“How frightening that must have been.” The pity in Miss Pennington’s gaze unsettled him.
Henry did not care to be pitied.
He smoothed his neckcloth and straightened in his chair. “I’m sure other topics would be of much more interest.”
At the lull in the conversation, Mrs. Pennington stood and motioned for her daughters to do the same. “Ladies, the hour is growing late. It is time we retired to the drawing room, for I am sure these men have important matters to discuss. Let us leave them to their port.”
Grandfather remained silent as the ladies took their leave, but he shook his head as the door closed behind them, and a knowing grin eased over his features. “You’ve got quite a task ahead of you finding husbands for your young ladies, Pennington. I don’t envy you the task.”
Pennington’s good-natured laugh echoed from the dining room’s deep-blue walls and high plastered ceiling, and he motioned for the footman to leave them. But then, once the poker-faced servant had retreated, a darker, more somber expression dominated Pennington’s ruddy face.
He pulled a slip of paper from his waistcoat. “Speaking of my daughters, I need to show you this. I returned from a trip to Liverpool to find this note waiting for me.”
Grandfather straightened but did not seem alarmed at the man’s sudden change in demeanor. After accepting the missive and unfolding it, he leaned back in his chair, crossed one long leg over the other, and rested his elbow on the chair’s arm. He pressed his thin lips together as he read, then gave his head a sharp shake. “Vagabonds.” Without another word, he handed the letter across the table to Henry.
Curious as to what news could have caused the drastic change of disposition, Henry steadied the letter before him.
If you have any love for those daughters of yours, you will think twice before bringing a gig mill into Amberdale.
The shaky penmanship, uneven ink strokes, and smudged paper hinted that the letter had been hastily penned. Henry turned it over, looking for some sort of distinctive marking, but found none. Not even a seal. He frowned. “Who sent you this?”
Pennington stepped to the teak side table and retrieved a cigar from a painted wooden box. “We’ve been receiving threats like this for months now. So have the other mills, as far away as London. Threats to kill mill owners. To kill their families. To burn their houses.”
The injustice of the sinister message alarmed him. Relationships with the weavers had always been tense, but to threaten murder? “What do they want?”
Grandfather’s pale-blue eyes popped wide. “To have their way! Pennington and I, along with most of the millers in the area, have plans to install gig mills in the near future. This will increase our productivity and allow us to do more with fewer workers. The process will remain entirely within the walls of our own mills instead of having to be sent out to the local shearmen’s homes. If we are to remain competitive, this must be done.”
Henry handed the letter back to Pennington. “Have you informed the magistrate?”
“Of course, but little can be done. With the uprisings in the south, the soldiers in the area have their hands full.”
Grandfather retrieved his snuffbox from his coat pocket, flipped it open, and pinched a bit of the black substance between his fingers. “They’re bluffing. They’re trying to scare you. Scare us. Well, it won’t work. None of them are willing to risk swinging from the end of a noose; it’s as simple as that.”
Grandfather put the snuff to his nose and inhaled. “The more we try to do for these villagers, the harder they fight. Ungrateful, the whole lot. We need all of the strong, able-bodied, forward-thinking mill owners to unite. Your return could not have come at a better time, Henry. Don’t misunderstand me. Belsey, Dearborne, and the others running Stockton Mill are capable, and Pennington’s men are trustworthy, but it takes a strong hand to navigate such business in these stormy seas.”
Henry’s attention piqued at one of the names. “Dearborne?”
“A recent addition to the mill.” Grandfather tucked the box back in his coat pocket. “He joined us not long after you left. Someone needed to tend to the books, and he has a sound mind for it.”
Henry frowned. He didn’t doubt much had changed in recent years, but a Dearborne at Stockton Mill?
As if sensing Henry’s confusion, Grandfather leaned toward him, the chair groaning under the shifting weight. “Do you remember Charles, Silas Dearborne’s boy?”
Henry shook his head.
“He and Ian Belsey struck up a friendship, and Charles, being a bright lad, saw the benefits of producing wool in a mill instead of his drawing room and wanted to learn more. So I showed him. What sort of neighbor would I be if I did not?”
The situation seemed odd. “Did his father approve?”
A triumphant gleam glinted in Grandfather’s hooded eye. “Of course not. To this day they don’t speak.”
Henry stifled a groan. No wonder Miss Dearborne had looked at him with such scorn on the bridge.
Grandfather reached for the decanter of port left behind by the footman and poured himself a glass. “I have always built Stockton Mill and its holdings to pass to you and your children. News of your death was difficult enough, but you can imagine how difficult it was to know that all we had built would pass to the hands of the Belseys. He’d have been the best choice, mind you, since he’s been in my employ for decades and knows everything about the business. But still, he’s not family.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “The Belseys? I always assumed that should I not return, the mill would pass to Mollie and her children. Surely whomever Mollie chooses to marry would be eager to take part in the enterprise.”
Grandfather shot Henry a warning glance. “Mollie does not share the passion for wool necessary to sustain such an operation.” His jaw clenched. “Whomever she marries is unlikely to understand the impact this mill has on our life. Our community. It’s not just our family we need to consider, but the dozens of families who make their livelihood standing at our looms. I’ll never rest in my grave unless I know the future is secure.”
Pennington crossed the room and slapped his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Well, I hope you’re ready to join our campaign. There’s much to be done and hard work ahead of us. We must look to the future.”
Henry could only nod. “Hard work, yes.”
“Good.” A playful smile crossed Pennington’s lips. “I’m a bit surprised to learn that there is no Mrs. Stockton, with such a strapping lad as you are.”
Henry smirked. “I didn’t encounter many young ladies on the battlefield looking to become a wife.”
Pennington threw back his head in hearty laughter. “I daresay that’s the truth. But it doesn’t do for a man to remain unmarried. I tell your grandfather this all the time.”
“And I think he should mind his business,” his grandfather grumbled.
Henry felt as if he should agree that their logic regarding marriage was sound, but he could not. For he was not the same as these men anymore. Not after what he had done. After what he had seen. At the moment matrimonial bliss seemed an unattainable—and undeserved—blessing.
Pennington cocked his head to the side, pride radiating from his expression. “My Frederica was glad to learn you had returned to Amberdale. There is insufficient polite society in these parts. She was lamenting her decision to remain here for the winter instead of staying with her aunt in Derbyshire, but now”—Pennington’s dark eyes flashed in amusement, and he lifted his glass in Henry’s direction—“her disposition has brightened.”
Henry glanced up to see one of Pennington’s gray eyebrows raised in his direction, and he lifted his glass to his lips.
Perhaps the ills of war were a safer topic after all.
CHAPTER 6
Cool air rushed Henry as he stepped from the dining hall to Briarton House’s main corridor. Wall lamps cast a flickering glow on the polished wood floor, and the click of the men’s boots rang hollow. He purposely traile
d behind Grandfather and Pennington as they made their way toward the drawing room.
Gentle strains of pianoforte music swelled from the doorway. He followed the older men into the spacious chamber and was immediately struck with the familiarity of it. Three tall, rectangular-paned windows looked out into the black night. A large Persian rug boasting hues of green and blue anchored the space, and two large stuffed chairs and a sofa were arranged near the hearth where a cheery fire popped and crackled.
As he suspected, Frederica was the one seated on the pianoforte’s bench, her fingers alone responsible for the haunting sounds that had lured them. The other Pennington ladies were seated at a table in the center of the room, their postures straight, cards in hand.
The music stopped as they entered, and all four of the feminine faces turned toward the door. “There you are at last!” Frederica dropped her hands from the keys.
Mrs. Pennington lowered her cards and angled her head toward the door, a twinkle glimmering in her eye. “We thought you had quite forgotten about us and were about to retire for the evening.”
“My apologies for the delay. How could anyone forget about such lovely company? ’Twould be impossible.” Pennington stepped toward his wife and rested a hand on her shoulder before turning back to his daughter. “Frederica, don’t stop your performance on our account. Gentlemen, do be seated. My daughter is quite talented. You’ll not hear her equal in the county. Do you not remember, Henry?”
A charming smile dimpled the corner of Miss Pennington’s mouth at the praise, and pink bloomed high on her cheeks. Something oddly alluring danced in her eyes of deep chocolate brown. Something that called to him and harkened to years past.
“Aye,” breathed Henry. “I remember.”
“Frederica, love, sing for us.”
Henry and his grandfather were seated in the two chairs flanking the hearth, not far from the pianoforte. Pennington stood at the instrument, a doting papa prepared to turn the pages.
Under her father’s watchful eye, Miss Pennington adjusted her perch on the bench and fussed with the billowy azure skirt about her. The amber glow from a nearby candle bathed her smooth skin in a honeyed shade and glistened on the shimmery comb in her golden curls.
She glanced in Henry’s direction before lifting her hands to the keyboard. With a most tender touch she pressed her fingers against the ivory keys, and in moments a haunting, almost melancholy melody reached to every corner of the gilded room. Her gentle voice swelled with beauty and vibrato above the pianoforte’s strains, and he switched his gaze from Miss Pennington to the fire popping in the grate.
Henry dragged his finger between his neck and his cravat, uncomfortable at how her voice’s timbre unearthed long-buried memories and transported him to another time—a time before war, before death, a time of lightheartedness and ignorant optimism.
Pennington’s words regarding marriage intensified the uneasiness brewing within Henry. A lovely, talented woman like Frederica would be a jewel in the crown for any man. He understood Grandfather and Pennington conspiring. A match between Frederica and himself would have many advantages.
Henry checked his thoughts, refusing to permit emotions to run rampant. She might be the same woman from three years ago, but he was hardly the same man.
The music ended. He was reminded to clap when Pennington’s thick hands thudded together. “Brava,” called Mr. Pennington, chest puffed, chin high. “Enchanting.”
Frederica stood from the bench and made her way to the men. Remembering his manners, Henry stood as she approached.
“Do you remember that piece?” Her pointed question demanded his response.
Henry widened his stance and searched his memory. “I’m sorry, I do not.”
“I haven’t the slightest inkling why the memory burns so vividly in my mind, but that was the aria I played for you the night before you left for war.”
His surprise that she would recall such an obscure detail nearly robbed his words. “I am sorry, I don’t recall.”
She did not seem upset by it. Instead, she tilted her head coyly to the side. “I didn’t forget it.”
Henry grew warm. He shifted his gaze in search of his grandfather or anyone, for that matter, who could provide a diversion. As fate—or an overeager mama and a business-savvy father—would have it, Pennington, Grandfather, and Mrs. Pennington had withdrawn to the far corner of the room, and the two younger girls were gone. Henry and Miss Pennington were essentially alone in the sitting room.
He drew a deep breath and looked back to his counterpart. She, too, had glanced back at her father. Perhaps she was as much a pawn in their scheme as he was. Perhaps not, but the arrangement was not uncomfortable, necessarily. She was a vivacious companion, full of the whimsical charms absent from his life the past few years.
In a sudden motion she whirled back around, her eyes wide, and clutched the sleeve of his coat. “I’ve an idea. You must let me sketch you.”
He laughed at her eagerness. “What, now?”
“Of course.” With a nudge to his arm, she urged him to a chair by the window, next to which sat the silhouette screen. “Father bought us a new shade when he was in London last. I have already made a silhouette of Mama, him, and my sisters, but I’ve had no one else to try it on.”
When his steps slowed, a pretty pout curved her lips and her eyes locked on him with pleading insistence.
How could anyone refuse Miss Pennington?
He consented with a nod, and she patted her hands together and gave a little squeal.
“Now, you sit there.” She gathered her supplies. “’Tis a pity I can’t see you when I do this, but we can still talk.”
He felt a bit odd, sitting behind the screen. The candle backlit him and cast a shadow against her screen, allowing her to draw his likeness.
She chatted about this and that, rarely stopping to ask his opinion or wait for him to respond to a question, but he didn’t mind. It was almost easier this way—until she inquired about Mollie.
“And have you seen your sister since you have been back in England?”
Each time the thought of Mollie in her current circumstances was brought to mind, his heart pinched. How much, if anything, did Miss Pennington know about Mollie’s situation? Judging by her lighthearted tone, he assumed very little. He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I have not. I didn’t realize she wasn’t in Amberdale.”
“No, she has not been here for quite some time. I do miss her.”
He was grateful for the privacy of the screen and rubbed his palm against the smooth buckskin of his breeches. “I wrote to her earlier today. I plan to pay a call to London as soon as I’m able.”
“Don’t stay away too long. Amberdale has already been deprived of your presence long enough.” She rounded the screen, a smile on her face. “At the moment, all seems so lovely. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that we were three years in the past, as if you’d never gone to war. How happy we all were then.”
The melancholy undertone of her chipper words caught his attention. “Are you not happy now?”
“Of course I am, but time changes all, doesn’t it?” Her words slowed. “And after spending the evening with you, I find you changed.”
He felt inside that he was different, but he was intrigued to find that someone else may have perceived it as well. “I’ve changed?”
“Oh yes.”
“How?”
“Well.” Miss Pennington leaned against the screen and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if thinking. “You have not commented once on how beautiful my gown is,” she teased. “There was a time when you were quite fond of blue gowns, and I wore this one just for you.”
Her flirting was bold. At one time his had been too, he mused.
He did not break her gaze. “I’ve grown up, I suppose.”
“We’ve all grown up, and that’s no excuse.” Her coquettish smile softened the harsh intent of her words, and she disappeared around the screen.
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br /> He blew out his air and settled back on the hard wooden stool, turning his face to the window so the candle’s light would cast his profile’s shadow. He should jump at the chance to begin a romance with her. She was beautiful. Witty. Wealthy. Their lives were intertwined. She seemed eager to resume life as if he’d never left.
But something held him back.
If war had taught him one thing, it was that the things he thought mattered no longer did so. At one time nothing mattered more than having a beautiful wife, amassing possessions, and claiming power. Now his heart—his soul—longed for things not so tangible: Safety. Security. Happiness. Justice. Hope. Forgiveness.
Maybe Miss Pennington was right—he was different.
Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.
Frederica shifted the edge of her bedchamber’s damask curtain aside, pressed herself against the papered wall to avoid detection, and angled herself to see down to the dark courtyard.
A gentle snow fell on Mr. Stockton’s and Henry’s retreating forms as they crossed the main drive and made their way to the iron gate. It was easy to tell the men apart. Henry sat so tall atop his horse. So straight. A thrill surged through her at the memory of his nearness while they were in the drawing room. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The same black hair curled over his broad forehead and fringed his high collar. The same striking blue eyes drew her in with ease.
She let the thick fabric fall and took several cleansing breaths to soothe the pain of disappointment scratching at her chest. Despite her joy at seeing him again, his aloofness doused her hopeful anticipation of what his return could bring.
No, the evening had not gone as she’d planned. She’d expected him to hang on her every word and fall prey to her flirty smiles as he had in times past. But instead, his inaccessible countenance and distracted expressions robbed her of her confidence.
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