The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Of course.” And with a tip of his hat, Dearborne excused himself.

  Belsey tossed another log on the fire and wiped his hands. “He’s a good sort. None finer.”

  “But his father, Silas. I remember him. He and my grandfather weren’t exactly friendly.”

  “And they never have been. But Charles is different from his father. He’s a visionary. Your grandfather wasted no time in taking the boy under his wing and showing him the future of wool.”

  Henry adjusted his stance. It did not seem like his grandfather to endeavor to separate a son and his father, despite the enmity between their families. “Did Dearborne not object to his son working with Grandfather?”

  “Of course he did. Nearly caused a war of our own, right here in Amberdale.”

  Henry glanced through the small window at Dearborne’s retreating form. What else had changed while he was away? From what Belsey said, the mill had grown exponentially, but the cost had been high: Families had been torn apart. Children were being worked and treated as adults. Such methods made him uncomfortable, and he was growing concerned at what other tactics his grandfather may have employed to achieve financial success.

  Henry cleared his throat and turned back to Belsey. One day he would be in charge of the mill, but for now he had to work within his grandfather’s parameters.

  CHAPTER 8

  I confess, I don’t understand why you are so upset.” Jane fixed sincere blue eyes on Kate. “It seems to me it would be a relief not to have to bother with such details.”

  Kate shifted her attention from her knitting to her dearest friend and considered her response.

  As on other Monday evenings, the wives and daughters of nearby weaving families gathered to craft items for the foundling home and the village poor. Tonight they’d assembled at the Purty home, needles, yarn, thread, and fabric in their hands. It was a comfortable group of women and girls, most of whom she’d known her entire life. Their mouths were as busy as their hands as they chatted about the neighborhood events.

  Kate glanced around the modest parlor—the white plaster walls, the leather-bound tomes on the mantel shelf, the vines carved into the hearth, the tiny violets painted on a porcelain tea set, the brass lantern flickering at the window—all reasons why she had thought the Purty home one of the most elegant she’d ever seen when she attended these gatherings as a child. But then her gaze landed on the ottoman’s frayed damask hem, and her ear pricked at the subtle whistle of the wind racing around a rag stuffed in the small hole in the windowpane. The past several years had been difficult for even the most successful of the weavers.

  She sighed at the uncertainty they all faced. Fortunately the women gathered had been able to put aside the worries and fears, at least for the time they were centered around the Purtys’ fire, laughing, fellowshipping. Kate wished she could do the same.

  Jane nudged her, as if to draw a response to her comment. With a sigh Kate shook out a tangle in her yarn and lifted the mitten she was knitting to assess her progress. “It’s not that I’m upset so much as I’m not sure why Papa trusts me so little.”

  Loose wisps of dark hair escaped their pins and bobbed around Jane’s chin as she leaned closer and lowered her own sewing to her lap. “It has nothing to do with trust, I’ll wager. Your father only wants to protect you. ’Tis a natural inclination. Mr. Whitby is completely capable, and what father would not want to ease his daughter’s burden? You already have your hands full with the dyeing. Let the men deal with the rest of the details. After all, that is what your father is paying them for.”

  Kate folded the yarn over her arm. Part of her knew the truth in Jane’s words. The other part of her wanted to fight it. “Papa speaks as if John will run the business for the rest of his life.”

  Jane raised an eyebrow. “Do you not think that is what he has planned? Everyone already assumes that you and John will marry.”

  Kate sniffed.

  “Would it really be so terrible to wed such a man?” Jane resumed her sewing, her tone matter of fact. “He is handsome, determined, and obviously infatuated with you.”

  Kate’s nose twitched with unexpected emotion, and she glanced to make sure no one else was watching her. She didn’t care for this feeling of vulnerability and helplessness that swelled at her father’s dismissal. Not one single bit.

  The fact that her friend did not seem to understand her intensified it.

  Since her mother’s death, Kate had striven to prove her worth in her father’s eyes. At the moment she felt like a rudderless boat, adrift and aimless, and she desperately desired a sense of direction, unsure where to turn for validation or approval. Could her father’s intention really be to marry her off to secure the future of his business?

  Jane’s stitching slowed. “Don’t you want to marry?”

  Kate refused to meet her friend’s gaze. The question brought to mind the long-forgotten conversation she’d had with Frederica under the setting summer sun and the churchyard’s willow tree—the night she first became aware of the name Henry Stockton.

  The lie slid easily from her lips. “I suppose.”

  Jane laughed and wove her needle through the fabric. “You are an odd one, Kate. Every young lady I know is desperate to find a man, and many to no avail. You have John tripping over himself for your attention, and you ignore his advances.”

  “It’s not as it seems. He wants to secure his future, ’tis all. His feelings for me don’t enter into the decision.”

  Jane shook her head with a little laugh. “You are making things much harder than they have to be.”

  “Do you not wish for something more, Jane?” Kate failed to see the humor and searched her friend’s face. “Something different?”

  Jane raised her brow. “I am grateful for a roof over my head, a fire in the grate, and sugar in my tea, and you should be too. If you set your mind too high on other things, you’ll be disappointed. I would not discount John. He is a good man.” Jane lowered her sewing and leaned close. “I am going to say something to you, and it is with a sincere desire to be of comfort. Perhaps you need to accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, someone wants to marry you because of who you are, not who you are related to.”

  A burst of laughter from the other women rang out, halting their conversation. Kate turned to hear the commotion’s source.

  After motioning for the maid to bring more tea, Mrs. Purty returned her attention to the ladies. A pale-blue shawl shrouded the shoulders of her thick wool winter gown of dark brown, despite the fact that the fire’s warmth flushed her full cheeks. After several seconds her smile faded and her expression sobered.

  “We must remember the potential seriousness of the present situation.” Mrs. Purty’s voice was thin and low. “Who would have thought Mr. Henry Stockton would be back among us, a ghost walking among the living? Mr. Purty told me the news the night he returned from the weavers’ meeting at Meadowvale, and I didn’t believe it until I saw him at church the following morning.”

  “Well, he’s here, sure enough, and naught can be done now.” Mrs. Wooden sniffed. “More’s the pity.”

  Blood raced through Kate’s ears as she listened to the frustrated assessments and pressed her lips together, hesitant to voice her opinion. If she spoke to the matter, she’d be at risk of betraying her brother and his chosen path. If she withheld her disdain, then she’d betray her father—and indeed, her own livelihood.

  Mrs. Noon’s eyebrows arched as she retrieved a pair of shiny scissors from her basket. “I’ve never been as shocked as I was to see him, standing there in the nave.”

  “Yes, it seems the Stockton grandchildren had quite disappeared, what with him gone all those years.” Mrs. Wooden’s gray curls danced as her head bobbed with every word. “And where is the granddaughter?”

  “I believe she is living with Mr. Stockton’s daughter in London,” Mrs. Purty responded. “It is no surprise that she never comes to visit here. Mr. Stockton is as crotchety as they come
.”

  “She might come back now that her brother has returned,” Mrs. Noon added, almost as an afterthought. “As I recall, she and her brother were always thick as thieves.”

  Mrs. Thesler added, “Henry Stockton was always such a happy boy, do you remember? Always smiling. Always laughing, although I suppose that is easy to do when the world is as careless and free as his must be. But maybe he is different than old Stockton. His return could be positive. He will one day take his grandfather’s place. Perhaps he will be a force of kindness.”

  Mrs. Noon gave a tsk. “Men like that are all the same, unfortunately.”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Wooden said thoughtfully. “That is like saying all the weavers are like those weavers to the west who break looms, burn mills, and murder millers. He has been away for a long time. Maybe that has had a favorable effect on him.”

  “Listen to the lot of you. You are talking nonsense,” Mrs. Purty scolded, her mobcap atop her head flopping with each word. “He is a Stockton through and through. Nothing remains to be said on the matter. Thinking he’ll be any different will not bring it to pass.”

  As the rush of comments subsided, Jane leaned close. “Perhaps if he were not so handsome it would be easier to think so.”

  Giggles circled the room.

  Mrs. Purty, clearly not amused, huffed, “Well, none of our girls should care about that. Can you imagine being united in marriage to such a family? Why, I’d not wish that on any one of us. Besides, I’ve no doubt he will take up where he left off with Frederica Pennington.”

  Kate’s stitching slowed. If there was one name disliked more than Stockton, perhaps it was that of Pennington. The Stocktons had hurt her family, yes. They had lured her brother away and chipped away at her father’s livelihood. But the Penningtons’ offense had cut deeper. Heat crept to her face, and she forced her breathing to slow. The Penningtons—especially Frederica—had hurt Kate’s heart. And that could not be forgiven so easily—if at all.

  “You’ll not travel to London, Henry. I forbid it.”

  Grandfather adjusted his spectacles on his nose and leaned forward on his desk amid the tidy stacks of letters and papers. The old man didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His sharp eyes remained fixed on Henry. “Mollie can wait. You will remain here in Amberdale.”

  Jolted at the intensity in his grandfather’s voice, Henry lowered his coat and pivoted on his heel.

  Perhaps Grandfather had forgotten that he was a man, no longer a boy.

  A chuckle of disbelief slipped through his lips, although his mood was anything but light. Henry’s first full day at the mill had already been a tiring one. After spending hours sifting through orders at the desk, becoming acquainted with his grandfather’s new staff, receiving news of an attack in a nearby mill, and overseeing work for hours in the cold on the waterwheel, he was in no humor for an argument. “You forbid me?”

  Grandfather took no notice of the sarcasm in Henry’s tone. “You have duties here—at this mill. I’ll not have you traipsing off to London on a fool’s errand, not when there’s so much to be done.”

  Henry’s boots scraped against the floor as he widened his stance and folded his arms over his chest. “My plans are firm. I’m going to London to see Mollie. I’ve not seen her in three years. Three. What could possibly need my attention here when you thought me dead not even a week ago?”

  The corner of Grandfather’s thin lips twitched, and the firelight cast odd shadows on his angular face. “You’re here now. Your focus should be on the mill. And on your other duties.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows. “My other duties?”

  Grandfather removed his spectacles, placed them atop a book on his desk, and inched a candle lamp to the side. “The Stockton name must be preserved, and Miss Pennington will not remain unmarried forever. Several men have noticed her charms and are no doubt vying for her hand as we speak. If you are to pursue such a union, you must act quickly, else you will be too late.”

  “Egad, Grandfather.” Henry shoved his hair away from his forehead. “I’ve only just returned. I assure you, marriage is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

  “Then I urge you to reconsider your priorities.” Grandfather’s voice was frustratingly slow and direct. “Your sister failed to do that very thing, and you can see the outcome. She’s disgraced herself. I’ve not worked this hard to tolerate such a black mark against the Stockton name from either one of you.”

  Henry checked the defensive response teetering on the tip of his tongue. Grandfather may have raised him, and by doing so deserved Henry’s respect, but in this instance he was wrong. Furthermore, how would Grandfather react if he knew what Henry had been forced to do in the name of war and battles and victory? The black marks against his name and the evils he had committed would make Mollie’s appear irreproachable.

  “Mistake or not, Mollie is still my sister. I cannot be so punitive and cast her aside so coldheartedly.”

  “That is a sign of weakness, boy.” Grandfather shook his head, the reddening of his face betraying his cool exterior. “You’ve shown the flaw to me. Let no one else see it.”

  “She is guilty of an error in judgment, nothing more.” He abandoned his position by the fireplace and stepped closer to the desk. “Are we not all guilty of such an offense at one point or another?”

  “Bah.” Grandfather flung his hand in the air as if to wave off a bug or another such nuisance. “There are consequences for such moral lapses, and she must pay them.”

  Heat rose up from beneath Henry’s neckcloth. If he didn’t come to Mollie’s defense, who would? “She’s hardly the first woman to find herself in such a situation. As her family, shouldn’t we protect her?”

  “I’m already paying for her keep with her aunt. I’ve been more than generous given her folly, and I dare anyone to say otherwise. Her actions demonstrate a dire lack of respect for this family. No.” He shook his head. “My decision’s made.”

  Henry threw his hands outward and raised his voice an octave. “But what of the child?”

  “The child will be illegitimate,” Grandfather said, leaning into the argument. “It is therefore no family of mine.”

  “That child will be my niece or nephew, and I will not make his or her life more difficult than I fear it will already be.”

  The mantel clock ticked painfully loudly in the empty space between their words, falling heavy like fat drops of rain on glass. Henry sighed. “What of the father? Can he not be found? If they marry, perhaps there is time to save her reputation.”

  “Nay, your selfish sister will not reveal his identity.” Vehemence sharpened Grandfather’s tone. “I’ve threatened and coaxed, yet she refuses. No doubt she keeps her secret, for if she dared to breathe his name, it would be pistols at dawn for the scoundrel.”

  Henry huffed and shook his head.

  Clearly that was not the reaction Grandfather desired.

  The old man reached for the ornately carved cane leaning against his desk and rapped it on the planked floor, then pointed his thick finger at Henry. “Listen to me, boy. I’ve been explicitly clear on my expectations for this family, have I not? You may be a man of five and twenty, but I’m the head of this family and will be until the day I’m buried in the earth.

  “You wanted to go play soldier, be upstanding and fight against Napoleon and all the other scoundrels and villains that threaten England’s borders, and I paid for your commission. I paid it, on the sole condition that you would return and focus on your duties, which now are tending to the family business, settling down in Amberdale, and taking a wife, not rectifying your sister’s ill decisions. It’s time for you to make good on your promise. You’ll do it now. Am I understood?”

  Henry stared at his grandfather, words frozen in his throat. The clock’s ticking was now deafening. The room’s shadows emphasized the deep-set creases around his mouth and the furrow of his weathered brow. The callous, pale-blue eyes that at one time were so like his own now
gleamed cold and distant. It was as if Henry were looking at a stranger, not at the man who raised him.

  He’d been home only a couple of days, but it was becoming clear that his grandfather was not the same man as when Henry had left. Hardness had settled over him, from the way he treated the children at the mill to the way he treated his own granddaughter.

  Henry would not win this battle—not this evening. He cleared his throat. “Very well. I’ll wait to leave for London for a week or so, but I will travel there within the fortnight.”

  A sardonic grin creased the old man’s face at his slight victory. “I suppose you think you’re being noble, rushing to the aid of a fallen woman. But I have lived nearly sixty years on this earth, and I can tell you with certainty that such heroics are wasted. Consider your future! This scandal will adhere to the Stockton name for years, nay, generations to come. When you learn more of the ways of the world, boy, you will see the truth in what I say.”

  “The ways of the world? Grandfather, I have been in battle. When you see a man die right next to you, believe me, you see full the ways of the world.”

  Grandfather did not bat an eye. “These are difficult times. Success depends on more than just cloth and wool. It is a political landscape that must be traversed with wisdom. If you want any future with Stockton Mill, or Stockton House, or anything else associated with your birthright, you’ll give greater care to your reputation.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The cart shifted as Kate lifted her wool skirt and flannel petticoat and climbed onto the wooden seat next to her brother. The horse at the cart’s helm pawed his hoof against the frozen ground and whinnied, sending a plume of frosty breath into the black night.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Charles adjusted the reins in his gloved hands as Kate settled the sewing basket at her feet. “I was detained at the mill.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Kate tightened her cloak around her and tucked her hair back beneath her cloak’s hood. “Thank you for driving me home. It’s so cold I fear I would have frozen solid if I had walked.”