The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “This one was built in an old shed,” Jane said. “Work had been started on a brick structure, and it was almost complete. Apparently they wanted to destroy the machines before they could be properly secured.”

  It seemed every day there was a new report of violence against the mill owners. “Was anyone injured?”

  “One of the workers fainted from the effects of the smoke, but he recovered. The mill owner has vowed to seek revenge. The militia has reported to the area, but what can they do? The harm has already been done.”

  Kate recalled her father’s passionate speeches and determined positions. “I only hope such violence stays far away from Amberdale.”

  With her free arm Kate adjusted her grip on the basket swinging at her side and looked up to Stockton Mill. Its hum could be heard during every daylight hour. In fact, the village relied on its clock and bells to chime every hour. The sound was louder and reached farther than even the church bells. Its prominent placement in the village meant it was never far from her—or anyone’s—mind.

  Jane sighed. “Let us think of something happier. The festival will be here soon. I have heard back from the musicians. They have agreed to the date. Now, with the inn leased and the musicians secured, we need to make sure we’re able to find enough food to feed so many people.”

  Kate nodded. Every year the Winter’s End Festival signaled the start of the end of winter and urged spring’s arrival. As of yet spring had shared no signs of budding any time soon, but then again, over time the festival had broken away from its original intent and now was a reason for the community to come together in celebration in the midst of winter’s cold and darkness. It was the one time of the year when weavers and millworkers alike would come together, for neither group was willing to abandon the long-standing tradition, and the ladies of the sewing guild assumed the monumental task of overseeing preparations.

  “I will speak with Mr. Dewent tomorrow about the food, but don’t worry. It comes together perfectly every year. This year will be no different.”

  At the foot of the bridge Kate bid Jane good evening and prepared to walk home, eager to return before it grew too dark.

  As her feet traversed the bridge, she cast a sideways glance at the mill. Charles, no doubt, was hard at work within those walls.

  So was Mr. Stockton.

  She sniffed. She should not care about such a fact. Furthermore, she should not give it any more consideration than she would have when old Mr. Stockton was at the helm, but she would be lying if she said that the younger Mr. Stockton had been far from her thoughts in recent days. Instead, it seemed the more she tried to put him to the back of her mind, the more he found his way to the forefront.

  It had been two weeks since the elder Mr. Stockton was murdered. She had seen Henry Stockton twice, but they had not spoken. At church their eyes met briefly, but he broke the gaze when someone spoke to him.

  It was probably for the best. She could not deny that he was different from the other young men of Amberdale, though. He was handsome, yes. But he was kind. He was also for everything she stood against, or at least everything her papa stood against. But she was curious about him. More curious than she should be.

  Once she crossed to the other side of the bridge, she was able to get a better look at the operation. She was not far from the main gate. Activity buzzed around the massive brick structure, as always. The hum of the river and voices echoed, and smoke puffed into the fading sky.

  Kate arched her neck. She did not seek a glimpse of Mr. Stockton. That would be foolish. But as her foot settled on the landing on the bridge’s other side, she saw something she did not expect to see.

  On a bench outside of a building just inside the gate sat a small figure, hunched against the wall. The small girl, clothed in a brown dress, with a head full of auburn curls, was bent forward.

  Alarmed, Kate stopped. The only people in Amberdale she knew with hair that shade of copper were members of the Thomas family. And the only member of the Thomas family that small was their daughter, Adelaide.

  Kate watched the scene for a few moments. Several millworkers bustled by, but no one seemed to notice the child.

  Kate lifted the hem of her wool skirt to avoid a snowdrift and hurried toward the tiny figure. The Thomas family was a weaving family, or at least they used to be. Alexander Thomas had been a master weaver, but when the Stockton Mill increased its machine count, his work dwindled. At one time he and his family worked entirely from his farm on the village outskirts, but now various local mills employed him and his children.

  Her steps quickened. She looked to her right. Then her left. It was not completely unusual for her to step foot on Stockton Mill property, for she sometimes came to visit her brother. But without him by her side, it felt almost wrong to be here.

  She knelt next to the girl. “Adelaide. What are you doing here?”

  The child looked up at her, and Kate’s stomach fell. Dark circles rimmed her bloodshot eyes and stood out against her pale, clammy skin. She licked her trembling lips.

  “Dearest, what is the matter?” Kate removed her kid glove and pressed the back of her hand against the child’s forehead. “You are burning with fever!”

  “My throat hurts,” Adelaide whispered. “And my head.”

  “Well, of course it does. Why are you not inside where it’s warm?”

  “Mr. Higgins told me to go home because I am sick.”

  Kate clicked her tongue. “Tell me, have you been like this all day?”

  The child nodded.

  Heat began to rush to Kate’s face as well, but for an entirely different reason. Surely an adult had been present with her while she worked. How could this happen?

  She grabbed the tie that held her cape to her shoulders, and with a flick of her wrist she released it. She positioned it around Adelaide’s thin shoulders and put her arm around her.

  “Well, you can’t sit here.” She needed to find Charles. He would know what to do. She looked toward the countinghouse. He spent most of his days in there. “Can you walk?”

  The child nodded, lips shivering. “Come with me and we will find my brother.”

  Without the protection of her cape, Kate felt the biting wind penetrate her gown, but the discomfort she felt had to pale in comparison to the child’s. She stopped at the countinghouse door and knocked on it twice before taking the liberty of pushing it open.

  Someone had to answer for such treatment of a child. And they would answer now.

  The countinghouse door flung open, squeaking on its hinges and smacking against the wall behind it.

  The wind whooshed in, pushing the door even harder and disrupting the papers on his desk. Henry snapped his head up.

  The intensity of the snow swirling in the doorway was matched only by the fiery expression pooling in Miss Dearborne’s hazel eyes.

  Surprise pinned him to his seat for several moments, and then as an afterthought he remembered his manners and jumped to his feet. “Miss Dearborne.”

  Realizing he had shed his coat due to the fire’s warmth, he snatched it and pushed his arms through the sleeves.

  She did not return his greeting. Instead, she stepped aside, making way for a tiny figure wrapped in her crimson cloak.

  “Is Charles here?” Miss Dearborne put her hands on the child’s shoulders and ushered her inside.

  “N-No. He isn’t. He’s gone to Leeds.”

  “Do you know this child?” she demanded, her amber eyes flashing, thin eyebrows raised in expectation.

  Henry’s gaze fell to the little girl. Wild curls—redder than any he had ever seen—escaped from beneath a dirty white cap, and her red-rimmed eyes and pale cheeks shook him. “I don’t.”

  “This is Adelaide Thomas, one of the children employed by your mill.” Miss Dearborne’s clear voice echoed from the low beams.

  Henry’s stomach tightened.

  “She is clearly ill, and I found her sitting out in the snow. In the snow, Mr. Stockton. She sa
id her supervisor told her to go home because she was too sick to work. Surely there must be some mistake.”

  Henry stepped around the desk and toward the child, who cowered toward Miss Dearborne.

  The girl looked up at Miss Dearborne and tugged her gown. “Papa told me not to get in trouble.”

  Miss Dearborne knelt next to her and rubbed her arm. “You are not in trouble, precious, you are sick. That cannot be helped.”

  Henry was never around children. Never. He looked to the little person, whose lip was beginning to quiver. A strange sort of panic began to creep over him as moisture filled her eyes. He searched for words. “C-Come in, child, and sit by the fire.”

  Adelaide clutched the heavy cloak about her neck with a white-knuckled grip. Her gaze fixed wide and true on Henry. Her small boots tapped on the stone floor as she crossed the room. Miss Dearborne’s expectant gaze was also fixed on him.

  He knelt next to the girl. “So tell me. What is happening?”

  “My throat hurts, and Mr. Higgins told me I needed to go home.”

  Miss Dearborne interjected, “Adelaide’s home is more than a mile from here. There is no way she can be expected to walk.”

  Henry gave a sharp nod. “Miss Dearborne is quite right. We will have someone drive you home and your mother can take care of you.”

  Miss Dearborne cleared her throat and said softly, “Her mother is dead.”

  Henry stifled a groan. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He looked back to Adelaide. “I’m sorry. Is there someone at home who can take care of you?”

  “My brother takes care of me.”

  Miss Dearborne interjected again. “Her brother is a twelve-year-old boy, who is also employed by your mill. Their father works over in Wester and stays there when the weather prevents him from returning home.”

  Henry drew a sharp breath. He was at a disadvantage. Miss Dearborne obviously knew more about the workers in the mill than he did. He needed to do something, but what?

  Miss Dearborne spoke. “I will take her to Meadowvale, and she can stay with me there.”

  “Nonsense.” He met Miss Dearborne’s frustrated gaze. “While she is an employee here, she is in our care.”

  An argument sparked in her sharp eyes. Clearly she did not think him capable of caring for the child.

  Or perhaps she thought him too uncaring.

  Regardless of the reason, he was determined. “For the time being, there is a sofa in the room behind us. She can rest there until a better arrangement can be made. I will check with Mrs. Figgs, and Mrs. Belsey is close. She will be in good hands, you have my word.”

  Miss Dearborne’s shoulders relaxed and she motioned to the child. “Very well. Come, dear, let me help you.”

  Henry stepped aside to allow Miss Dearborne space to pass him. Just then the door swung open yet again.

  He turned his head around and stifled another groan.

  Mr. Pennington’s wide frame blocked the low threshold. He shifted, and Miss Frederica, bright and smiling, peered over her father’s shoulder.

  Henry’s stomach soured. He’d spoken with the Penningtons a handful of times since his father’s death, but never had they stopped by the mill without at least sending word prior to their arrival.

  Miss Pennington’s disciplined smile quirked as she beheld the scene, and her father’s expression darkened. No doubt the sight of Miss Dearborne, here in the countinghouse without the presence of her brother, was the source.

  Henry forced a smile to his face. “Miss Pennington. Mr. Pennington.” He bowed. “Come in out of the cold.”

  “If we are interrupting, we can return at another time.” Pennington’s words snapped, and he arched his eyebrow.

  “No, nonsense.”

  The deafening silence roared.

  Finally, Miss Dearborne’s soft voice pulled him back to the situation at hand. “Come, Adelaide. Mr. Stockton said there was a place for you. Let’s go find it.”

  “Yes, it is just through that door,” Henry added quickly. “I think there are some blankets in the chest. I will send in Mrs. Belsey momentarily.”

  Henry turned back to his guests. Disapproval now darkened both of their expressions.

  Pennington cleared his throat and moved to allow his daughter to pass to the fire. “We stopped at Stockton House, thinking you might have already returned home for the night.”

  Henry jerked at the mention of Stockton House. Concern that they had encountered Mollie wound within him, but then Pennington continued with his explanation. “Should have known better, though. Your grandfather spent most of his nights here.” Pennington pressed his lips into a fine line before continuing. “Seems you are quite busy.”

  Henry rubbed a kink from the back of his neck. “One of the young workers has fallen ill.”

  “But what is Dearborne’s daughter doing here?”

  Henry shouldn’t have been surprised at Pennington’s gruff response to finding her here, but he objected to the assumed authority he heard in the man’s voice. The tension in the small room was as taut as the wool stretched on the tenterhooks. “She came across the child and brought her to the countinghouse.”

  “No doubt she loved to discover that to lord over us.” Pennington snorted, rocking to the tips of his toes and then back on his heels. “They love nothing more than to criticize the way things are done within our mill walls.”

  Henry stiffened. “I do not think so. The child is ill.”

  “Then you have more faith in the Dearbornes than I. But I did not come here to speak of that. I have news for you.” Pennington extended a letter.

  Henry accepted it, noting the broken seal. He flipped it open and skimmed the contents. “It’s an order.”

  “Yes, and a large one. It arrived just this afternoon.” Pennington rubbed his hands together, like a beggar on the eve of a great feast. “Our mill will not be able to fill it in such a short time, but between the two mills . . .”

  Miss Pennington stepped forward and placed her small, gloved hand on her father’s arm, filling the silence after her father’s words faded off. “I will let you gentlemen talk business. You know what a bore I think it is.” She gave her father’s arm another pat, and her eyes twinkled. “If you will excuse me, I would much rather chat with Miss Dearborne.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Henry rolled his eyes heavenward and pressed his lips together as Miss Pennington’s gown swished around the corner to the countinghouse’s back room and the door latched closed behind her. Why Miss Pennington would want to talk with Miss Dearborne was beyond him. The thought of the two women who had been occupying his mind being in the same room made him uneasy.

  He turned back to Pennington, who, judging by his ruddy cheeks, hard gaze, and wide stance, was more in the mood to fight than talk.

  Henry cleared his throat and scanned the letter once more. “By the end of the month?” Henry rubbed his forehead with his index finger, as if forcing his brain to stay focused.

  Pennington straightened his waistcoat and helped himself to a glass of port, which had been sitting on a sideboard next to the fire. “Uh, yes. Needs to be delivered by the end of the month. Orders are coming in faster than we can fill them, which is a good thing. Any word on when the gig mills will arrive?”

  Henry relaxed now that the conversation had firmly shifted to business. Pennington could be prickly and snobbish, but when it came to business, they had a common ground. “Belsey assures me they will be here any day.”

  Pennington retrieved the letter and tucked it in his coat. “I have heard that the weavers are planning to retaliate.”

  Henry huffed. “From what I am told they are always planning some sort of retaliation.”

  “You sound a mite flippant, Stockton. This is not a joke. Lives may be at stake.”

  Henry met Pennington’s stare. “I’m not flippant, quite the opposite, but I refuse to live in fear of what they may or may not do. Armed guards are stationed near the gate, both here a
nd at Stockton House during the night hours. The supervisors are armed, as are the carriage drivers. And this.” Henry opened the top drawer of the desk. His loaded pistol was ready to protect what was his at a moment’s notice. “Trust me, I don’t take anything that is happening lightly. I suggest you do the same for your property.”

  Pennington downed the dark liquid and gave his head a shake, no doubt in response to the taste. “In light of what has happened, I’d imagine you would take the utmost care.”

  “In light of what has happened?” Henry repeated. “You are referring to my grandfather?”

  “I am. It is a terrifying prospect—one that I, along with every other mill owner in Yorkshire, fears. Or perhaps you are planning to deal with this in your own way? Trying to play nice with the enemy’s daughter? If you are thinking to woo her and earn favor in the sight of the weavers, you are mistaken, boy.”

  Boy? Henry raised an eyebrow. “Well then, that’s fortunate, for I was planning no such thing.”

  “A word to the wise: be careful.” Pennington lowered his gravelly voice. “Folks will start to talk.”

  “Let them. I’ve far too much on my mind to concern myself with wagging tongues.”

  Pennington shrugged and poured another glass. “Consider yourself warned. Dearborne is a volatile man. You know how defiant he can be with wool. Imagine how that is magnified where his offspring is concerned. Perhaps you do not know this, but he challenged your grandfather to a duel after his son came to work for him.”

  Henry winced. He knew there was bad blood between his grandfather and Silas Dearborne, but a duel?

  “I only mean to help you, Stockton. Your grandfather was not only my business partner but was a close confidant for many, many years. But let me be clear. I am a businessman and will look after my prospects—and my own family—first. I only hope you do the same before it is too late.”

  Once inside the back room at the Stockton countinghouse, Kate put her hand around Adelaide’s shivering shoulders and guided her to the sofa. If it weren’t such a disturbing situation, she could almost laugh at the irony. The one day she steps foot on the property, the Penningtons arrive. Attempting to dislodge the thought, she shook her head. She could not think on that now. Adelaide needed her.