“You shouldn’t be out at all in this weather.” He lifted a blanket from under the seat, extended it toward her, and nodded toward her basket. “What were you ladies working on tonight, stockings or muffs?”
“Neither.” Kate accepted the blanket and arranged it over her lap. She retrieved her incomplete project, smiling proudly. “Mittens. For the parish to give to the poor.”
“Ah.” He took the mitten from her, held it up, eyed the uneven weave. “I didn’t realize your knitting skills had progressed so far.”
Her shoulders sagged as the playful sarcasm in her brother’s voice met her ear. With a giggle, she snatched her creation back. “It isn’t that dreadful, is it? It may not be the most beautiful mitten in the world, but it will keep someone’s hands warm, and that’s what’s important. Sadly, we cannot keep up with the need.”
Charles looked up to the dark, clouded sky. “Spring will be here before too much longer, and then there will not be a need for such things. At least that is something we can all look forward to.”
“Ah, but then another need will replace it.” Kate rubbed her hands together as the truth of her statement settled over her. So many had so little, and many had no prospect of improving their situation. Despite the uncertainty of her future, Kate had to admit she was fortunate. Her father’s business remained strong. She never worried about when she would eat or feared she would go to sleep cold, like some of the Amberdale residents.
Charles urged the horse forward, and before long they crossed the stone bridge leading out of the village. He lifted his voice to be heard above the wind. “Besides the cold, there is another reason I would prefer that you not walk alone at night. There’s been another attack on a mill over in Wakefield. I don’t think it’s safe for you to be out on your own now. Not until the violence lessens.”
“You sound like Father,” Kate teased, hoping to ease the worry coloring his tone.
His voice tightened. “Well, in this one instance, he would be right.”
Kate sighed and let her shoulders roll forward slightly as they swayed with the jostling wagon.
After several minutes of silence, Charles continued. “How is Father?”
Normally Charles’s words were strong and clear, but his voice always seemed to grow thin when he inquired after their father.
She bit her lip. She’d been warned more than once by Father and John against sharing Meadowvale’s details with Charles, but how could she not? He may no longer live within Meadowvale gates, but he was still her brother.
Kate cleared her throat. “He has gone to Leeds.”
“I’m not surprised.” Charles’s expression remained flat. “I’ve heard the shearmen have been meeting to discuss how to combat the gig mills.”
“How do you know that?”
“It isn’t exactly a secret.” Charles fixed his gaze on the dark road ahead. “I wish you’d reconsider my offer and live with me at my cottage. I don’t like the thought of you at Meadowvale with all of this turmoil going on.”
Kate adjusted her cape. “I thank you for your concern, but you’re overreacting.”
“Things are not like they used to be, Kate.” He slapped the reins on the horse’s back. “The situation is quite serious, and grows more so by the day.”
“I am not going to leave Father.” She gave a definite nod. “I could never leave him. My mind is made up on that count. It would break his heart. Besides, all has been quiet in the meadow. I’m not in the least fearful.”
“Things are quiet for now, but you know how things have been. I told you that the mill over in Wakefield was attacked, and I have heard reports that the local weavers are up in arms about the recent occurrences at the cloth halls. You probably know much more than I do about that, but I urge you to be cautious of whom you trust.”
“Father needs me,” she stated, as much to reassure herself as him.
Charles ignored her reason. “I fear these attacks are only the beginning. With Henry Stockton back, who knows what else will change.”
She straightened but did not respond. It seemed the name Henry Stockton was on everyone’s lips, and as much as she hated it, the man she was supposed to despise intrigued her in an inexplicable way.
They drove in silence, and eventually all trace of light from the village disappeared until all that remained were the sparse silvery bits of moonlight stealing through deep, shifting clouds. She’d traveled this road so many times she could make it home with her eyes closed. They passed the Noons’ cottage. The gatehouse for the Wolberdon estate. The old iron gate that marked the entrance to Stockton House. She averted her eyes as they did so.
“Just keep my offer in mind,” Charles said suddenly, as if the conversation had been simmering in his mind. “Besides, the longer you stay at Meadowvale, the more you will become part of that world.”
“I am already a part of that world,” she whispered.
“But you don’t have to be. That way of life is dying, Kate. It’s why I left. Before long, there will not be enough work to sustain a livelihood.”
He had shared his argument with her numerous times. She understood his reasoning. And she did not necessarily disagree with them. But her loyalty to her father ran too deep. After all, they had been raised at Meadowvale. Their mother had lived there. And if—if—Father’s plan came to fruition, she would marry and probably never leave the cottage.
Without warning, shouts cracked to the west.
Charles jerked the horse to a halt. “Did you hear that?”
Kate shuddered. Her brother’s words of danger hammered fresh in her mind, and her pulse jumped. She whipped her head around to learn the source of the distress.
Another undecipherable cry broke the icy silence, and then hoofbeats thundered across the shadowed pasture to their left.
“Is that smoke?” Charles asked, the sound of a sharp inhale rising above the disrupted silence.
Kate lifted her nose and drew a breath. At first all seemed normal, but then the abrasive sensation of smoke replaced the spicy scent of Scots pines and snow. She turned. Behind her, a yellow glow flickered into the night sky. “Fire!”
“It’s Stockton House,” he blurted. “Hold on.”
Apprehension billowed to alarm, and Kate gripped the cart’s rickety seat as her brother turned the vehicle with a shout.
Her cloak’s hood blew backward, and bits of icy snow struck her face. She clutched her cloak closed. A chill raced through her core as they sped down the darkened lane in the direction from which they had come. With each fall of the horse’s hooves, the scent of smoke intensified.
The gate, which had just been closed when they passed, was now open. Charles yanked the reins and turned the cart up the drive. Kate struggled both to keep her seat and to comprehend the situation at the same time.
It was not the main house that was ablaze, but a building just to the east of it.
How had this happened so quickly?
Charles pulled to a stop and leapt down from the cart. “Stay here.” He tossed the reins in her direction before moving to secure a length of canvas around the horse’s eyes. “Don’t move, you hear? This horse will spook. Hold him tight.”
Kate shifted on the gig’s narrow bench and coughed as the smoky air infiltrated her lungs, thicker and more invasive than the first wisps of smoke she’d encountered on the road. Transfixed by the sight, she watched for several minutes as the bright, leaping light illuminated the figures of two men and one woman battling the blaze. One of the men struggled to lead animals from the burning structure.
She should stay where she was, like Charles had instructed, but even as she held the horse steady, she felt useless.
She hated to be useless.
The black horse pranced from foot to foot. He whinnied and tossed his head back in agitation. She adjusted the reins, but without warning the stable’s roof crashed in, spewing a plume of smoke and cinders. She cowered at the sudden noise, and the horse shrieked and reared. Kate scram
bled to tighten the slack on the reins, but the animal bolted before she could pull them taut.
The animal raced down the shadowed drive and rounded a corner far too quickly for the ancient gig. Kate slid to the side and slammed against the low seat rail. As she did, the cart tilted. Her weight shifted and the short side rail snapped.
The reins ripped from her gloved hands. With a sharp cry she tumbled and fell against the black stone wall lining the drive. The jagged limestone ripped through her sleeve and tore her arm’s tender flesh, and her head crashed against the wall before her entire body slid to the path below. Air whooshed from her mouth as she landed. White dots flurried in her vision.
The immediate pain stole her breath, even more so than the smoke. Her body fell limp, and she did not fight it. She closed her eyes until all was black, and she gasped for air.
Minutes passed. Perhaps it was only seconds, she had no way to tell. Sounds crunched toward her. Voices. She opened her eyes and looked to her side. Two blurry silhouettes were approaching from the direction of the fire.
“Don’t move.” Charles dropped to his knees next to her, his breath puffing out in a fog above her. He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Shaking away her confusion, Kate grimaced as pain pierced her head. The smoke stung her eyes and scratched her lungs, and her arm screamed in protest at her injury. She dared not look at the sight. “I—I fell against the wall.”
“I can see that.” Charles held out her arm to examine the wound and then slowly helped her to a seated position. “What happened?”
Kate blinked away the snowflakes. “The horse was frightened. I think the gig seat broke, and I fell off. Where is the horse?”
“Don’t worry about him.” Charles steadied her shoulders and patiently helped her to her feet, allowing her time to test each limb as she put weight on it. “He’ll find his way home. Where are you hurt?”
“I hit my head.” She struggled to maintain balance. “And my arm.” She winced as she took a step forward. Then she lifted her gaze. Her vision was clearing. Just behind her brother stood Henry Stockton.
She could barely make out his features, not with the firelight flaming behind him, but there was no denying the straight nose and square jaw.
“Miss Dearborne.” His words anxious, he stepped from behind Charles. He reached out to steady her but then pulled his hand away.
She could only blink. How she must appear. Everywhere hurt, but now, more than anything, her pride throbbed. The fall had pulled the pins from her hair, and it tumbled over her shoulders and face in pitiful disarray.
She searched for words amidst the confusion of the night’s odd events. “A misstep, ’tis all.” Eager to turn the attention away from herself, she nodded toward the raging fire. “The stable?”
But one look in its direction answered her question.
In the light of the dancing flames the stone walls were visible, darkened and charred. They were still standing, but there was no roof.
Fists propped on his waist, Mr. Stockton followed her gaze and turned to assess the burning structure. His breath came in huffs, she noted, and damp hair clung to his forehead. “Just a building. No animals were injured as far as we know. Could have been worse. But more importantly, you are injured. Come inside where we can tend to the wound.”
Panic surged at the thought of entering his residence. She flicked her gaze to the massive estate he called home. What would her father say if he knew? “No, thank you. I only need to go to Meadowvale.”
“Kate, best have a look at it,” Charles interrupted, his voice soft. “You’re bleeding.”
She shifted uncomfortably under her brother’s insistence.
Charles leaned close and lowered his voice. “This is Mr. Stockton. You can trust him.”
You can trust him.
Charles’s words were intended to reassure her, but how could she trust the man whose very presence was a threat to her way of life?
Despite her reservations, her options were limited. They no longer had a cart. How would she get home? Walk? A shiver traveled her spine and her hands trembled. One look at her brother confirmed his coat had gotten far too wet from the water buckets to be walking her home. She had no choice, and with each heartbeat her wound throbbed. The entire side of her gown was damp from the soggy snow covering the ground, and her cloak lay at her feet in a sodden heap.
Mr. Stockton leaned down and picked up her cloak but did not extend it to her. “Come inside, Miss Dearborne. I only mean to help.”
Her body ached, and the world around her tilted. She feared she might faint if she stood up much longer. She could not spend her energy in an argument. “Very well.”
Kate took Charles’s arm and turned toward Stockton House. She bit her lip as her gaze climbed from the hedges flanking the door to the leaded windows above it to the slate roof stories above her. A strange sense took hold of her, as if the moment she stepped foot in the enemy’s home, everything would change.
And the thought frightened her.
CHAPTER 10
Henry’s heart thudded, wild and untamed, threatening to burst from the confines of his ribs.
The stable, burned.
Miss Dearborne, injured.
Both on his property.
True, he’d hoped to encounter the mysterious beauty again, but hardly in this manner.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he traversed the familiar, frozen path of the main drive. The lingering smoke burned his eyes and clawed at his throat. Henry slowed his steps just enough to glance back at the stable. Hot, white embers popped into the night sky, spreading their scent of burning wood and hay. The horses were loose in the garden, and Mrs. Figgs was attempting to corral them. Mr. Figgs had the blaze under control, but in truth, there was little left to save.
Henry could not think of those things now. None of it mattered. He adjusted Miss Dearborne’s wet cloak over his forearm. She needed assistance, and at the moment that was his top priority—whether she cared for him or not.
He opened the servants’ door to the kitchen. Warm, yellow light ushered them into safety. “My apologies for bringing you in through the kitchen. Mrs. Figgs’s remedies are in the pantry, and I would hate to make you walk so far out of the way. Please, come in by the fire and warm yourselves.” Henry crossed the threshold.
She stopped in the doorway, eyeing the space with cautious reserve. Her long chestnut hair hung nearly down to her waist, damp and windblown, curling under its own will. But it was her expression, full of discomfort and skepticism, that caused his breath to hitch in his throat. After several moments of silent assessment, she complied and stepped next to the fire.
As the fire’s glow illuminated her slender form, Henry winced. A rivulet of blood trickled down her cheek. The upper portion of her sleeve hung shredded over her forearm, revealing a messy, crimson gash.
The sight of blood unleashed a battalion of unwanted images in his mind—memories of injuries much worse than this one. He wiped the perspiration gathering on his temple with the back of his hand and willed his lungs to expand for a breath.
Would the sight of blood always affect him so?
He discarded his wet coat and hung it and Miss Dearborne’s cloak near the fire.
“Dearborne, will you get that chair for your sister?” Henry instructed, finding it easier to fall into his past role of giving orders when a crisis occurred. “I’ll return shortly.”
Henry stepped out of the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he did so, and entered the pantry. He’d retrieved Mrs. Figgs’s medicine box dozens of times as a boy, and constant boyhood scrapes made him familiar with its contents. As he sifted through the bottles and jars, he could hear the conversation between the siblings as clearly as if he were still in the room with them.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she hissed.
“It’s fine,” Dearborne whispered. “We need to tend to your arm.”
“
Father would be furious.”
“He’d be more furious if you returned home in your current state.”
After a pause, she whispered again. “This is a mess.”
“You trust me, don’t you? I trust Mr. Stockton. All will be well. You’ll see.”
Feeling more like an intruder instead of the house’s master, Henry returned with water, linen, and Mrs. Figgs’s salve. He forced a smile and knelt before Miss Dearborne. “May I? I can assure you I’ve had a great deal of experience binding up wounds.”
Miss Dearborne flashed her wide eyes to her brother. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair before extending her arm toward him.
Henry prepared to move the fabric away from her arm and then stopped. Her brother’s cautious eye would be quick, no doubt, to catch anything that might cast a shadow on his sister’s feminine virtues. “Would you prefer to clean it?”
Dearborne shook his head. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Miss Dearborne flinched and straightened when he adjusted the angle of her arm.
“I’m just looking at it. I won’t touch it yet.” He garnered the courage to look at her again. Her lovely eyes, deep pools of hazel, were fixed on his hand. Balanced in their golden depths was an emotion—but which one? Her expression confirmed she did not want to be in his kitchen any more than he wanted to have guests. In that measure, at least, they understood each other without saying a word.
He returned his attention to the wound. It appeared as if the bleeding had stopped, or at least slowed. The arm would be easy enough to tend. He lifted his gaze to the blood trickling down her smooth cheek.
He tipped his head toward the injury. “May I?”
She exchanged a glance with her brother and then nodded.
He forced his hand to steady as he used his forefinger to angle her chin toward the light.
“You’ve quite a bump here.” Her nearness clouded his thoughts. With his free hand he dabbed the linen in the water and washed the blood from her temple. “Your head hit the wall, correct?”
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