The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  The snow fell heavy on Henry’s shoulders and his eyelashes, dusting his black caped greatcoat in a veil of white. The flakes dropped on his cheeks and melted as they collided with the heat of his skin.

  He should go home, but the thought of returning to the empty abode seemed a lonelier option than remaining here at the graveyard. Overhead, pewter clouds churned, whispering their ominous threats to unleash more snow and sleet. And yet here he stood, his feet planted firmly on the burial ground, his hat in his hand, his hair fluttering in a dance with the raw wind.

  He lowered his gaze to the fresh heap of dirt covering his grandfather’s coffin. His throat constricted around a tight lump as he read the inscription carved on the polished stone:

  Here lies the body of William Herald Stockton.

  Henry leaned with his hand on the shoulder-high monument and sniffed. As much as he wanted to deny it, the reality of home was more garish than war. At least in war he had been able to disengage from the actions around him. But the moment his foot stepped back on Stockton property, that self-made wall around his heart began to thin. Now he wished he would have kept the wall intact, firm and impenetrable.

  With war death was expected. He’d seen too much and played too much of a role in it. He’d hoped to have left all that behind him. But like a hunter stalking its prey, determined to wreak havoc and destruction, it had followed far too closely.

  But what ached more was the knowledge that his final conversation with the man was an argument where anger had prevailed. Guilt and regret boiled inside him, tensing every muscle to the point of pain.

  When had life taken such a morbid turn?

  He turned his attention once again to the sky, squinting against the fat, falling flakes as thick clouds churned amidst the wind currents. How many times had he done this very thing? Looked up, as if searching for God to answer the questions holding him captive? To release him from the grip of regret? The nightmares would haunt him, he knew. His past actions would be a noose around his neck. He could accept that. But this was different. His regret extended to his grandfather, and that he could not accept.

  The snow was hardening to sleet. Bits of ice rained down on him, forcing him to flip his collar higher and return his hat to his head. Standing at the gravestone would not erase what had happened. It would not give him another chance to make things right with his grandfather.

  If he was to return home by nightfall, he needed to hurry. Even with the pistol on his person it was not advisable to be in Stockton Forest alone at night.

  CHAPTER 14

  When Henry returned to Stockton House that evening, he stepped into the front parlor, shrugged the greatcoat from his shoulders, and swept his wide-brimmed hat from his head. As he lifted his arms to hang the coat on the hall tree, light and rustling from the drawing room drew his attention.

  He slowed his motions to make no sound. It was not unusual for the maid to keep the fire ablaze all day, especially in the grip of winter’s deepest chill, but the light spilling from the doorway was much brighter than that from a mere fire. Furthermore, he could account for no rustling, unless one of the staff happened to be in the room or one of Grandfather’s hunting dogs had found its way in.

  His frayed nerves were already on high alert, and he put a cautious hand to his pistol’s butt. The weapon had not left his side in days, and he had no intention of parting ways with it now.

  He pulled his pistol from his waistband. “Figgs?”

  No response.

  Pulse thudding, he stepped toward the door, weighing his actions. Deciding surprise to be his best bet, he whirled around the corner, pistol raised.

  “Good gracious, Henry!” The light, feminine voice rose from his left. “What on earth are you doing with that pistol? Put it down this instant.”

  He lowered the gun. A smile crossed his face—the first genuine smile in days—for there, seated on the settee next to the fire, was his very pregnant sister.

  “Henry! At last you are home.” Mollie put her hands on the arms of the settee, struggling to lift herself up from the cushions.

  “Don’t get up.” He put the pistol on the table and hurried to her, then dropped to the seat and embraced her.

  She pulled away and swiped at the tears gathering in her blue eyes. “I—I thought I would never see you again. And here you are.” A trembling smile brightened her face. “Are you all right?”

  “I am.” He wrapped his arm around her once more and squeezed her shoulders before he pressed a brotherly kiss to her forehead. Her jasmine perfume unleashed a flood of memories.

  As the shock of seeing her subsided, he held her at arm’s length. “But what are you doing here? You are supposed to be in London. How did you get here?”

  Her lips formed a pretty pout, her spark returning. “How do you think I got here? I came by coach, of course.”

  “A public coach?” He blinked in disbelief.

  “Of course a public coach.” Mollie drew her blanket protectively around her. “You know Aunt hasn’t the funds for such a luxury as her own transportation.”

  He drew a deep breath, willing himself to ignore the dozens of unpleasant potential outcomes that swirled in his mind. “But they aren’t safe. You could have been injured. You could have been—”

  “It was time to come home, and I couldn’t wait another day.” Her words were clipped, and the smile that had graced her face moments ago vanished. “The situation was not a good one, and then with Grandfather’s death, it just worsened. I had no choice, can you not see that?”

  They stared at one another for several moments, the silence between them screaming what words could not.

  Mollie looked so small yet so altered. She had always worn her hair in loose, forced curls pinned to her head. Now it was secured in a tight coil at the base of her neck. She had the same finely arched eyebrows and blue eyes fringed in thick, black lashes, so like his own. Now, though, dark circles formed half-moons beneath her lower lashes. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but the words fell flat on his tongue. How did one go about asking three years’ worth of questions?

  He could not help but lower his gaze to the swell of her belly. He considered his words carefully before speaking. “If things were so dire, you should have sent for me. I would have come.”

  She placed a protective hand on her middle, and her narrow shoulders sagged. Her words rushed forth, like a pent-up explanation waiting for release. “Oh, Henry, do not be angry with me. I had to leave. I could not bear it one more day, with the judgmental stares and whispered condemnations. Who would have guessed that Aunt could be so condescending? I was an embarrassment to her, and she made no bones about that.”

  She clutched Henry’s forearm with her long fingers, as if to retain his full attention, and met his gaze directly. “I made a mistake, Henry. Believe me, I am paying for my decisions, but I do not need to be constantly reminded of them every hour of every day. That is no way to live.”

  “But it is not safe to travel alone. Especially with you in, well, you—”

  “With child?” Her lips pursed, and she dropped her hand from his sleeve. “I know it’s hard for you to say, but it is a fact. A fact we all must accept. I cannot hide from this. And why should I? It is all how I react to it and present it, ’tis all.”

  Henry softened as he looked at his sister, for he saw the child he remembered and struggled to see the woman she had become. This was not the life he would have wished for her. She was a beauty, and she easily boasted one of the sharpest wits this side of Leeds. She could have had her pick of beaus. But now her belly grew with budding life, and she would be judged wherever she went.

  He shrugged his doubts to the side. At least with Mollie there was no need for pretense. “Well, regardless of why you are here or how you got here, I’m so glad to see you. With Grandfather’s death, I—I—” His words faltered. He ignored the shudder that coursed through him at the memory of Grandfather’s lifeless form under the tree and fo
rced normalcy to his voice, for Mollie’s sake, and quickly shifted topics. “But how did Mrs. Figgs respond when she saw you? Surely you two have talked.”

  When Mollie didn’t answer, he lifted his head. She was rarely at a loss for words.

  She studied her hand, her head cocked to the side.

  She was up to something.

  Henry arched his eyebrow. “You have spoken with her, correct?”

  Again, no response.

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his position. “Surely she was curious. When we spoke of you earlier, she seemed to know nothing of, uh, recent developments.”

  Mollie sighed. “Very well, I will tell you, but I fear you will not be happy about it.”

  Concern prickled up his spine. Mollie had never been a stranger to mischief, and judging by her tone, that aspect of her personality had remained consistent. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing.” She chewed her lip and studied the blanket fringe. “I only told her that I had been married and was now a widow.”

  At first Henry laughed. Surely she jested.

  He narrowed his eyes when she did not join his laughter. “You did what?”

  “I had to!” Her cry shattered the room’s stillness. “What else could I do? She looked at me so oddly. I thought that Grandfather had told her about the baby, but apparently he did not. I had to tell her something.”

  The reality of her words sobered him. “What about the truth?”

  “I could not tell her that.”

  “Why?” He raised his voice an octave.

  She motioned for him to be quiet. “It worked out perfectly, you see. I have not been back in Amberdale for well over a year. It is a completely believable story.”

  “Believable or not, it is a lie. This is not a fantasy world, Mollie. Very soon you will have another life to care for. You cannot build a new life for you and your baby on a lie. If you do, I fear it will haunt you until the day you die. Furthermore, once it spreads beyond Mrs. Figgs, the more difficult it will be to set things to right.”

  Her face flushed, and she looked to the fire.

  He thought he saw a tear glisten in her pale eyes, but she blinked it away and faced him again. “I know you are right, but let me handle this in my own way. I panicked, ’twas all.”

  “But you will speak to her and set things right?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t like being harsh with her. He softened his tone. “I can help you, Mollie. If you would only tell me the name of the—”

  “No.”

  “I will not judge,” he added. “I will not criticize or rebuke you, you have my word. But if there is one thing I must insist on, it is honesty. With Mrs. Figgs. With me.”

  She shook her head, and this time he was certain. Tears pooled in her eyes. She placed her thin hand over her midsection. “I am sorry, brother. But that I cannot do.”

  CHAPTER 15

  A storm raged outside the countinghouse as furious as the tempest blustering within Henry’s mind. Tierner, the magistrate, had sent word that he would stop by this morning. Where was he?

  Henry drummed his fingers on the desk’s edge, glanced at the mantel clock, then adjusted the mourning band encircling his upper arm. Only two minutes had passed since his last check. He snatched up the magistrate’s letter but didn’t read it. Impatience pulsed through his every breath, and his toe tapped erratically against the planked wood floor. He’d not be able to concentrate on anything, not until the man delivered the news he had been waiting on for days.

  After what seemed like hours, a tap sounded on the door, followed by the customary creak of the hinges. Henry jumped to his feet before the guest’s identity was even known.

  To Henry’s great relief, Tierner appeared in the doorway. The older man’s already ruddy face gleamed red from the cold, and his long oilskin coat brushed the floor with each step.

  “Is now a good time?” Tierner gruffed, sweeping his hat from his head and shaking the snow from it.

  An odd measure of excitement coursed through Henry. “Nothing is more important to me than finding out who is responsible for my grandfather’s death. You may interrupt me at any time, at any place, if you bring news of who might have done this.”

  Tierner pressed his thick lips together and nodded. “Well now, I’ll not take much of your time, but I do have some information you might find interesting.”

  “Please.” Henry motioned to the chairs by the fire. “Be seated. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No. Like I said, this won’t take long.”

  Both men settled in front of the fire, the hissing and popping of which mingled with the howling wind and the patter of sleet against the pane, creating a distracting ruckus. Henry could wait no longer. “What of Wilkes?”

  “I hate to disappoint you. I know you were hoping this could be wrapped up quickly, but I am afraid Wilkes’s alibi is ironclad.”

  Disappointment sliced through Henry as sure and as searing as the blade he’d taken in battle. He wanted to be able to blame someone, to bring someone to justice.

  Tierner continued. “Wilkes found work at a farm west of here. He was seen by multiple people at the public house around the time of night your grandfather was murdered. I visited the site myself and spoke with the barkeeps, one of whom just happens to be a constable. Wilkes was not fond of your grandfather, but he is not responsible for his demise.”

  Henry’s fist clenched at his side. He wanted to grab Tierner, as if by force he could extract the truth. He relaxed his fist. But Tierner didn’t know the truth. And at the moment, he was the only one Henry could trust.

  Tierner’s words recaptured Henry’s interest. “As you know, even though a stab wound is what claimed your grandfather’s life, a pistol was found at the scene.”

  Henry nodded, eager for information. “And? Did you find the gunsmith?”

  A rusty smile cracked the old man’s weathered face. “We studied the markings and have found the gunsmith. We plan to make contact with him as soon as we’re able.”

  “This is good news, then, right?” Optimism flared within Henry as he nearly stood from his chair. “That will lead us to the man who was likely present.”

  Tierner drew a sharp breath and patted his hand on his chest. “I wouldn’t be too sure. The weapon was a fine one, with delicate engraving. It’s not likely one that our suspect would carry. Other than that, our leads are few. The weather did not help us. Any footprints were lost with the melting and refreezing of the snow, and the ground below was too frozen to retain any indentions. We did find hoofprints, but we have no way of telling how long they had been there. For all we know, they belonged to your grandfather’s horse.”

  The faint flicker of hope that had sprung within Henry quickly dissipated.

  Tierner adjusted his coat. “But the money that was on your grandfather’s person—the fact that it was left behind, along with the other items—speaks volumes as to who might be behind this.”

  Henry bit his lip. Yes, the money. After the body was taken back to the house, it was clear that nothing in his pockets had been tampered with. Whoever killed Grandfather did not bother to take his money, nor the key ring or watch fob that hung from his waist. Indeed, even his gold ring was still on his finger. Had the attacker been a gypsy or highwayman, anything worth any value would have been stolen.

  “Be honest with me, Tierner. You know this county and the people in it much better than I do. What do you make of this?”

  The magistrate ran a rough hand over his chin and stared into the fire. He stared so long that Henry began to think he would not answer. But then he responded, his voice raspy and low. “No one likes to hear that their loved one was not well liked, but I doubt it’s a surprise to you that many around here hated your grandfather for the mill he had built. Just as some revered him for providing them with food and shelter.

  “I hate to name names since as far as we know all are innocent until evidence proves otherwise, but
men like Silas Dearborne, Donald Wooden, Andrew Purty, and John Whitby have been more than vocal about their distrust and dislike. The weavers, boy. The weavers are the ones we must keep an eye on.”

  A sickening sensation sank within Henry as he met the man’s gaze. He did not like what he had heard, but it needed to be heard nonetheless. “Thank you for taking the time to stop by with this information.”

  Tierner stood and repositioned his hat on his head. “No thanks needed. In fact, I wish this conversation needn’t take place at all. But if I can offer one piece of advice”—he leaned close and pinned a steely stare on Henry—“whoever killed your grandfather probably didn’t count on your presence at the mill. Keep your pistol close and your eyes open.”

  “You’ve heard about the attack on the mill in south Leeds, of course.”

  Kate fell into step with Jane as the two ladies walked down Amberdale’s main street. News of attacks on mills all over the north and west of England was becoming commonplace. She held her cloak close to ward against the late-afternoon wind. “I have not.”

  Jane adjusted a small, paper-wrapped parcel beneath her arm and looped her other arm through Kate’s. “Papa returned from there earlier in the afternoon after retrieving an order of muslin. Last night the wool mill there was destroyed. Burned to the ground! In the middle of the night.”

  A sliver of guilt sliced through Kate. She and Jane rarely kept secrets from each other. In fact, when Kate and Frederica’s friendship ended all those years ago, the relationship between Jane and Kate had blossomed into a deep bond. Ever since Kate’s mother died, Jane had been a companion and guide. But recently their relationship was different. For a reason she did not entirely understand, Kate felt hesitant around her friend. She had not told Jane about her presence when the Stockton stable burned, nor had she shared any news about her injuries.

  Kate pushed her guilt to the back of her mind and kept her voice steady. “I had heard that the weavers were breaking machines, but burning the entire mill? I thought most of the mills there were made of stone for that very reason, to avoid fires.”