Tears balanced in the child’s large, soft brown eyes. She leaned so close to Kate that it was almost difficult to cross the small room.
“Am I in trouble?”
At the soft voice, Kate stopped and knelt to face the child at eye level. “No, dearest, why would you think such a thing?”
Her lower lip trembled, and fever flushed her face red. “Because Matthew told me that the only time I would ever talk to Mr. Stockton was if I was in trouble.”
Kate brushed wisps of auburn hair away from the child’s damp forehead. “Well, you’re not in trouble. Here, lie here.” She lifted Adelaide onto the sofa and then scanned the chamber. Mr. Stockton had been right—blankets were piled in an open chest at the foot of a narrow wooden bed. Kate retrieved one and spread the woolen quilt over Adelaide’s tiny form. “There, is that better?”
The child managed a small smile.
“Good. I want you to rest.” Kate stood. “I’ll be right here. Perhaps you could close your eyes and sleep?”
The child nodded, and Kate whirled around to pull the chair closer, but she stopped short.
For there, in the doorway, stood Miss Pennington. Her pert nose was lifted in the air, and she surveyed the space as a woman who belonged there. One of the corners of her mouth lifted in what appeared to be the start of a smile, but the cool expression in her eyes suggested that her presence here was anything but friendly.
“Miss Pennington.” Kate dipped a cool curtsy and intended to move past the taller woman, but Frederica stepped before her, blocking her path.
Kate lifted her face to look at her fully. Frederica was always lovely as a child, but now she was a stunning woman. Smooth, clear skin. Deep, dark eyes.
Frederica nodded her greeting, and then she tipped her head to the side, not moving to allow for Kate to pass. “Miss Dearborne. My, but it has been a long time.”
Kate returned the forced smile. The words were not true at all. They had just seen each other in church the prior Sunday.
Frederica removed her cloak and laid it across the back of the sofa. Kate could see why any man—Mr. Stockton included—would be attracted to someone like her. Her gown of fine brown velvet was trimmed in light-brown fur. A gold pendant embellished the fair skin on her neck and chest, and emerald bobs hung from her earlobes. Elegant curls, gathered at the base of her neck, cascaded down her back.
The sight reminded Kate that she still wore her work gown of pale-blue linen and that her hair was pinned simply to the crown of her head. Wind-whipped and messy, she could feel it falling on her neck and shoulders.
Kate lifted her chin. “Is there something you need, Miss Pennington?”
But Frederica did not answer her question. Instead, she clicked her tongue and turned her attention to Adelaide before her lips formed a pretty pout. “The poor child. Henry said she was ill.”
Kate raised her eyebrow at the use of Mr. Stockton’s Christian name. “She is. I’m on my way to find the apothecary.”
“I hate to see such a young child unwell.” One would think that Frederica was sincere, but the singsong nature of her voice was too forced. “It is sad, isn’t it? The way fate plays her cards?”
Kate frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
Frederica donned a sickly sweet smile, stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “How odd it is to find you here, at Stockton Mill. I would suppose your father would forbid such a visit.”
“My father forbids me nothing. Besides, my brother is here, but you know that, of course.” Kate stepped to brush past her, but again Frederica positioned herself to prevent it.
“What I meant to say is I am surprised to find you in Mr. Stockton’s countinghouse. You never stepped foot on Stockton property until the new master arrived. Of course I do not question your motive or claim to be familiar with your habits, but I urge you to give a care to your reputation. One might think you are trying to use your, uh, feminine charms, such as they are, to sway the new master of the mill.”
Frederica’s insinuations surged fire through Kate’s veins. “I assure you that nothing of the sort has crossed my mind. I saw an ill child, ’tis all. And a sick child has no business working, but being from a mill family yourself, I am sure you know that.”
Frederica widened her eyes in feigned innocence. “And you just happened to come upon her?”
Kate narrowed her gaze. “What are you insinuating, Miss Pennington?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s only that Mr. Stockton is a handsome man, is he not? Some people who do not know you as well as I might misinterpret your intentions.”
Kate didn’t answer.
Frederica added, “You’d best step with caution, for no one is fond of young women who fling themselves at men.”
Shoulders straight, head high, and expression confident, Frederica Pennington stepped from Stockton Mill’s gravel courtyard up the carriage steps and settled against the bench. She jutted her chin assuredly in the air, lest anyone should see through the carriage’s glass window. Once her father climbed in, pulled the door closed, and knocked on the wall to signal to the driver that it was time to depart, she allowed her posture to sag.
A scowl commandeered her lips, and it grew more sour the farther they drove from Stockton Mill. She didn’t even care that the deep lines forming around her eyes or the worry lines creasing her brow could one day leave permanent marks. For now, that did not matter. In fact, nothing mattered. Henry Stockton was slipping away from her, and if that happened, where would she be? Married to Mr. Tynes or Mr. Simmons? No, she could not let her mind go to that place.
Henry Stockton needed to fall in love with her. The sooner, the better.
She looked to her father. Judging by his hard eyes and the firm set of his jaw, the visit had not gone as he intended either.
She huffed and folded her arms over her chest. “What in heaven’s name was she doing there?”
“Blast if I know,” he responded, his tone flat. “William never would have allowed her to step foot in the mill’s courtyard, let alone in the countinghouse.”
Frederica’s gaze flicked to the frozen countryside. She and her father rarely discussed Henry Stockton as a possible match. All marriage talk had been strictly with her mother, but she’d seen her father’s reaction to the unexpected guest. He’d been surprised—and displeased.
She chewed her lower lip and stared out the window.
Katherine Dearborne. Bah.
As far as she was concerned, Kate was about as attractive and interesting as the dormant trees that flashed by her window. After all, Kate’s gown had been plain at best, and her hair looked as if she had just come in from a windstorm. What man would find such a disheveled mess appealing? Yet despite her lack of refinement, Kate had been surprisingly well spoken and confident, she had to give the woman that much. Frederica had expected the shorter woman to cower. But she hadn’t.
What had Henry been thinking, allowing such a woman in the countinghouse, the daughter of his sworn enemy no less?
Frederica sniffed. She had to be smart. She knew how to flirt. Very well. She would have to be bolder. More vibrant.
The carriage wheel hit a rut, and she shifted nearer the window to keep her balance. Yes. She knew what she needed to do. Her scowl began to fade, and her muscles loosened. Before long, Henry Stockton would belong to her.
CHAPTER 17
All was silent when the door to the countinghouse finally closed. Henry blew out his breath with such force that it ruffled the shock of hair hanging over his forehead. He watched through the front window as the Penningtons’ carriage rattled across the courtyard, through the main gate, and around the corner.
Nothing about this new way of life was going to be easy. Not navigating the intricacies of the business, not being an employer, not helping his sister through her current situation, and certainly not understanding the delicate relationships that held this industry together by mere threads.
He scratched the back of his head as he brought to min
d the exchange he’d witnessed between Miss Dearborne and Miss Pennington. Not a word had been uttered between the two ladies; none was needed.
Belsey passed the window. Henry lunged for the door and pushed it open. “Belsey! Find Dearborne for me, will you? Tell him to come to the countinghouse right away.”
Belsey stopped in his tracks, the wind tugging at his coat and flipping his wiry hair. “Will do.”
“And ask Mrs. Belsey to come here. One of the children has fallen ill and needs assistance. After that, call for the apothecary.”
Belsey’s brow creased before a strange expression crossed his face, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Henry let the front door close and ran his hand over his face, noting how the day’s gathering stubble itched his palm. Before him, the fire’s light flickered on the closed door to the back room. Miss Dearborne and the child were still just beyond that door.
He took a moment to collect his thoughts and allow his heartbeat to slow. He’d been relieved when the Penningtons left. Their visit had been unexpected, not to mention untimely. The weight of their palpable disapproval pressed on him in the very same manner his grandfather’s censure would paralyze him as a child. What bothered him more than their reaction, however, was the disdain their expressions conveyed when they saw Miss Dearborne. She’d done nothing to offend them, at least not while in his company. Yet their cool, haughty demeanor would send even the most confident of people to cower in the corner. Mollie and her situation crossed his mind. If they treated Miss Dearborne with such scorn for such a small offense, how would they react when they learned of Mollie’s current state?
Had it always been this way? He’d believed for so long that the weavers were at the root of the issues plaguing their industry. Did it really take years of absence for him to view the situation from another side? What was worse, time and time again Miss Dearborne had been offended in his presence, from his grandfather’s verbal aggressiveness to the Penningtons’ haughty speculation. It was not to be borne.
Pushing aside his thoughts, Henry cracked the back room door, quietly so as not to disturb. The child’s small form rested atop the sofa, covered with a thick wool blanket. Miss Dearborne faced away from him. Her windblown, chestnut hair was pinned in loose locks atop her head, exposing the nape of her slender white neck above the collar of her gown. The natural beauty of it stole his breath. She was sitting in a chair next to the sleeping child, her elbow propped on the chair’s arm and her head resting on her fist.
The door creaked as he opened it wide enough to fit through, and at the sound she turned. There was something to be said for Miss Pennington’s impeccable brand of beauty. As always, her gown of soft brown had been excellently cut, her hair perfectly curled. But Miss Dearborne, with her wild unkempt hair and delicately sloped nose and high forehead, was quite an intriguing contrast.
For several moments he remained still, beholding the scene in front of him. After years of harshness and fighting, the beauty in the act of service to another struck him. He stepped in farther and kept his voice low. “How’s the girl?”
“Adelaide,” she said. “She’s fallen asleep.”
“Ah.” He nodded. Miss Dearborne’s tone was not lost on him. She was determined to have him see his workers as people and not just numbers. He did not disagree. “I have sent for the apothecary. He should be here soon. And Mrs. Belsey is on her way as well. We will take good care of her.”
Miss Dearborne smoothed the child’s hair and repositioned a damp rag on her forehead. “It is a hard thing for these children. They should not work so.”
Even now she did not let her cause go.
“I appreciate your sitting with her. I’ve also called for your brother. He should be here momentarily and can drive you home.”
“I hate to leave Adelaide. I don’t want her to be frightened.”
The child whimpered in her sleep and thrust out her arm.
Henry maintained a respectable distance. He did not know why he should care so much about the opinion of a weaver’s daughter. Perhaps it was because he respected her opinion. Perhaps it was because he felt guilty about the way his grandfather had treated her. Or perhaps it was because he longed for someone to care about him the way she evidently cared for those around her.
He cleared his throat, leaned his back against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest. “You don’t trust me, do you, Miss Dearborne?”
The late-afternoon light slid through the window, abating the fury that had pinked her cheeks when she first arrived. “I don’t know you, not really. How can I trust you?”
“But even before you met me, you made up your mind not to trust me.”
With slow, gentle movements, she placed the child’s hand beneath the blanket and then used the back of her hand to brush her hair away from her smooth forehead. “It doesn’t matter if I trust you, Mr. Stockton.”
“It matters to me.”
Her amber eyes studied him, as if she had the power to see right into his very heart—if she chose to do so. “Why?”
“Because I think you are judging me by my grandfather’s actions.”
Her retort was quick. “Do you judge me by my father’s doings?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.” He pushed away from the wall and widened his stance. “I’m not my grandfather. It is important to me that you know the difference.”
She smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt, angled her shoulders to face him, her expression quite serious, and folded her hands in her lap. “Do you not stand by your grandfather’s business dealings?”
“It depends, I suppose. I’m still uncovering them.”
“And what are you finding?”
“I am finding that the men we thought we knew when we were children can be quite different when we become adults.”
At this her lip twitched.
Ah, a response.
Up until now her words had been perfect, calm, measured. If he had not been looking directly at her, he might have missed it. At last he had hit on something that struck a chord with her.
She jutted her chin higher. “I leave the arguing to the men. But you surely aren’t surprised that your grandfather was the source of a great deal of pain for my family. It goes deeper than weaving and cloth, looms and jennies.”
“You are referring to your brother,” he clarified.
“Regardless of the mill and the machines, that offense won’t easily be forgotten. By anyone.”
“But you’re here,” he reminded her. “Inside the countinghouse of Stockton Mill. Surely you have found it within yourself to forgive on some level.”
“That has nothing to do with it. I’m here because of Adelaide and nothing more. But since you broached the topic, you must know that I love my brother. I also love my father. I’ll not turn my back on either of them. So I will visit Charles here at the mill, and I have accepted his decision. I can’t say the same for my father, and that will break my heart until my dying day.”
For some reason she had opened herself to him ever so slightly. Trusted him with a bit of her soul. “You and I are more alike than you may think.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He leaned forward, taking her into his confidence. “We are both attempting to preserve a legacy that has been set out by those who have come before us. Me with my grandfather. You, your father.”
“You speak as if you know me. But you don’t.”
“Very true.”
“You also speak as if you know Amberdale, but you have only just returned. It’s not the same as it has been in years past. Once you become acquainted with the way things are here, the easier it will be for everyone.”
“Then enlighten me, Miss Dearborne.” He waited, finding himself intrigued by the banter.
She met his gaze and drew a ragged breath. Could it be she was enjoying the banter too, or at the very least seizing the opportunity to sway him?
“Take this child for instance,” she began. “She should b
e at home, working with her family. That is the way we have always done things here. But she’s here alone, ill.”
“Millwork did not cause her to fall ill. She receives hearty meals here, works in a warm environment, and is given a fair wage.”
“That is good and well, but what of the values that can only be instilled by family?”
Miss Dearborne clearly wanted answers, but he was not sure he had them to give. Not at the moment, anyway. “As you have deftly pointed out, Miss Dearborne, I have not been in Amberdale for a long time, and things are indeed very different from what I remember. But from what I understand, a great deal of the problems here stem from the relationship between our two families. It is my hope that we may mend the bridge that has crumbled.”
“If that is truly your goal, Mr. Stockton, then I would suggest that the best way to mend a bridge is to listen to the opposition.”
“And if I were to do so, what would I hear?”
She drew a deep breath, as if trying to hide her excitement or seize an opportunity to be heard. “Over the years, your grandfather’s mill—and mills like it—took jobs from the people here, the people who have built this town with their blood and sweat. First the scribblers, then the carders. Now with the gig mill, the shearmen will be out of work. And then what?”
“I have people who depend upon me for employment. I am beholden to them to see that they are cared for and that we are profitable.”
“But at what cost?” Her cheeks grew florid. “While you were gone, the laws changed. People are scared. Hungry. Angry. It’s not just about money, as it may seem on the surface. It’s about family and love and life. Change is hard for people, and the more sensitive you can be toward it, the better it would be for everyone.”
“Sensitive?” He raised his eyebrows. “I am a man of business, Miss Dearborne. If I do not bring a gig mill here, someone else will. Even if we do not agree with progress, it cannot be stopped. It has been set into motion, and either we move with it or I risk losing everything.”
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