indigo. I forgot to put on my smock in the dye house today and, well, this happened.”
Frederica took a step back, as if nearness alone might transfer the unsightly stain to her own white muslin frock. She clicked her tongue. “You should be careful. What will people think when they see you like this?”
Kate giggled at the assumed authority in her friend’s voice and tugged her skirt away. “You sound like old Mrs. Purty lecturing me on manners.” She strode to the bench that had been a place of play since they were very young and flipped her thick braid over her shoulder. “Besides, you asked me to be here at half past seven, and I didn’t have time to change my gown. So what did you want to tell me?”
Frederica was about to be seated when activity in the village square captured her attention. She angled her golden head and rose to the tips of her toes to see over the honeysuckle-laden wall separating them from the square. Sudden energy seized her plump frame, and she leapt to the side of the willow tree. “Oh, there he is!”
Kate frowned and stepped nearer. “Who?”
Frederica shook her head but never shifted her focus. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”
Kate strained to follow Frederica’s gaze. She glimpsed the owner of Stockton Mill sauntering toward the south lane. “Old Mr. Stockton?”
“Of course not, silly. His grandson next to him. See?”
Kate pivoted farther to see over the wall. She’d not heard that Mr. Stockton’s grandson was in Amberdale, but then again, why would she be aware of anything to do with the Stockton family?
“His name is Henry Stockton.” Frederica’s excitement brightened her countenance.
Kate squinted to assess the youth further. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, the lanky, black-headed lad walked in step with his grandfather. He could be no older than her older brother, Charles.
Kate sniffed and retreated to the bench below the emerald canopy of branches and leaves. Her father and Mr. Stockton were bitter business rivals, and that fact alone thwarted any interest in the newcomer she might have. “I don’t see why we should care about him.”
A pretty pink flush bloomed on Frederica’s cheeks as she scurried back to the bench. “Father told me that Henry’s father died last month, and now he and his sister are both moving here. Henry will inherit both Stockton Mill and Stockton House one day. Don’t you think him handsome?”
Kate lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I could barely see him.”
“Well, I find him to be exceedingly handsome, probably the most handsome boy in the entire village.” A triumphant smile lit Frederica’s face. “I think I’m going to marry him.”
“Frederica Pennington!” Kate stifled a laugh. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve never even met him, and besides, you are too young to get married.”
When her friend did not join in the good-natured jesting, Kate quieted, until the only remaining sound was the chirping of the noisy warbler flitting in the boughs above.
Frederica perched on the bench’s edge and folded her hands in her lap as primly as if they were taking their tea. “I’m not going to marry him tomorrow, silly, but one is never too young to prepare for what lies ahead.” A giggle bubbled from her throat. “Father says one day Henry could be a fine match for me. He will be rich, you know, just as his grandfather is.” She rested her palms on the bench and leaned forward. “Do you not think about getting married?”
Kate studied her indigo-stained hands. Of course she wanted to get married. What girl didn’t? But she was only ten years of age, and as her mother would say whenever such a topic would arise, there were many more practical things to think on. “I guess.”
“And besides, you were mistaken when you said I’ve never met him before, for I made his acquaintance just last night at supper.”
A chill radiated through Kate’s thin frame, despite the evening’s balmy warmth. Something was amiss. Weavers and mill owners never dined together. “Why would you dine with the Stocktons? Your father detests Mr. Stockton. I heard him say so myself at the last weavers’ meeting.”
Frederica tossed back her glossy blonde curls and bit her lower lip. “Times are changing, Kate, and if we don’t change with them, we’ll be left behind.”
Confused, Kate furrowed her eyebrows.
“Father and Mr. Stockton have become quite cordial over the past few months.” Frederica’s nostrils flared in pert confidence. “In fact, Father is going to help Mr. Stockton open a new wool mill a few miles to the west of Stockton Mill.”
The meaning of her friend’s words sank heavy and fast into Kate’s soul. She turned her face into the gentle westward breeze to regain her composure. Frederica’s father was her papa’s biggest partner. They had worked together for as long as Kate could recall. Could Frederica be telling the truth?
“That is why I wanted to talk with you.” Frederica fidgeted with the lacy cuff of her sleeve, suddenly intent upon smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “Father says you and I are not to be friends anymore.”
The words hit her as if she’d been struck in the stomach. Kate wrenched around to face her friend. “What? But why?”
Frederica fixed her dark gaze on the courtyard. “He says your father is dangerous.”
“That’s absurd!” She reached out to touch Frederica’s arm, pulling her friend toward her. “Why will you not look at me?”
Frederica shook her head, her curls swinging with the movement. “Father thinks that Mr. Stockton’s view on the future is prudent, and if we are to thrive, we must turn away from the way things are done and look for new methods.”
Kate dropped her hand. “You mean the way my father does things.”
Frederica’s silence spoke louder than any words.
Escalating hurt slid into slow-burning frustration. “But surely you do not agree with him.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” Frederica shrugged and finally looked at Kate. “Does it really matter what either one of us thinks?”
Hot tears welled in Kate’s eyes at the thought of losing her one friend, but Frederica remained detached, her eyes dry as stones, her lips pressed in a firm line. Kate’s arms felt too heavy to move, and their weight pulled her back against the bench.
After several moments, Frederica stood and swiped a wayward leaf from her gown before facing Kate. “I do love you, Katie, but my future cannot have you in it.”
Her dearest friend spun on her heels and walked away.
Kate trembled. Her mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened, and she looked back to the village square. Through a messy blur of tears she saw the Stocktons at
the gate to Stockton Mill. How dare they have the nerve to stand there, laughing and chatting as if her world had not just crumbled beneath her. She clenched her stained fists at her sides. This man had already brought so much pain to her family. And now it was even more personal.
Unsure how to quell the anguish welling within her, Kate leapt up from the bench. She sprinted down the gravel road and over the stone bridge. She ignored how her too-tight boots pinched her feet with each footfall and how the breeze ripped her hair from its plait. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she raced past the entrances to Willford House and Stockton House until she finally arrived at Meadowvale Cottage’s gate.
Breathless, she paused only long enough for the blistering within her chest to subside before she thrust open the wooden door, rushed through, and allowed it to slam closed behind her.
The sun drooped lower now, dissolving into the twinkling shimmer of purple dusk, and a sleepy ambience lingered over the silent courtyard. The men would have departed for a weavers’ meeting, but Mother would be here.
Wobbly legs carried Kate to the dye house on the grounds’ far end. She ducked beneath the lengths of wool drying on tenterhooks just outside the thatched-roof structure and sidestepped a bundle of freshly sheared wool. Steam rose from a large cauldron suspended above a flickering flame, adding to evening’s already muggy clime. Inside the small stone outbuilding, another fire blazed in the grate, giving life to an even larger pot.
Mary Dearborne straightened from the pot as Kate entered, drawing a hand over her brow, streaking damp strands of dark hair across her forehead. “What’s the matter, poppet?”
“Is it true?” Kate shot back, gritting her teeth and finding it difficult to control the timbre of her shaky voice. “About the Penningtons?”
Mother stared at her for several seconds, then her face softened and her shoulders slumped. “You’ve heard.”
“It isn’t fair.” Kate’s kid boots were heavy against the damp wood floor as she stomped even farther into the dye house. “Frederica says we can’t be friends anymore. All because of the stupid mill.”
Mother rested the dye stick on the side of a chair and wiped her hands on a piece of cloth tucked into her apron strings. “Mr. Pennington is doing what he believes to be best for his family. We cannot judge him for that.”
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