“Even at the cost of the destruction of others?”
He shook his head. There was no clear, easy answer.
Her nostrils flared, the pretty passion dissolving into the same hardened expression she wore when she challenged his grandfather in the kitchen. “You asked my opinion, Mr. Stockton, and there you have it.”
He did not want to argue with her. “I’ll consider what you have said.”
Her expression softened. “Bridges can’t be repaired overnight, but you are in a position, more than anyone else, to start the process. The weavers will not change. My father included. But someone needs to change. Your grandfather was not that man, but maybe you are.”
Her words were delivered with such authority, it almost seemed as if he were receiving counsel from a much older person. For some reason he cared very much about what this woman thought of him.
He opened his mouth to respond, but the chamber door flung open and Mrs. Belsey bustled in.
Their private interlude had ended, but before Miss Dearborne turned back toward the child, she pinned him with her gaze. “You are in an interesting place. You have the power to make a great deal of difference. Consider it wisely.”
CHAPTER 18
Kate paused on Amberdale’s main road long enough to raise her face to the bright afternoon sun. The crisp air still held winter’s bitter bite, but if she focused, she could feel brief moments of warmth kissing her cheeks. Days, nay, weeks had passed since the sun last made an appearance over the moors, and even this brief reprieve whispered the promise of spring to come.
As much as she should like to spend the afternoon basking in the sun’s glow, much required her attention. Reenergized and armed with a hatbox and news about the food for the Winter’s End Festival, she continued down the lane toward Jane’s family’s tailor shop.
Her light footsteps traversed the cobbled walk, and once she arrived at the modest shop, she flung open the door and shrugged her hood from her head as she ducked through the door. “Jane, I just came from the—” She lifted her gaze and stopped in her tracks.
Henry Stockton.
He stood just to the left of the door. The top of his dark head nearly brushed the low-beamed ceiling, and his broad shoulders blocked her view of the counter.
What on earth would Henry Stockton be doing at the tailor shop?
He turned at the sound of her entrance.
Heat suffused her face. No doubt she was as red as the winter berries along the moor’s edge. The memory of every word spoken in the small back room of the countinghouse rushed her. She was still unsure how she felt about the interaction, and seeing him sent confusion racing through her afresh. Almost of its own volition, her mouth blurted, “You’re here.”
After a painfully long pause, a confident smile twitched his lips. “I am. As are you.”
Determined not to allow this interaction to dampen the spring-like mood, Kate forced her composure into compliance and deposited her reticule on the counter. She stifled an inward groan as the heavy falls of his boots could be heard approaching her.
He stepped up to the counter next to her, shoulder to shoulder. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Dearborne.”
Was he patronizing her?
She pursed her lips and looked to Jane, who had stepped from the back room behind the counter. But instead of finding a place of solace, she saw a swirl of questions in Jane’s shocked expression, which proved even more bothersome than Mr. Stockton.
So Kate lifted her chin and forced her gaze to meet his. She drew a deep breath, buying herself an extra moment. It would be easier to hate the man, as her father did, if his eyes were not so clear, the cleft of his chin so engaging. “Please forgive my surprise. I did not expect to see you here, ’tis all.”
Mr. Stockton held her gaze for several more seconds, raised an amused eyebrow, then turned his attention back to Jane. “I will have the cloth delivered tomorrow, then. You’re sure he can handle them?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Jane folded her plump hands on the counter and nodded her nut-brown head eagerly. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, that will do.” He straightened. “Good day.” He rotated away from Jane and headed to the door. He paused and offered an infuriating, knowing smile, as if he were acquainted with her far better than he was.
Kate huffed under her breath as the door closed behind him and waited until he could no longer be seen through the windows before she spoke. “What was he doing here?”
“It is the most remarkable thing.” Jane stared at the door, her head tilted to the side. “He came in and said that he needed cloaks for the children who work at the mill.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “Cloaks?”
“Yes. He gave no explanation. He just asked if he had cloth delivered here if Papa would fashion cloaks, all sizes, for the children. Twenty of them to start.” She leaned with her hip against the counter. “He did not ask after the cost either. I tried to tell him, but he said it didn’t matter. He trusted Papa to give him a fair price on the work.”
So he had been listening to what she’d said—about the children and the dangers to their health as a result of millwork. Satisfaction spread through her chest. She wasn’t sure why. Was she happy that he had listened to her? Happy to have seen him again?
She turned back to Jane. “I think it is only right, don’t you? Some of those children walk miles in the snow. It is the least he can do.”
“Well, I don’t care why he is doing it. We can definitely use the money.” Jane lifted a bolt of cloth, returned it to a shelf, and then leaned with her elbows on the counter. Her blue eyes held a teasing glimmer. “But he certainly seemed to know who you are.”
Kate shrugged. She had not told her friend of their meeting at Stockton House, nor their encounter at the mill. But he seemed to be everywhere she went. His name was on everyone’s lips. She did try to obey her papa, but it was becoming more and more difficult not to become interested in Henry Stockton’s actions. “He works closely with Charles. I am sure he is just trying to be friendly.”
“You are lying, Kate Dearborne. Your left eyebrow always rises when you’re telling a falsehood, and you know it.” A wave of fresh excitement seemed to rush over Jane. She stuffed another bolt on the shelf and hurried over to Kate. “I will ask you again, why does he seem to know you so well?”
Kate sighed. It was useless to keep anything from Jane. “Very well. But you always make such an ordeal over these things. You must promise me that you—”
A sharp, angry male voice cut Kate’s own short. “What was he doing here?”
Kate whirled around. Mr. Abbott, Jane’s father, stood in the shop’s entrance, his face bright. She would have liked to think it was red only from the cold, but his eyes flashed with what could only be rage.
Jane’s eyes widened. Either she did not see—or chose not to see—her father’s festering anger. “Oh, Papa, it’s wonderful! Mr. Stockton has placed an order for twenty cloaks. Twenty! Can you believe it? And I—”
“I don’t care if he placed an order for a thousand cloaks. He’s not welcome in our shop.” Mr. Abbott stomped through the low threshold and slammed his felt hat on the counter.
“But, Papa, he wants the cloaks for the children who work at his mill. That is noble, is it not? He didn’t even inquire after the price. You yourself said we needed to—”
“Do you not see what he’s doing?” Mr. Abbott jerked his arm from his caped greatcoat, narrowing a hard gaze on his daughter. “How he is manipulating your feminine whims? That man cares no more for the children in his employ than his grandfather before him. This charade of his, this pretense of charity, is his way of weaseling into the affections of the womenfolk in the village. It shocks me that you do not see it. I, for one, will not allow it.”
“But you cannot know this to be true, Papa.” Color drained from Jane’s fair skin. “He’s only just arrived!”
“He’s a Stockton, and that’s all I need to kno
w. That man has put more than half of our town out of work with his newfangled machines and disrespect for tradition.” The neck muscles visible above his tightly bound cravat jumped, and he turned to wave a finger at Kate. “Your father would have a fit if he were to see that man in our shop. No. We must stand together, handsome payment or not.”
Kate cut her gaze toward Jane. Her heart lurched as she noticed tears balancing in her friend’s eyes. Kate could only stand still, silent, her mouth agape.
Mr. Abbott shifted through a pile of fabric on the counter, as if seeking something. “I’ll deliver word myself that he needs to send his work elsewhere. You are not to take his business again, am I clear? Or was it a mistake to let you mind the shop while I was out?”
“No, Papa.” Jane’ s chin trembled as she accepted the reprimand. “No mistake.”
Mr. Abbott gathered a pile of fabric and stormed to the back room.
Like a heartbroken child, Jane slumped against the counter.
Kate gripped Jane’s hand. Once Mr. Abbott was out of earshot, she whispered, “Do not be upset, Jane.”
“I don’t understand this at all. We need the money, just like any other family in Amberdale. Why would he refuse the order?”
Empathy flooded Kate at the hurt she saw in her friend’s face after her father’s harsh words. “I don’t understand it entirely myself. But you know your father. He’s always been sympathetic to weavers, and they have always been the bulk of his clientele, am I right? Perhaps he’s worried about angering them by helping Mr. Stockton. And then where would your family be?”
Jane shrugged her round shoulders.
There was no way to tell if Mr. Stockton would have taken the initiative to purchase cloaks if Adelaide had not fallen ill. But did it matter? It demonstrated a willingness to show compassion toward the weavers’ concerns and complaints. Wasn’t that what she had asked of him—to consider the well-being of those he employed?
It was becoming harder to hate a man who was capable of such kindness, whatever the pretense. But shame simmered low within her. She had always believed it was men like the Stocktons who infused the situation with hatred. But was not Mr. Abbott behaving equally as boorish?
Her heart strained under the thought’s heaviness, and the realization that her own stance might not be entirely faultless.
CHAPTER 19
Wood creaked against wood. Fluffy fibers, lit like dust motes in the late-afternoon sun, flitted and floated in the air. It might be freezing outside, but the workers and steam heated the space, making it feel as hot and humid as July.
Henry paused as he walked the deck. A child caught his eye.
Adelaide.
Her bright-copper curls poked from beneath the kerchief tied about her head. He didn’t know the first thing about children and couldn’t even guess how old she was. Seven? Eight, perhaps? Large brown eyes looked back at him. She didn’t seem afraid, more curious than anything. The woman working with her touched her shoulder, garnering the girl’s attention, and she turned back to her work.
Adelaide, along with several other children, worked their own machines. It was a tedious job. Large pieces of wool were passed through the machine to individualize the fibers before spinning. Operating the machine took little skill and was easy enough for the young ones to understand.
He had been so busy since his return that he had not spent much time in the actual mill, but this afternoon he strode to the mill’s south side where the men worked. They were performing heavier tasks: weaving, scouring, cutting, shearing, finishing.
Whether he liked to admit it or not, Miss Dearborne’s words had haunted him as of late. Furthermore, he did not want to admit that he could see the truth in her viewpoints. The majority of these hardworking men—many with families—would be replaced when the gig mills arrived. The reality was that the highly skilled clothing finishers—the men who cut and raised the cloth once woven—would be replaced by a machine that could do their work in a third of the time.
He looked at his employees’ faces as they worked. He’d have to rely on his supervisors to indicate who would stay and who would lose their work, for he didn’t know them. And the thought made him uncomfortable, but he was equally determined to find a way to make the mill more productive so he could continue to provide jobs.
Henry made his way to the upper level, where the spinning jennies turned raw wool into thread. The deafening roar shook the large windows in their casings, and the heat of so many bodies working in one confined space was stifling. It could not be helped. The locked windows could not be opened, lest the outdoor elements spoil the wool and thread. As it was, the wooly fiber floated so thick in the room that it almost appeared like snow falling.
He paced the length of the room, determined not to be an absent employer—to meet head-on the responsibility of such a task. Miss Dearborne’s humanitarian words stayed with him as he looked at the faces of the children.
As he was walking through the narrow corridor that separated the spinning jennies from the spinning mules, a loud cry rang out behind him. His muscles tensed, and he wheeled around. Through the maze of wood and wheels and strings of spun fibers, he saw a figure sprawled on the ground. Others hovered around him.
Concern clutched him, sudden and strong, and he pushed his way through the crowd. A woman kneeled at the man’s side. Two children, pale and covered in white fibers, stood at his side. Henry fell to his knees next to the man. “What happened?”
The whiskered man looked up at him, his expression darkening when he realized the owner was present. He struggled to stand, but Henry motioned for him to stay.
Though the other machines were slowing, it was still too loud to hear. Despite this, the man rolled up his sleeve. A large welt, purple and bloody red, marred his shoulder.
“What happened?”
The man jerked his head, clutched his thick upper arm, and struggled to stand. “Flying shuttle jumped the track and got my arm,” he shouted. “It comes winging out of there from time to time.”
Henry’s gaze fell on the blood seeping through the worker’s coarse linen shirt. Was the arm broken?
The man’s voice gritted with pain. “Good thing it was me and not one of the young’uns.”
Henry’s gaze flicked to the children, and his blood raced through his ears, the sound of which competed with that of the machines. If this kind of mishap caused such an injury to a grown man, he did not want to think about what could have happened had a child been near.
Henry drew his sleeve over his brow to remove the moisture gathered there and motioned to another man. “Help him down to the Belsey house, will you? And you.” He pointed to another man. “If Mrs. Belsey is not there, find her.”
As the men walked away, Henry looked to the machine in question. Yes, he had heard of this happening before, but he had never seen the aftermath when someone was struck. There had to be a way to prevent future injury.
Dearborne came up behind him and shouted, “They told me to come right away. What happened?”
Henry motioned for Dearborne to follow him to the stairwell so he could be heard once the machines started up again. “He said the flying shuttle jumped the track.”
“Again?”
Shocked, Henry scratched his head. “Does this happen often?”
“It occurs on occasion, but this is the fourth time this month.”
Henry touched the machine, assessing its strength. He did not want to seem overly suspicious, but with all of the violence and destruction, he could not be too careful. “You don’t think anyone could tamper with these, do you?”
“Anything’s possible, I suppose. What do you suspect?”
Henry pursed his lips and furrowed his brow before drawing his words out slowly. “I don’t know exactly, but it seems too coincidental that so many injuries have occurred in such a short span of time.”
Dearborne shrugged. “It seems unlikely. The only people who have access to these machines are the ones who work t
hem. But I can have a guard posted on each floor if it eases your mind.”
“Yes, it would. After we close tonight, get Belsey to personally inspect all of the machines. This cannot happen again.”
Dearborne nodded and followed Henry down the stairs, out of the mill, and to the countinghouse. The machine sounds softened as they closed the doors to the stone building. Once inside, Dearborne produced a stack of letters from a satchel. “These arrived for you.”
Henry accepted the stack, dropped into a chair next to the fireplace, and sifted through the missives. “Any word about the gig mills and when they will arrive?”
“No, sir. None.”
Henry groaned. He glanced at yet another order that had arrived, which now sat atop a pile of paper on his desk. Orders were coming in fast and steady, and he was betting far too much on the fact that the gig mills would arrive in the near future. They were losing time daily. With the weather as it had been, he was concerned that news of the delivery would be delayed, and he needed the mills to arrive. Soon.
Dearborne, still cloaked in his oilskin coat, had no doubt just returned from his assignment. With the excitement of the injury, Henry had almost forgotten about Dearborne’s task. He crossed one leg over the other, motioned for Dearborne to be seated as well. “How was the visit to Bremton?”
With a weary sigh, Dearborne sank into the chair by the fire and shot his fingers through his thick hair, which was nearly the exact brown hue as his sister’s. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “There’s nothing left inside. Not a jenny, not a mule, nothing. All of it was either burned or smashed. To make matters worse, they housed their wool in the same building. The weavers destroyed everything. Fortunately they had been building a stone mill. It even has a waterwheel of cast and wrought iron, so they have that. Just no machinery. The owner was grateful for the slubbing billy we sent over. He said he will send payment for it as soon as he can.”
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