Charles chuckled, his light-brown eyes wide with amusement. “No doubt Stockton’s mysterious return has something to do with it. It’s all anyone’s talked about since he was spotted last night. Isn’t that amazing? All these months we believed him dead, and then one day he’s here, walking among us, like a ghost brought back to life.”
While Kate certainly did not wish the man dead, she did not share her brother’s joy at his return. She folded her arms within her cloak and followed his gaze to a cluster of other young men who worked at Stockton Mill. “You mustn’t feel as if you need to stay and entertain me, Charles. Jane will be out soon enough. If you want to join your friends, please do not refrain on my account.”
A teasing smile twitched his lips. “I know that tone. I know it well. You’re sour.”
“I’m not sour.”
“You are.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Stockton’s return has got you on edge, and you can barely contain yourself. You are a horrible liar and never could fool me.”
She gave a half smile at her brother’s customary playfulness and eased her shoulders. “It is just that a great deal of uncertainty comes with his return. At least for us.”
At the subtle reference to their father, Charles’s smile faded.
The crowd shifted, and Kate spotted Henry Stockton clad in winter shades of black, gray, and brown. A straight black beaver hat sat atop his head, and a caped greatcoat with a velvet collar, suitable for such a blustery day, accentuated his broad shoulders. He smiled as he spoke, and his white teeth flashed against his full lips and dark sideburns.
Feeling more pensive than unnerved, Kate tilted her head to the side. “I wonder how things will change now that he’s back.”
Charles shrugged. “Old man Stockton still owns the mill. I presume Henry will take the helm one day, but for now, I doubt much will change.”
Kate could not deny Henry Stockton’s commanding presence. During the previous day’s interaction, she’d failed to notice the straightness of his nose or the vivid blue of his eyes.
“Oh my goodness,” whispered a feminine voice just behind Kate, “but he is a handsome man.”
Kate started and whirled around at the familiar tone, face flaming at the idea that someone might have been able to read her thoughts. Just behind her, Jane, Kate’s dearest friend, adjusted her tawny leather glove, finger by finger.
Kate scooted closer to Charles so Jane could join them in the small corner near the gate. She hadn’t shared with Jane the details of her encounter with Mr. Stockton, nor did she intend to. She cleared her throat. “He may be handsome, but let’s not forget whose grandson he is.”
Charles leaned low with a grin. “And on that note I will excuse myself and leave you ladies to discuss such important matters.”
With the customary twinkle in his eye, Charles bowed and retreated to the other millers gathered near the Stocktons.
Once Charles was out of earshot, Jane turned to Kate, gave a little giggle, and adjusted the bright-pink bonnet ribbon beneath her chin. “I don’t care. He’s still the most handsome man in Amberdale. Even more so than your John Whitby.”
“He isn’t my John Whitby,” corrected Kate before the words were fully out of Jane’s mouth. “And you will care if your father hears you speak of Henry Stockton like that.”
“La, these men and their grudges.” Jane pursed her lips and shook her dark locks. “Look. It appears as if Mr. Stockton and Miss Pennington are reviving their acquaintance. ’Tis a shame for every other young lady, though. I’ve no doubt the happy couple will marry within the year.”
An unexpected pang sliced through Kate at the sight of Miss Frederica Pennington drawing near to Mr. Stockton’s side as they joined in mutual laughter.
Miss Pennington’s childhood declaration that she would one day marry Henry Stockton leapt from the recesses of Kate’s mind. Time had softened the blow of their discarded friendship, but if there was one thing she did know about Frederica Pennington, it was that she would not give up until she got what she felt she deserved.
Blistering winds howled in from the east meadows, forcing the crowd to disperse and seek shelter. She was about to suggest they depart for home when Jane shrilled, “Is that Mr. Whitby?”
Kate shifted to follow Jane’s gaze. The journeyman, clad in a heavy box coat of tan wool, approached driving a cart.
“You’re a mite late for services, John Whitby,” taunted Jane as the cart rattled to a stop on the road just on the other side of the fence.
John lifted his square chin. “You know how the Dearbornes feel about services. Too many mill owners here for our tastes.” His gaze landed on Kate, and he sobered. “Well, not all the Dearbornes, I suppose. Besides, I am not here for church. I am here for Kate.”
She stiffened at the directness of his stare and the casual manner in which her Christian name fell from his lips in public. She lifted her hood over her hair and turned to face him fully. “Why are you here for me?”
“To drive you home, of course. Your father’s left for Leeds, and I know he wouldn’t want you walking through the woods.”
“But I walk home from church every Sunday,” she reasoned. “I appreciate the concern, but I fear your trip was unnecessary.”
“Well, I’m here now.” In an easy, fluid motion he climbed down from the cart.
Kate stepped backward to give him plenty of room and cast a glance over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed the newcomer. Her stomach twisted. The motive behind his action was clear, and it felt as if every remaining eye in the churchyard was on her.
Papa’s words of his desire for her future rang in her ears. He would stop at nothing to see her united in wedlock to a weaver, even if it took a scandal like being alone in the forest with one of them for such a union to occur.
Kate looped her arm through Jane’s arm, a silent plea for her to stay, but as if oblivious to Kate’s intention, Jane only patted her hand and stepped back. “I must be going too. Mama and Papa will be looking for me. Kate, be sure to come by the shop tomorrow for those extra pieces of cloth. Don’t forget!”
Before Kate could respond, Jane dipped a curtsy in parting, and within moments Kate was left standing alone with John.
Only a few brave parishioners remained as the wind drove them back to their homes, but despite the fact that John cared little for most of the people in attendance, he did find interest in one of the few remaining souls. “Is that him?”
Kate shivered as an icy gust rippled her cloak. She knew full well to whom he referred, and yet she inquired, “Who?”
John cast a nod toward the churchyard. “The man himself, Henry Stockton.”
Kate retied the garnet-colored ribbons on her cloak that had come loose. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” John held his hat on his head so it wouldn’t blow away, but even from beneath the brim’s shadow his eyes darkened. “I won’t give him a month before his trunks are packed and he’s gone. Folks aren’t happy about his return. He’ll have a hard go of it, mark my words.”
Kate did not feel like discussing Mr. Stockton with John, or anyone, for that matter. She approached the cart and accepted John’s hand to assist her to the bench. Once they were both settled, the vehicle lurched into motion.
She probably should have been more concerned with the sight they presented, riding alone into the forest. Most women would consider it uncomfortable to be with a handsome young man without a chaperone, or at the very least would fear what others might say. But in truth, anyone who knew John Whitby knew that his loyalty to her father was unshakable, and therefore, he was a trustworthy escort for his employer’s only daughter.
Their relationship was an unusual one. Not a day passed when she did not see or speak with John. Normally work in the dye house consumed her days, and he could be found in the room where they housed their spinning jennies. But their paths often overlapped.
Despite their comfortable working arrangements, an unusual tension had been winding between them
for weeks and begged for resolution. Papa’s declaration the previous day had only intensified it.
“You’re cross with me, aren’t you?” John said after a period of silence, his gaze not wavering from the road before them.
“I’m not cross with you.”
He cast a sideways glance at her and raised a light-brown eyebrow. “You can’t fool me. You’re upset at your father’s decision to put me in charge while he’s in Leeds.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She sniffed.
“It does matter. At least, it matters to me. I didn’t have a thing to do with it. I need you to know that.”
She sighed and looked to the left at the barren pastureland spread out wide, far, and undisturbed. “Papa is set in his ways.”
“He only wants what is best for you.”
Kate pressed her lips together to prevent unwise words from spilling out. What her father thought was best for her and what she thought was best were two different matters entirely.
He inched closer.
Kate caught the motion from the corner of her eye and stiffened. “I think the wind is blowing in more weather. See how quickly those clouds are moving? We should hurry.”
John ignored her warning and angled his broad shoulders toward her. “Do you never think of the future, Kate?”
Unsure of how to respond, she looked at her glove’s worn fingertips.
“Do you find it so impossible that I care about you and your safety? I have worked with your father for three years. I live in your house. I have seen you daily. I would hardly be human if you’d not come to mean something to me.”
She darted her gaze around, hoping to see something—anything—that could distract them from the conversation and dispel the weight of his suffocating gaze. Nothing but trees, pasture, the distant moors, a handful of sheep, and snow. Her ears rang in alarm as his words continued to prod her.
“You doubt I care for you?”
This conversation had been looming, circling around her like the starlings that flittered overhead, searching for the perfect place to light. When she remained silent, he drew the horse to a stop.
“Why are we stopping?”
He lowered the reins to his lap. “You are not shy about sharing your opinion. Don’t pretend to be now. You’re clever, Kate. Clever and smart. I know you’ve considered every possible outcome of your future. But what I can’t figure out is how you feel about me and if I’m part of it.”
She could not bring herself to look at him. She wanted to jump down from the cart and run into the forest, pretending she had not heard him. Her mind would not focus. Her words would not form. Regardless of how she felt about her father’s journeyman, he was still a human with feelings and emotions. She did not want to hurt anyone. Yet she would not lie.
“I—I think we’d best return home.”
He remained motionless. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She gave a nervous little laugh, and words whooshed from her. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. You are employed by my father. I’m not aware of any sort of relationship beyond that.”
His body tensed next to her. “Nothing beyond that?”
Her words had been harsher than she intended, and she summoned the courage to look at him. The cold air stung her lungs as she sucked in a deep breath. “No. Nothing beyond that.”
His freshly shaven jaw twitched, and a flash sparked in his dark eyes. He tightened the reins and set the horse back into motion. “I would have guessed otherwise, based on your behavior.”
Heat rushed to Kate’s face, and she gripped the seat’s railing to prevent herself from hurling back a defensive reply. She had always been friendly to John, kind, but she could not control if he read something in her actions that was not there.
John’s nostrils flared. “I’m not a man who is easily swayed, Kate. I know what I want, and I work hard to get it. You and I have that in common.”
“But we are working hard for different things.”
“Don’t you know what your father’s intentions are? What my intentions are?”
It was no secret what her father wanted, but maybe it was time she heard John’s wishes spoken aloud. “Just so we’re clear, what exactly are those intentions?”
He jerked the cart to a halt once more and turned to face her. He gripped her hand in both of his. “The future! Kate, I want to—no, I will—be a clothier one day. Even bigger and more powerful than your father. But I can’t do that alone. I overheard you and your father speaking last night, and I know he desires you to be with another weaver who can support you and protect you. I can be that man! Just imagine how strong we will be—the two of us with years of knowledge and experience. There will be no stopping us.”
Just breathe. She forced her breath to slow to counterbalance the rush of his words. Why could he not understand that she did not want to rely on another? That she was fully capable of making cloth in her own right?
When she did not immediately respond, his face dimmed, but he did not look away. “You need to have someone come alongside you. Someone who cares about the business as much as you do. Someone who understands the way of life. And I am that man.”
She stared at him. She liked John, but she had also seen a different side of him. No, if she was going to have her own income, she would do it her way.
She forced her voice to be steady. “But I am not that woman.”
His eyes grew hard. He dropped her hand, gathered the reins, and slapped them on the horse’s back. The cart raced to a pace far greater than was intended for such a vehicle.
She cast a sideways glance at him. This was the start of something. Of what, she did not know, but she had angered John, and there would be no forgiveness.
CHAPTER 5
The fire’s warm, flickering light sparkled on the cut glass in Arthur Pennington’s hand as he raised his beverage. “To the men returning from war.”
Grandfather leaned close to Henry’s left elbow, his voice loud and clear. “May they all return to England swiftly and safely.”
Henry lifted his glass in the toast. Mrs. Pennington and Miss Frederica, along with Miss Isabella and Miss Anna, the younger Pennington daughters, followed suit.
Henry took a sip, then returned the crystal glass to the fine silk cloth covering the Pennington dining table.
Was this not what he had dreamed of, those nights sleeping on the hard, frozen ground, clinging to his rifle lest his sleep be interrupted by the enemy? Was this not the scene that pushed him forward as he rode for days on end, giving him hope and promising him that happiness would return once again? But even as his belly was full, friends surrounded him, and a beautiful woman was near, an uncomfortable restlessness churned.
He’d heard tales of men who came home from gruesome battles and were never able to shed the horrific memories. And now, as he attempted to repel his own silent tormentors and enjoy the evening, the demons remained close, fighting, demanding his attention.
Mr. Pennington’s heavy wooden chair groaned beneath the weight of his stocky frame as he leaned against the narrow spindles and slapped his knee. “Thanks be to God that you’ve returned home in one piece. I respect you for what you’ve done, let there be no mistake about that. Nobody wants to see their men go to war, but where would we be if our best and brightest stayed hidden away in the countryside?”
Henry cupped the back of his neck with his hand and studied the glass in his other hand. The kind words should have warmed him, but Grandfather’s ensuing silence spoke louder than any words could. They’d had several arguments in the weeks leading up to Henry’s departure, and since his return, Grandfather had barely asked him about the past three years.
Pennington, oblivious to his guests’ internal struggles, pointed a plump finger at Henry. “I bet you have some stories to tell of your escapades on the Continent. Come, you must share them with us.”
At Pennington’s request, heat rose up his chest and neck. Henry tapped his heel against the
leg of his chair and glanced at the faces across the table. Pennington spoke of war as if it were a great adventure instead of what it was—an endless nightmare.
Henry wiped his mouth with his napkin and kept his tone light. “I fear my stories are quite dull,” he lied. “I’d much rather hear the news of Amberdale.”
“Bah.” A grin spread across Pennington’s wide face, and he waved his hand before him. “News of wool, machines, and the struggles against those who hate us? Nonsense.”
Henry shifted and ran his finger between his linen cravat and neck. “I’m not sure my stories, as you put it, are entirely appropriate for the ladies.”
“How good it is of you to consider the sensibilities of the womenfolk.” Grandfather’s deep-set eyes glimmered with unusual vigor. “It is good to see that war has not changed your decorum.”
Henry’s stomach tightened at the older man’s obvious attempts to convince Miss Pennington of Henry’s merits.
Pennington’s unkempt, bushy eyebrows gathered, and he straightened the hem of his floral waistcoat before leaning on the table with his elbow. “At the very least you must share how you came to be reported killed in action, when here you are with nary a scratch. That must be an interesting tale indeed. Besides, it will do my girls good to hear some of the ways of the world outside of their needlepoint and fripperies.”
Every eye was fixed on Henry. He glanced at the other faces around the table. Mrs. Pennington, with her abundance of jewels glittering around her neck and in her faded blonde hair, was seated across from her husband, and Frederica was seated across from Henry. The two younger girls were hardly little girls anymore. They had become young ladies, and they, too, observed him with interest.
Henry swallowed to buy himself an extra moment or two. In order to tell the tale, he had to mentally revisit the event—something he did not want to do. The panic-stricken faces. The nausea-inducing smells. They were all at the forefront, clawing to be remembered and relived, like a rabid wolf howling at an iron gate.
He cleared his throat and fidgeted with the edge of his napkin. “Well, I can’t be entirely sure what led to such a report, but if I recall correctly, around that time several soldiers became separated from the battalion during a battle in the north, and I was among them. It was nearly a month before we were able to rejoin our comrades. No doubt they assumed we were lost and reported us as such.”
The Weaver's Daughter Page 5
