The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “When you’ve been through what we’ve been through, how could you even question it? I am indebted to you, Vincent. I doubt I’d even be sitting here if it weren’t for your levelheadedness. You will always have my support.”

  “Enough of my dreary story.” The fire’s light cast flickering shadows over Warren’s angular features as he indulged in a swig of brandy and then lowered his glass. He leaned back in the chair. “I rode past Stockton Mill on my way here. Very impressive.”

  Henry nodded.

  “And this house.” Warren raised his head to view the molding at the ceiling’s edge and let his gaze travel down the painted walls and marble mantelpiece. “Quite an improvement over sleeping on the forest floor and washing in a river, I’d say.”

  Henry cleared his throat, eager to get to the topic at hand. “As I said in my letter, I’ve a position for you. It is not at Stockton Mill but Pennington Mill, working the looms, about a mile from here. It’s not a glamorous position, but it’s steady work. And we have a row of cottages on the property for the workers. A handful of them are vacant, and we can get you settled into one of those when you’re ready.”

  Warren smiled and shook his head. “I am grateful, even if I am a bit ashamed to take such generosity.”

  “Don’t be ashamed. If our circumstances were reversed, I’ve no doubt you would do the same for me.”

  Kate stood back from the dye pot. Steam rose from the scalding liquid, and she used the edge of her apron to wipe the moisture from her brow and cheeks. With her stick she stirred the wool in the mixture, eyeing how the colored liquid danced and swirled with the fabric. It would be indigo soon, dark and deep.

  She strained to see in the day’s gray light, watching for signs of unevenness in the color.

  It was imperative that the dye set permanently and perfectly.

  Sudden sharp hoofbeats outside the window drew her attention, and she lifted her head from her task. Even though the light was beginning to fade, she could make out the hook of Mr. Wooden’s nose. He was speaking with another one of Papa’s journeymen. She could not make out their words, but their tones were sharp enough to cut glass.

  Betsy bustled in with an armful of raw yarn.

  “What is Mr. Wooden doing here?” Kate resumed stirring.

  “I don’t know.” Betsy shrugged and cast a glance toward the window. “They seem out of sorts, don’t they?”

  Kate eyed the men as she tended to her work, but something akin to alarm coursed through her as her father joined the conversation. “Here, take this.” Kate handed Betsy the stirring stick, pulled off her heavy work apron, and hung it on the hook next to the door.

  Her skin burned as she stepped from the steam of the dye house into the frigid, early-evening air. An icy breeze swept down from beyond the meadow, and she hugged her arms in front of her for warmth as she approached the group.

  The men did not notice her. She took advantage of the oversight and strained to hear their words.

  “Time is running out.” Wooden’s broad back was to her, his gruff muttering barely audible. “Either we confront him now, or the opportunity is lost.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a mite softer than his grandfather,” responded Thomas Crater, swiping a thick paw of a hand over his nose. “Might work in our favor.”

  “I’ll never cower or beg in front of a Stockton.” Papa glowered. “Neither should you. Where is your pride? Your fortitude?”

  Wooden shifted, angling away from Kate and toward her father. “The time for pride is dwindling. We’ve enough poor and hungry in Amberdale already.”

  “Send a letter, then?” Mr. Crater suggested. “Outline our arguments that way.”

  “No, we haven’t time.” Papa studied the ground and rubbed his chin, as if formulating a plan. “I’ll not beg, but I will talk to him. Let him look us in the face, eye to eye, and then we’ll see what sort of man we are dealing with.”

  Kate held her breath, listening intently to hear over her increasing pulse. The thought of Papa talking with Mr. Stockton sent an uncomfortable chill through her, partly because she knew her father would meet his match in the younger man, and partly because if she were honest with herself, she felt guilty because of her budding sympathy toward him.

  “It’s decided. Wooden, you, Whitby, and I will ride there this evening. We’ll pay young Mr. Stockton a visit and see if he’s any more sensible than the fool who came before him. But if he’s not, I’ve no hesitation to remind him what our brothers to the south have done to other mill owners seeking to do harm to their villagers.”

  The threat seared her ears, burning away the day’s coldness and sending a surge of energy through her. As the men dispersed, Kate gathered her skirts and ran to catch up with her father. “I can help. I’m going with you.”

  He did not slow, nor did he look in her direction. “No, you can’t, and no, you aren’t.”

  “But, Papa, consider.” She raised her voice to be heard over the sounds of their machinery coming from their own loom room. “I care about these people as much as you do. I think—no, I know—I could be of assistance. One day the future of this place will rest on my shoulders, and—”

  “No, one day this place will rest on your husband’s shoulders, and in the meantime, I still make the decisions.” He did not even grant her the courtesy of facing her as he spoke. “John and Wooden will go with me, and you will stay here. You can mind the fires if you like.”

  Her steps slowed. Mind the fires indeed.

  He called to her over his shoulder as he retreated toward the stable. “Get inside, girl. You’ll catch your death out here in this cold. Or perhaps Thomas can drive you to the village. Isn’t the Winter’s End Festival coming soon? Surely you and Miss Abbott have some work to do for that.”

  Kate’s steps stopped entirely as her father’s dismissive words shrouded her as heavy and uncomfortable as a wet blanket. She blew out a breath and propped her hands on her hips, looking around the courtyard. Perhaps she was mistaken to feel so integral to this process, for the truth was painfully obvious: her papa would never see her as more than an assistant, an extra hand for the work.

  CHAPTER 24

  Henry lifted the missive from Silas Dearborne and tapped it against his palm. The cryptic message was little more than an interview request for himself and two of his men with no hint as to the topic. It had arrived at the mill earlier that day when he had been in the countinghouse, and with it came uncertainty’s dark cloud.

  Henry had responded immediately with instructions to meet him at Stockton House that night. Henry wanted them nowhere near his mill—not when plans for the gig mills’ arrival were under way.

  If he were honest, he was actually glad to have finally made contact with Silas. He’d been back in Amberdale for many weeks now and as the two major influencers of Amberdale’s broadcloth production, they needed to speak. Even now as Belsey, Dearborne, and Henry were gathered in the Stockton House study, he repeated his question to Dearborne. “Are you sure you want to do this? If you want to wait in the other room, I’ll not hold it against you.”

  The fire’s light flickered off young Dearborne’s determined expression, the same indomitable fire he had seen flicker in Miss Dearborne’s expression on more than one occasion. “I’m not a child, nor am I afraid of my father. I’m more than capable of handling such a conversation.”

  The fine hairs on Henry’s neck pricked as the crunch of wagon wheels echoed from the gravel drive outside. A knot formed in his stomach as a vision of his grandfather flashed in his mind. Old man Stockton would not have even entertained the idea of such a meeting, much less in his own home. But times were changing, and Henry’s motives were twofold.

  He could not forget his pledge to find the person—or people—responsible for his grandfather’s death and bring them to justice. Mr. Tierner was having no success on the matter, and Henry was growing impatient. Additionally, he was determined to protect the legacy his grandfather had built.


  Henry tapped his finger against the desk’s polished surface as the main door creaked open and guttural male voices rumbled in the night’s stillness. As heavy footsteps drew nearer to the study, his fists clenched. By the time the men entered the room, Henry was standing.

  He picked Silas Dearborne out from the trio immediately. He was tall, like his son, thick and barrel chested. His hair, gray only at the temples, hinted at the same dark undertones as both Miss and Charles Dearborne, but it was the shape of his eyes that tied the three together. Behind him, John Whitby wore the same furrowed brow as he had the other day in the pasture. Henry did not know the other man. But it did not matter.

  Henry steeled his expression.

  “Mr. Dearborne.” Henry motioned for the men to be seated. “Good of you to come.”

  No one sat.

  “We’re not here on a social call,” muttered Dearborne before his steely gaze, for the briefest moment, flicked to his son. He pursed his thin lips, widened his stance, and returned his focus to Henry. “I’ll come right to it. We’ve received word that you are set to install gig mills. Is this true?”

  Henry raised an eyebrow. There was no need for lies. “It is.”

  After a sharp intake of breath, Silas fixed him with a hard stare. “And so we are to understand that you intend to no longer hire out any of the shearing then?”

  Henry nodded. “As our machinery becomes more efficient, we will not need as many extra hands. You’re correct.”

  The vein in Dearborne’s temple began to throb. “Are you aware that those men depend on the work from your mill for their livelihood, to support their families?”

  Henry squared his shoulders. “Mr. Dearborne, you must understand that a great many families depend on work from my mill for their sustenance. Am I not indebted to them as well to preserve their livelihood?”

  “By cutting off the livelihood of others?” Dearborne’s voice rose. “Sir, you are going against centuries of tradition. We can go around and around about this, but we are here to tell you that your gig mills are not welcome in Amberdale.”

  Henry would not be shouted at in his own home. He kept his voice low and strong. “I have the law on my side stating that I am quite welcome to house any sort of machine I choose.”

  “Bah! What is the law of man to answering to God for the actions you take on others? What of tending to the widows and orphans and giving to the poor? A man whose only interest lies in lining his pockets is a sad sort of a man.”

  Dearborne whirled around to face the two men accompanying him. “Listen to him, gentlemen. We thought we would come here for a rational discussion, not to listen to pathetic excuses. We have come to urge you to abandon this idea and consider your fellow man. I respectfully ask you, one last time, to reconsider.”

  At this, Henry stepped forward, tempering the frustration building.

  He would not become excitable.

  Henry cleared his throat. “I’ve listened to you, and I hear your argument. But I have an argument of my own, which, contrary to your statement, is not all about money. I must adapt constantly, otherwise another mill will take my place, then another. Then another. I appreciate the respectful nature of your request, but I intend to move forward with the gig mills.”

  Dearborne’s eyes hardened. The two men shifted behind him. “Perhaps I did not make our position clear, Mr. Stockton. Our request was not so much a request as an expectation. We, as the elders of our district, have a responsibility to do whatever’s necessary to protect the people and the values that are the cornerstones of our community. We are not the only ones who feel strongly about this, boy. Our brothers all over Yorkshire are ready to rise up in arms against people like you, seeking to destroy the fabric of our lives.”

  “Rising up in arms? Like burning a man’s stable to the ground within hours of his arrival in the village?”

  Dearborne’s jaw twitched. Did he know about what happened that night with the Stockton House stable? But just as quickly his eyes hardened once again. “I can see you are every bit as stubborn and unreasonable as your grandfather before you. I only hope you have enough sense to avoid a fate such as his.”

  “Do you have specific knowledge of my grandfather’s fate?” Henry challenged.

  “I do not. But it doesn’t take much to conclude that your grandfather crossed the wrong path one too many times.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s anything else to be said. I appreciate your more-than-friendly introduction, gentlemen, but—”

  Dearborne silenced Henry’s words by leaning forward aggressively and pointing a thick finger in Henry’s direction. “Mark my words, Stockton. This is not over, far from it.” He cast a final condemning glance at his son, who, unlike his father, had remained silent through the ordeal.

  No one spoke until the visitors’ footsteps could be heard through the front windows and the sound of hoofbeats retreated into the night. Henry unclenched his fists and turned to face Belsey and Charles. He blew out his breath and moved to the fire. “That went well.”

  “Makes me sick,” muttered Belsey. “They speak of preserving the community and taking care of the poor. What they care about is preserving the money in their own pockets and not an ounce more.”

  “If we don’t bring in the gig mill, someone else will.” Dearborne shook his head. “It is only a matter of time.”

  Henry slapped his hand on Dearborne’s back. “Hope that wasn’t too uncomfortable for you.”

  “It’s fine.” Dearborne shrugged. “Father is the one who doesn’t wish to speak with me, not the other way around. I’ve made my choices in my life, and he’s made his. It has never been written anywhere that the son must follow the father.”

  The words struck Henry as a hand across his face. He could very well have said that it was not written anywhere that the grandson must follow the grandfather. And yet here he was, running his company, living in his house.

  Henry hoped one day he would find the clarity that Dearborne possessed. But for now, he had to keep his goal in mind. He would find the men responsible for his grandfather’s death. He would find the men responsible for the stable fire. And he would defend his work against Silas Dearborne and his men.

  CHAPTER 25

  Kate rapped her gloved knuckles on Stockton House’s kitchen entrance, tucked her hand back into the warmth of her cloak, and cast a glance around to make sure no passersby noticed her presence.

  Days had slid into weeks since she and Mollie Stockton had become acquainted, and now winter’s harsh bite on the barren landscape was just barely beginning to weaken. Kate’s visits to Stockton House had become more frequent of late. Of course, Papa knew nothing of them, and Kate intended to keep it that way. It didn’t exactly feel like a betrayal. Not really, for her visits were to Mrs. Smith. Mr. Stockton was never home during the daytime hours, leaving the women free to chat as they pleased. Kate was fond of Mrs. Smith, and their friendship, although unexpected, was a bright spot in her days.

  At length Mrs. Figgs appeared in the doorway, her thin lips pressed into a firm line. She, too, stuck her head out the door and looked to the right and then the left before stepping back and giving Kate room to enter.

  “Mrs. Smith told me to see you up to her chamber.” Mrs. Figgs clutched her skirts as they climbed the back stairwell.

  “Mrs. Smith is well, is she not?”

  “Ah, she is as well as one in her state can be expected.” Mrs. Figgs gave her head a sharp shake, tipping the white cap on her head to the side. “The days are growing long for her.”

  Kate rested her hand atop the ornately carved newel post and pivoted to follow Mrs. Figgs up several more treads. Her steps were barely audible on the carpet runner protecting the staircase landing, and as Kate turned the corner to ascend another flight of steps, she caught sight of stair-step portraits lining the paneled wall. Her interest piqued as paintings of a boy and a girl came into view.

  They had to be Henry Stockton and Mollie.

  Bo
th children boasted vibrant blue eyes and dark hair. Kate paused long enough to fix the images in her memory before hurrying to follow Mrs. Figgs to the next landing.

  Mrs. Figgs breezed into a chamber, and Kate poked her head in afterward. “Mrs. Smith?”

  “Thank goodness you are here!” Mollie’s pallid expression brightened, and she struggled to sit up amid the abundance of white linens and myriad pillows. “I’ve been about ready to die from boredom. I knew you’d come.”

  Kate smiled at the woman’s dramatics as she removed her cloak and let it fall to a chair. She approached the bed. “I came as soon as I received your note. I was worried you had fallen ill.”

  “No, nothing like that. I have been dizzy of late, and the midwife thought it best if I stay in bed.” She turned to Mrs. Figgs and requested that tea be brought before she motioned to the chair at the desk. “Pull up that chair there, and sit.”

  Kate did as she was bid. A little warmth settled over her. It felt good to have another woman she could be friendly with. She and Jane were close, of course, but other than her there was no one she could truly relax with.

  The cool light of afternoon slid through the filmy white curtains. In a quick sweep of the space, Kate took stock of the room. Floral wallpaper with birds and delicate pink flowers clad the walls, and a large bed draped on all four sides with thick brocade curtains sat in the center of the room. An intricate Persian rug, not entirely unlike the one in the drawing room, covered the planked wooden floor. Opposite the bed, a mantelpiece framed a cheery fire, flanked by a chaise lounge and a small writing desk. Against one wall was a wide dressing table, cluttered with glass jars and silver canisters. A giant oak wardrobe stood guard against another wall. It was a perfectly comfortable space, but despite the smile gracing Mrs. Smith’s face, her pale cheeks and red eyes spoke to her discomfort.

  Kate forced cheerfulness to her voice and adjusted the pale-blue coverlet over Mollie’s maternal form. “So how are you feeling, really?”