She swallowed. “Yes, sir.” She leaned forward, and a tendril of hair fell in front of her shoulder, unleashing the scent of lavender, a pleasant diversion from smoke and burnt hay.
A shiver shot up his arm as he brushed her hair back with his fingers and wiped the wound. “You’ll have a pretty decent bump I’m afraid, and a mighty headache I fear, but I think you’ll be all right.”
“How is it that you have so much experience tending injuries?” she asked.
He dipped the cloth in the water once more, then squeezed the linen. “War. Unfortunately it turns soldiers into medics, whether they desire to be or not.” He managed a smile, hoping to ease the discomfort of them both.
It didn’t work.
He dipped his finger into the salve and scooped up a bit of the slimy, strongly scented ointment. “This might sting.” He applied it as gently as he could.
She flinched but said nothing.
Henry was grateful when Dearborne broke the heavy silence. “How did the fire start?”
Henry shook his head. “I wish I knew. I had retired for the evening, and when I looked out my chamber window, I noticed the blaze.”
“And I haven’t seen Mr. Stockton. Is he not here?”
“Grandfather’s not returned from the mill yet.”
Dearborne clicked his tongue and gave his head a sharp shake. “I was afraid something like this might happen.”
“You mean because I’m here?” Henry’s words were much rougher than he’d intended.
He stood and pulled up a chair next to Miss Dearborne, then sat down and returned his attention to her arm. “There is some debris. We must get it out so it won’t fester. This part might hurt a little.”
She winced as he dabbed it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Henry shook his head and dipped the rag in the bowl of tepid water.
“I take it you suspect foul play?” Dearborne crossed his arms over his barrel chest, returning the conversation to the topic at hand.
Henry raised his eyes and answered the question with one of his own. “Should I?”
Dearborne shifted his weight, sweat gathering beneath his hairline. “While we were driving on the lane, just south of your entrance, we heard horses racing across the meadow. I can only imagine they were fleeing the scene.”
Miss Dearborne’s amber eyes flicked in his direction, but she remained silent.
“I see.” Once he was certain the wound was clean, Henry pressed the cloth against it. She tensed beneath his touch, and he did his best to avoid touching her skin with his fingers. He was already too close to her. “It appears that someone—or some people—are not happy about my arrival.”
At his words, her body flinched.
She was clearly a member of that group.
He was about to finish binding the wound when the door flew back against the kitchen’s plaster wall, rattling the pewter plates on the shelves and the china in the cupboard.
Grandfather burst through the narrow door. He wore no cloak. No hat covered his thick gray hair. Air puffed from his chest as audible growls, and wild anger gleamed in his faded-blue eyes.
Henry jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair as he did so.
Grandfather slammed his walking cane against the stone floor and pinned Henry with his gaze. “They will be stopped. Do you hear me?” After a slew of curses he looked toward Dearborne and then back to Henry.
Henry raked his fingers through his hair and cast a glance at Miss Dearborne. Her pale face and wide eyes were no longer fixed on him but on his grandfather.
Did the man even notice her? “Grandfather, I—”
He silenced Henry by pointing a thick finger in his direction. “And there is not a doubt in my head who is behind this. If they think for a moment that—”
“We have a guest,” Henry blurted out, extending his arm to Miss Dearborne.
Grandfather whirled around. His brows jumped when he took notice of her. He’d never had the reputation of being a gracious host, but even Henry cringed as the old man scowled. “What in blazes are you doing here?” he thundered.
Miss Dearborne’s mouth fell open.
Henry stepped in front of her. “She was with Dearborne when he came to help.”
“I’ll bet she was.” His icy gaze pinned their feminine guest to her chair. “What’s wrong with her arm?”
“She was injured while we were fighting the blaze.”
Henry expected Grandfather’s tone to soften. After all, the woman was hurt. On their property. But instead, he stepped two large paces toward her. “Do you doubt that I make good on my promises?”
To Henry’s surprise, Miss Dearborne did not flinch. Her voice was stronger than it had been since her arrival. “No, sir.”
Henry stepped closer. “Grandfather, she had nothing to do with—”
“And do you think I am so easily shaken”—his grandfather ignored him and moved closer to their guest—“that I would cower to intimidation?”
“No, sir.” Her eyes were direct. Unwavering. “I do not.”
“Rest assured, Miss Dearborne, that the burning of a stable will not deter me.” In a flurry of anger, Grandfather turned to stomp from the room.
Her soft words stopped him, her voice cool and controlled. “I would ask you the same question, Mr. Stockton.”
He turned slowly, a vein throbbing on his forehead. “What did you say?”
She stood, her shoulders pressed back, her pointed chin jutted high. She surprised Henry further by closing the space between her and his grandfather. Pink rushed to her cheeks. Perhaps this was the dogged Dearborne determination he’d heard about but never witnessed. “You asked me a question, and now it is my turn to ask it of you. Do you think that I will cower to intimidation?”
Henry’s eyebrows shot up. He’d spent most of his life protecting his sister from his grandfather’s harsh tones. His instinct was to protect Miss Dearborne.
Miss Dearborne, however, was different.
Clearly she did not need his help.
CHAPTER 11
Where’ve you been, Kate?” John’s voice called to her from somewhere off to the right.
Kate froze in her steps just inside Meadowvale’s main gate. Clutching her damp cloak closer to her chest and clasping the borrowed blanket around her shoulders, she looked for John but did not see him.
The hairs on her neck prickled in the night air.
A lantern’s glow caught her eye, and she glanced in the direction of the sheep house.
There, next to the wooden structure, stood a dark figure.
Kate turned her attention to the main gate, eased it closed to prevent it from slamming, and turned back toward John’s approaching figure.
She forced gaiety to her voice. “John, you scared me. What are you doing out here lurking in the shadows?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He lifted the lantern higher, and the light glinted against his unshaven jaw and prominent cheekbones. His expression held no humor. His emotionless eyes did not waver.
“I was at the sewing meeting at the Purty home.” She brushed past him toward the cottage.
His long stride quickly overtook hers, and he fell into step next to her, his boots heavy and loud against the thickening layer of snow. “I encountered Mrs. Wooden in the village, and she was leaving the same meeting you were. That was two hours ago.”
Kate groaned inwardly. Father may have left John in charge of Meadowvale, but he did not leave him in charge of her. The last thing she wanted was to be forced to give John an account of her day. “I visited with Jane afterward and it took us a while to finish our conversation.”
“I heard a man’s voice. There, with you, outside the gate,” John persisted.
“It was Charles, of course.”
When she did not slow her pace, John took her by the arm and held it firm.
She winced as his fingers squeezed her injured flesh, and she yan
ked her arm back. “What are you doing?”
“How is it that a brother, who is well aware of the danger in these nights, will drop off his only sister at the gate on a public road and not have the decency to see her safely to the door?”
She tightened her grip on the blanket. “You know the situation. Charles is not welcome at Meadowvale.”
Without another word she continued toward the cottage, but he stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You’ve been avoiding me all day, Kate.”
Annoyed, she stopped and crossed her arms over her chest, holding her bundle close. The day had been long—too long for her to consider standing out in the cold for one more minute to discuss a topic that would have no resolution. At least not this night. “I don’t wish to argue.”
“Nor do I.” He leaned closer, his scent of perspiration encircling her. His eyebrows drew together as he focused on her face. “Have you been crying?”
“No. It’s from smoke.” She stiffened, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth.
“I have smelled smoke on the air. Must be a fire somewhere.” John held the lantern higher, then his gaze fell on the blanket around her shoulders. His eyes narrowed. Without permission he reached out and touched the fabric.
Kate froze. It was too late to step out of reach.
She was still wrapped in the blanket from Stockton House that Mrs. Figgs had given her to wear on their walk home. She need not see his face to know what he was thinking. Like any man in textiles, he could feel the unique texture of the cloth. And he no doubt recognized it was not cloth from Meadowvale.
His countenance darkened, and he nodded toward the door. “You’d best get inside, then. It’s cold out, and the night will grow colder still.”
Without another word Kate hurried indoors and took the back stairs to her chamber, quiet so as not to draw Betsy’s or anyone else’s attention. By the time she rounded the small, dark landing and reached the top of the creaky stairs, tears had gathered in her eyes.
She had seen the way John had looked at her. Desire balanced in his dark eyes. But what was the source of that desire?
Perhaps he was concerned for her and cared for her, as a man in love cares for a woman.
Perhaps he merely saw her as a means to an end, as a man intent upon securing his future.
She had also seen the way Henry Stockton had looked at her. Even though her father was his enemy, he welcomed her into his home. Tended her arm and head. Asked nothing in return.
She entered her modest bedchamber and stepped closer to the fire that had undoubtedly been lit by Betsy, poking it to revive the flame.
Once the flame leapt with life, she shed the Stockton blanket from her shoulders and held the length of broadcloth up to the firelight to assess the tightly woven fibers and the smooth color of the dye. The soft brown fabric had its own texture, but it was not so different from the fabric produced by her father and his journeymen. Her heart sank at the realization. She liked to believe, as her father did, that their process of cloth making produced a finer fabric. But the Stockton cloth was impressive. She folded the blanket and set it atop the trunk next to the window.
Kate struggled to unbutton her dress without Betsy’s assistance, but after removing her soggy, torn gown and damp underclothes, she pulled her heavy flannel nightdress over a dry chemise. After donning two pairs of wool stockings and wrapping a fresh shawl around her chilled shoulders, she returned to the trunk beneath the window and sat atop it, angling herself so she could see Stockton House.
Daily she had looked out this window and beheld the intimidating structure, and for years she had believed that its inhabitants were her enemy. That was certainly true of the older Mr. Stockton. But the younger Mr. Stockton had been quite different. Based on his behavior toward her tonight, she could almost believe it when her brother said he could be trusted.
Almost.
She tucked her knees under her chin, leaned her cheek upon them, and spied the top of the black mill beyond the shadowed, frost-laden forest. How easy it would be to believe like her father. “Security first. Happiness second.” But it seemed such a bleak outlook.
She tried to recall what her mother would have told her during times such as these, but the memories were foggy, and they grew more so by the day. How she wished her mother were here now, to help guide her through the difficult waters—to help her make sense of the attention from John Whitby and to be a voice of reason in the midst of the weavers’ plight against the mills.
Since her mother’s death nearly ten years prior, Kate had had no feminine guidance, and now she was at the mercy of her father and those he put in positions of authority around her. Her mother would have reminded her that anger would only be a burden to her and no one else. She would have urged Kate to forgive the offenses of others and forget them, lest she struggle under their weight. Mother would have urged her to seek the good in those around her, like John Whitby.
Kate sniffed. She had entirely too much of her father in her. His propensity to hold a grudge and cling to wrongs had skipped Charles entirely and landed solely in her character. It was a negative trait, she knew, but one so hard to deny.
She lifted her gaze from the black mill to the starless sky. She thought it impossible to forgive someone like Mr. Stockton or the Penningtons, but as she let her fingers trail over the space where Henry Stockton had bound her wound, she began to think that maybe, just maybe, a Stockton might not be all bad.
Henry leaned his elbow against the wooden table, stared into the waning fire, and rubbed his palm over the stubble gathering on his chin. Cool dampness still clung to his linen shirt and wool waistcoat, creating an irritating cocoon around his torso, and smoke’s inescapable scent burned his nose and lungs.
He felt his chest tighten at the recollection of the evening’s occurrences. His mind rushed to make sense of it all, from a physical attack on his property to Miss Dearborne’s injury to Grandfather’s heartless treatment of their female guest. Surprisingly, what shocked him the most was his grandfather. Henry barely recognized him. He’d always been a gruff man with sharp opinions and exacting expectations, but something must have happened while Henry was away to harden him to the point of downright cruelty.
How foolish he had been to think that he had left the war behind him and life would be easier once he returned to England’s countryside. Not only did he find his neighbors engaged in a war of their own, but the battleground seemed to be the same land he called home.
Henry turned as Mrs. Figgs appeared in the kitchen’s threshold. The soot smudged on her cheek and her clothing spoke to the evening’s events. She carried two cups of tea and placed one of them before him. “Drink this.”
Henry made no motion to drink the tea.
She nudged his shoulder. “Go on now, do as I say. You look the worse for wear, and after being out in the cold and wet night, you’ll be sick as a dog if you’re not careful.”
Battling reluctance, he obeyed the stern order and then grimaced at the bitter taste. “What is that?”
“My special brew.” She nodded. “It will keep you well, mark my words. There now, drink it all, like I told you.”
He’d never win this argument, not against the stubborn housekeeper. He took another sip. The heat eased his throat, but it did little to touch the chill plaguing the rest of his person.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Mrs. Figgs propped her fist on her waist, her head tilted to the side. It did not matter that the clock was nearing midnight. If Mrs. Figgs was awake, she was busy tending something.
Henry shook his head. He couldn’t eat a bite, especially after this tea. He pushed the teacup forward and leaned back in the chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What a strange night it has been.”
Mrs. Figgs set her teacup on the table and wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye.”
If he wanted to know the true state of the Stockton estate and his grandfather, there was no greater expert than Mrs. Figgs. He
nry shifted to face her. “How long has it been like this?”
She gave a comical laugh and brushed long white wisps back under her soot-streaked white cap with the back of her work-worn hand. “To what are you referring? The fighting between the millers and the weavers, or your grandfather’s brashness?”
“Both, I suppose.”
The chair’s legs scraped across the uneven stone floor as she pulled it away from the table. She sat and leaned forward and pinned him with a direct gaze, as if taking Henry into her confidence. “As for the weavers—the Dearbornes, the Woodens, the Purtys, and the like—these are precarious times. You must understand. You were away when the law changed. In years past the millers were limited in the number of machines that could occupy their mills. Now those limits are lifted, and the weavers have lost the last thread of power they had against the mill owners. When that happened, your grandfather added more and more of those machines, which meant he discharged many of his longtime workers.”
She took a sip of tea and returned the cup to the table. “To upset them further, he employed children to run the machines, which took jobs from their fathers and uncles.”
Henry lifted his gaze to the copper pots and drying herbs hanging from the kitchen’s low beams. He could understand why they would be upset at the prospect of children working jobs previously held by full-grown men. He was too.
Mrs. Figgs wiped her hair from her face. “Most recently he made arrangements to purchase a gig mill—one of those mills that finishes the cloth, you know, that raises the nap and trims it off. Normally this work is put out to the shearmen to do in their own homes. One mill alone will take work from the hands of more than a dozen shearmen.”
Henry remembered hearing about the gig mills. They were not a new invention, but they were not common in the area. With so many other battles to fight, they had never been an issue.
Until now.
Mrs. Figgs continued, her grainy voice matter of fact. “From what I understand, your grandfather made an agreement that he would not put in gig mills if they wouldn’t strike for more pay. But now it seems he has changed his mind. The weavers feel betrayed. Folks fear for their future.”
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