The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Did you tell him we didn’t need any?”

  “Yes, but you know men like him. He’s proud, and this attack has got him quite shaken. He’s hired a couple of guards, but you know how that can go. It’s hard to find guards who will not sell out to the highest bidder.”

  The attack, even though it was far away, had Henry rattled as well. No doubt it rattled every mill owner in this part of the country. Textile machines were expensive. Valuable. And relatively easy to destroy—another reason why the mill building itself had to be a fortress, ready for battle.

  Henry said nothing in response but retrieved the stack of unopened letters that Dearborne had given him moments ago. As he sifted through the letters, one in particular caught his eye. He separated it from the pile and handed the rest to Dearborne. “Most of those will be expenses. Will you see to them?”

  Henry turned his attention back to the letter in his hand and slid his finger beneath the wax seal to pop it open. He unfolded it, and the signature at the bottom robbed him of breath, for it belonged to none other than Vincent Warren, the man who had served beside him for years in the war—the man who had carried Henry from the battlefield when he’d taken a blade to the leg.

  He angled the letter toward the fire’s light and skimmed the carefully penned words, curious as to why the man would reach out to him. They’d not seen each other in more than a year, yet somehow Warren had received word that Henry was now home. One section caught his eye.

  I hope the endeavors at the mill are going well. As you know, I intended to work the family farm with my father. To my horror, I returned home to find that my wife died during our last campaign. Also during that time, my father sold our family farm.

  I humble myself to consider us friends, and I hope I can call upon that friendship to beg a favor. Without a farm I have no work, and I have been unable to secure any. Have you a position at the mill? Nothing is too small. I would be grateful for any assistance.

  A fire lit within Henry’s chest, and he lifted his gaze to Dearborne. “Have we any open positions? Any at all?”

  Dearborne frowned and scratched his head. “Not at the moment. In fact, we’ve a list of people waiting to be called if a position should become available. Why?”

  “What about at Pennington Mill?” Henry rushed on.

  “I’d have to inquire. Did something happen?”

  Henry arched his eyebrow. If there was one benefit of his position, Henry could help his comrade. “There is a man I wish to employ.”

  “Has he a specific trade?” asked Dearborne.

  “I don’t believe he has experience with wool, but he’s a clever one.”

  A shadow darkened Dearborne’s face.

  Henry knew that look all too well. “What is it?”

  Dearborne held up his hands, as if innocent of any opinion. “This isn’t my mill. I’ll not tell you how to run it.”

  Henry could feel the hesitation in Dearborne’s voice. “But?”

  Dearborne expelled his breath as he reluctantly shared his opinion. “It will not look good for you if you bring in an outsider to take one of the villager’s positions. They’ll not take kindly to it.”

  Henry returned his attention to the letter, feigning interest in reading further while he mulled over Dearborne’s concern. How clearly his mind’s eye could picture the man who wrote these words. Henry could not, would not, turn his back on this man who could be credited with saving his life. He returned his gaze to Dearborne. “I’m certain this is the right course. We will find a position for him.”

  “Very well. When do you need one by?”

  “As soon as possible.” Henry dropped the letter on the arm of the chair and moved to the desk, to put as much distance as possible between him and the memories the letter conjured.

  A sudden jolt of cold air and bright light swooshed through the space. Henry glanced up. Belsey poked in his gray head and tossed a letter on the desk. “Came from town.”

  Henry’s mood grew sour. He’d already had enough unpleasantries today, and if the tide remained true, no letter brought good news. He snatched it up and opened it.

  Dear Sir,

  I regret to inform you that I will be unable to make the cloaks for you, as my daughter said. We do not have the workforce at the time.

  Timothy Abbott

  Henry clenched his teeth and slammed the letter to the desk.

  Dearborne jerked his head up. “Something wrong?”

  “Yes, something’s wrong,” he muttered. “Cloaks. I wanted to have cloaks made for the children who have to walk here to work, and Abbott refuses to make them.”

  Belsey smirked as he stepped farther inside. “You did what?”

  Henry shot him a warning glance. “Have you seen how the children arrive? It’s amazing they are not sick in their beds. It is in our best interest to keep them healthy. I had made arrangements with Abbott’s daughter to have cloaks made. And now he says he can’t make them.”

  “Well, of course he won’t.” Belsey picked up the letter and skimmed it. “Abbott is in with the likes of Dearborne and the rest of the weavers. He does most of his business with them.”

  “So you’re saying he won’t do business with me?” inquired Henry.

  Belsey pressed his lips together and nodded.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Ridiculous or not, that’s the way things work around here.” Belsey returned the letter. “’Sides, it’s not your business to see the children are clothed. That sort of spoiling will make you appear weak.”

  Henry shot him another glance.

  Belsey flung up his hand. “Just send Dearborne to the tailor over in Bremton and place the order there. They owe us a favor now, the way I see it, after we sent the billy over there. Write down what you want and we’ll get it there.”

  So this was the way the game was to be played, was it? Henry crumpled Mr. Abbott’s letter in his fist and tossed it toward the fire, casting his frustration with it. Well, he was ready, and even more, he was determined to win.

  CHAPTER 20

  Kate sighed at the large home looming before her, with its gabled, latticed windows.

  Stockton House.

  Even after weeks, the scent of smoke still seemed to linger as real and thick as the mystery surrounding Mr. Stockton’s death.

  Perhaps it was her imagination. Perhaps not.

  Kate adjusted the heavy blanket in her arms. As much as she tried to air it out, the fabric still smelled of smoke. She had forgotten to return it to him before she left Stockton House all those days ago. She couldn’t keep it—it didn’t belong to her. Plus, she could not risk someone finding it at the cottage, for she did not want to have to explain how it came to be in their home.

  A small gate in the low stone wall separated Dearborne property from Stockton property. It would be less likely that someone would notice her using this entrance. When she had been here the night of the fire, it had been too dark for her to take much notice of the grounds, but she had always imagined that Stockton House was pristine and lovely, like a grand castle or elegant estate. Now in the daylight, the property actually seemed a bit dilapidated. The overgrown shrubs scratched at her ankles as she walked along the path, and the lengthy grasses bent low and brown in the snow.

  She gathered her skirt and stepped over a fallen log and headed toward the kitchen entrance she had entered last time.

  She expected that Mrs. Figgs would be the one to answer her knock, and sure enough, the wiry woman appeared within seconds. She did not smile, did not speak, but crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Kate’s explanation.

  “I am only here to return this.” She extended the blanket. Feeling as if she was trespassing, Kate took a step backward. As she turned to leave, someone caught her eye.

  A woman, clad in a cloak of dark gray, strolled through the dormant kitchen garden. As she approached, a glimmer of recognition sparked.

  Kate frowned and squinted. Could that be Mollie Stock
ton?

  Regret coursed through her. The last thing she wanted was to be discovered on Stockton property yet again, by Mr. Stockton’s sister, no less. Kate shouldn’t have come.

  She bobbed a farewell to Mrs. Figgs, hoping to leave by the time Miss Stockton noticed her, but it was to no avail. From the corner of her eye, Kate noticed the brightening of Mollie’s face, and she waved to her from across the garden.

  Kate exchanged a glance with Mrs. Figgs. Apparently the older woman was as taken aback at the acknowledgment as Kate was. She turned back to Miss Stockton and surprise smacked. Miss Mollie Stockton’s middle swelled in an unmistakable manner.

  She was heavy with child.

  “Miss Dearborne!” Miss Stockton’s voice was light with mirth. “It has been years since I last saw you!”

  Kate doubted it had been years, but the fact that the other woman addressed her with such familiarity was far more shocking than the exaggeration of time. For they were not friends. They never had been. Indeed, they had not even been acquaintances. Yet Miss Stockton knew who she was.

  Mrs. Figgs retreated into the kitchen, blanket in hand, but Kate remembered her manners and dipped a curtsy. “Good day, Miss Stockton.”

  “Oh, you’ve not heard!” she exclaimed, her cheeks pink from the cold air and exertion. “It is no longer Miss Stockton. It is Mrs. Smith.”

  “N-No, I had not heard,” Kate stammered, a bit confused at the woman’s friendliness. “May I congratulate you?”

  Mrs. Smith’s face fell. “I would gladly accept your congratulations if my tale had a happier ending, but I’m sorry to tell you that my husband is dead.”

  “Oh.” Still stunned at the odd interaction, Kate could only stutter, “I—I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Mrs. Smith sniffed and offered a weak smile. “I am fortunate that my brother has welcomed me back to Stockton House.”

  Kate forced a smile of her own. “I hadn’t heard of your return. You know how news travels in Amberdale. Nothing stays a secret for long.”

  “I had no intention of my return remaining a secret,” she clarified, chin jutted upward. “It’s only that I have not really had much desire to leave the house in my, uh, condition. And my brother is so focused on the mill, I’m sure he has forgotten about me completely.” In the few slivers of time they had shared just now, Kate liked Mollie Smith, she decided. She exuded a confidence—one that suggested that she had no trouble standing up to the men in her life.

  Mrs. Smith continued. “I’m so glad you have happened upon the garden. It’s so lonely here.”

  Before Kate had a chance to respond, Mrs. Smith’s gentle rosy glow of moments ago blanched to pale white.

  Kate frowned. She didn’t know much about women in the family way, but she did not think the sudden and dramatic change in pallor was a good sign. “Mrs. Smith? Are you well?”

  Mrs. Smith nodded with a nervous laugh, but placed a hand over her stomach and reached to the open door to steady herself.

  Kate stepped forward and took the woman’s arm. She didn’t like the way the woman was clutching her belly. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, I am fine.” Yet another nervous giggle escaped. “Sometimes if I get too excited, I get a little pang of, well, something. But it’s nothing, really.”

  “At least sit down. I’d feel much better if you did.” Kate offered Mrs. Smith’s arm the steadiness of her own and ushered her into the kitchen. Kate had anticipated to go no farther, but Mrs. Smith directed her through the kitchen and up the servants’ stairs to the family drawing room. Not wishing to upset her, Kate complied.

  “Shall I call Mrs. Figgs?” Kate assisted Mrs. Smith to the sofa, trying not to gawk at the opulence of her surroundings.

  Mrs. Smith shook her head. “No, no. She will try to make me retire for the night, and I’ll go mad if I do. I can’t bear to be confined.”

  Kate followed Mrs. Smith’s motion for her to be seated and sat next to her on the damask sofa. She leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re well?”

  Mrs. Smith nodded, and a hint of rose returned to the apples of her cheeks. Her breathing deepened and slowed. “I feel much better. I just needed to come in out of the cold air.”

  Kate had thought the Purty home to be elegant and refined, but it paled in comparison to the luxury around her. Windows twice her height lined the west wall, and dark-blue velvet curtains framed each one. An imposing marble mantelpiece took up much of the wall opposite the windows, and large portraits and landscapes added shades of green, violet, and maroon to the otherwise light space. She had known Mr. Stockton had been successful, but she never would have imagined his wealth amounted to all this.

  “I’m so glad you happened by.” Mrs. Smith’s words pulled her to the present. “It’s so lonely here! Do promise me that you’ll return for another visit soon.”

  Kate hesitated. If Mrs. Smith’s grandfather were still alive or if Kate’s father were within Stockton House walls, she doubted she would be permitted to continue the conversation, much less prepare plans for a future visit. But despite their differences, Kate understood Mrs. Smith. It could be lonely being the only woman in a house besides the servants.

  “Please say you will,” continued Mrs. Smith. “I shall go daft without someone to speak with.”

  Kate glanced at the clock and noted the lateness of the hour. “I must go. But I promise, I will return.” She bid Mrs. Smith farewell and was shown out of the house, not through the kitchen entrance but through the main entrance, like a proper guest.

  Once outside, she quickened her steps. She was reentering her reality, and she could not be seen leaving Stockton House.

  CHAPTER 21

  Henry kept close to the forest’s edge as he rode down the lane away from the village. From Warren’s letter to the injury at the mill to Abbott’s refusal to sew the cloaks, the day’s frustrations weighed heavy on him. Additionally, he was not sure he wanted to return home.

  He was glad that Mollie was safe underneath his roof, but he was in no mood for the argument that would inevitably transpire. She would not be swayed about shedding her little lie, and as of the previous night, she still had not told the truth to Mrs. Figgs. How could she not see the folly in her action?

  As he rounded the bend he spotted something—someone—on the road ahead of him, just outside the gate to Stockton House. His pulse jumped at the sight of the unexpected crimson cloak.

  Could it be she?

  He urged his horse into a trot, and when they drew near, the woman turned and lifted her face to meet his gaze.

  Miss Dearborne.

  His heart raced at the sight. The thought of a few moments with her managed to erase the day’s black marks. For a moment, just a moment, he could breathe.

  Was that a smile on her face?

  The sight kindled a warmth deep within his chest, even amid the snow that floated around them. Somehow, over the course of their varied interactions, she had gone from greeting him with skepticism to offering a smile.

  He’d take it.

  He dismounted and looped the reins over his horse’s head. “Miss Dearborne. Are you coming to or going from Stockton House?”

  She let out a nervous laugh, her gloved hand still on the gate’s iron scrolls. “I assure you, sir, I’m not in the habit of trespassing on your property. I fear this is twice now that I have been here unexpectedly.”

  “I never thought that for a moment. In fact, I’m happy to see you.”

  She diverted her gaze and looked back at the house. “I was just returning a blanket to your home—the one you were kind enough to let me borrow the night of the fire.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.” His horse nudged his shoulder, as if to ask why they had stopped so close to home. He patted the animal’s neck. “You and I both know there is enough cloth between our two families for dozens and dozens of blankets.”

  “Be that as it may, I felt it only right to return it.”

  “And how is your arm?” He rec
alled the softness of her skin as he had dressed the wound. Under any other situation such intimacy would not have been permitted.

  “I am well, as you can see.” She straightened it and then returned it to her side. “Nothing permanent.”

  “And for that I’m glad. I’d never live with myself had you suffered a more serious injury on my account.”

  Her eyebrows drew together and her tone lowered. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned who is responsible for the fire, have you?”

  Henry pursed his lips. “I have not. In fact, I haven’t given it much thought in light of—”

  His words faded, and a silence hovered over them, broken only by the whistling of the wind through the bare birch branches and soft flutter of her cloak in the breeze.

  She looked to the tips of her gloves. “I—I am sorry about your grandfather. I should have said something before, in the countinghouse or at the Abbotts’, but—” She flicked her amber eyes in his direction. “I know he and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye, but it is a terrible thing that has happened.”

  His nose twitched. It was easier to look out into the deepness of the woods along the road for a few moments than to see the earnestness in her eyes. If there was one thing he was certain Miss Dearborne possessed, it was honesty. In the past few weeks, she had not failed to share exactly what was on her mind. “Thank you.”

  She stilled the ribbons of her poke bonnet as they fluttered along her jaw. “It is a horrible thing to lose someone you love. I lost my mother, many years ago now, but the ache still resides.”

  Had she really just shared a personal memory with him, her enemy?

  While her attention was diverted, he studied her. Her long lashes splayed across her rosy cheeks. Tendrils of hair danced with the wind about her face. He was struck by her. Many people had offered their condolences to him, but they were always followed by sentiments for revenge. For justice. She, on the other hand, seemed to understand it was the loss of a person, a beloved family member, and that it was painful.