As they walked Dearborne’s voice lowered. “Hope there will be no trouble tonight. Word’s gotten out about the gig mills. Before we left, Belsey told me he heard two men talking of the mill at the public house. No doubt every weaver in the village knows about it now.”
“At least they’re safe in the mill’s brick walls.” Henry sidestepped a frozen puddle.
“We hope, anyway.”
Attacks on mills all over Yorkshire had multiplied over recent weeks, and the frequency and intensity of them increased with each blow. He couldn’t pretend that Stockton Mill would be immune.
Henry glanced back at the mill. Normally all would be dark this time of night, save for any light coming from the cottages or the countinghouse, but torches lit the space, reflecting their light on men with rifles slung over their shoulders who had been hired to protect the mill. “We’ve done what we can. The most important thing we can do now is attend this gathering tonight. If we didn’t, that would send an even louder message of intimidation. No, I’ll not live in fear of what they may or may not do.”
Dearborne nodded as they approached the open door. “Let’s hope it’s the right decision.”
Inside the inn, heat rushed Henry. Dancers whirled by at dizzying speeds. People, young and old alike, were pressed against the walls and tables, squeezing out room for the dancers in the middle. Voices, laughter, and shouts echoed from the broad, exposed timber rafters and carried down from the balcony surrounding the room.
A barmaid shoved a beverage in his hand, and Henry swept his beaver hat from his head. “I told Pennington I would find him. D’you see him?”
Dearborne gestured toward the corner. “I don’t know where he is, but there can be no overlooking her.”
Henry followed the direction of Dearborne’s nod. Miss Pennington stood next to a beverage table, surrounded by a group of ladies and gentlemen. The women all paled in comparison, and the men gaped as starving men would stare at steak.
She was fit for the assembly rooms of London, not the humble inn of a local festival. She shimmered in a gown of emerald-green silk, and a sapphire pendant glittered from her white throat. A tiara glistened atop her golden curls, and diamond earrings bounced about her heart-shaped face at every movement. The cut of her gown accentuated the curves of her figure, and she fluttered her painted fan playfully about her face.
He was staring. Along with every other man in the room.
“She is a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she?” Dearborne laughed. “Look at those sorry chaps, at her beck and call.”
At one time the sight would have entranced Henry. They would have flirted. She’d have smiled coyly. He would have teased her. They would have spent the entire event at each other’s side. But everything had been different lately. Would it remain so?
She turned, smiled, held his gaze, and then turned back to her company.
Henry expelled his breath.
This could be an interesting night indeed.
CHAPTER 27
Kate stood next to her brother, shoulders beginning to sag. She glanced around the open space, distracted, eager to be free from his story about the new foal at the mill. His gathered friends were enthralled with the story, but how could she concentrate?
Mr. Stockton stood just behind her. She had accidentally made eye contact with him when she was looking around for Jane, and now she sensed his nearness. She strained to hear the conversation he was having with Miss Pennington, but the music and animated voices covered his.
He’d nodded in her direction and smiled, and that had been the extent of their interaction.
It was one thing to spend time with her brother, even though he was a millworker. But speaking with Mr. Stockton here would be out of the question.
She caught a flash of emerald from the corner of her eye and tilted her head slightly. The caller had announced the longways dance, and Mr. Stockton led Miss Pennington to the floor for the lively event.
Her heart sank at the sight. She pulled her gaze away and looked back to her brother, whose eyes were fixed expectantly on her.
“Did you hear me?” Charles prompted.
Apparently the foal story was over. His friends had moved on to another topic, and he took her arm. “I asked if you’d dance with me.” A grin eased onto his face.
She hesitated and looked back to the dance floor. Women lined up on one side, men on the other. The row had grown quite long, a line that consisted mostly of millers.
“But there are only millworkers at the ready,” she protested. “Father would—”
“Don’t be so poky,” teased Charles, taking her hand. “Father will just have to control himself. Let’s have fun tonight. Come, little sister, join me.” He pulled her toward the floor.
Was this not what she had wanted out of this night? To laugh and dance and find reprieve from the cares of everyday life? To enjoy those around her and feel free? As the music began, she forced the fear of what it would look like for her, a weaver, to be dancing in the millers’ line.
The dance was not a calm one, nor a short one at that. Her face flushed with the heat of the active bodies in such a tight space. She clapped her hands when bid. Called “hey” when the dance demanded it. Laughed at the people trying to keep pace with the melody driven fast by flutes and flying violins.
Charles, cheeks flushed, made a funny face at her as he passed her, and she giggled as she had when they were children. The music whirled faster and faster, spinning her cares away and weaving a fresh attitude. More than once the ladies wove their way through the line of men. First as a group and then individually. Even in the midst of the excitement, she noticed—and relished—the flutter in her heart as she found her hand in Mr. Stockton’s, even if for fleeting moments.
Despite her present mirth, Kate was keenly aware of Miss Pennington’s presence during the dance, as one would be aware of a rival. The tall blonde captured the eye of every man and the envy of every woman, and as the dance drew to a close, Miss Pennington was next to her.
The recollection of her words from the countinghouse back room momentarily dampened her spirits. “Some people who do not know you as well as I might misinterpret your intentions.” Miss Pennington said nothing to her after the dance. Indeed, she barely glanced in Kate’s direction, but the possessive manner in which she wrapped her arm around Mr. Stockton’s sent a clear and direct message to any lady who might dare to cast an admirable glance toward her partner.
At the conclusion of the dance, Charles swept the wool sleeve of his coat across his brow, chest heaving with exertion. “I’ll go find some ale. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Charles disappeared into the crowd, and a fresh group of dancers—weavers this time—gathered on the narrow floor for another set.
She took a moment to catch her breath, her own chest heaving from the dance. She spied John leaning against a support beam and talking with a weaver from Wester. She had avoided him so far this evening, but her skin prickled. She would not be able to avoid him forever, with the weavers lining up in squares for the cotillion.
“Will you dance with me, Miss Dearborne?”
The voice, a soft tone behind her, caused her to jump. She’d been so focused on watching John that she had not heard anyone approach.
She had expected one of the weavers to be at her elbow, but Mr. Stockton stood just inches from her.
Fresh heat rushed her face, and she pushed the long locks that had come loose during the last dance away from her face. “Mr. S-Stockton. I did not hear you. Or, I mean, I did not see you.”
She looked around, making sure that her papa or John or any other weaver was not witnessing the exchange.
His face was flushed too. The color brought attention to his high cheekbones and freshly shaven jaw. His eyes were bright with the exertion of dancing.
Her heart raced in girlish exuberance. Had he really just invited her to dance? She could not help the smile that sprang to her lips. How her heart wanted to accep
t the offer and spend more time in his company. But reality trumped her heartfelt wishes, and she raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that would be the best idea.”
“Why?”
She tilted her head to the side. His handsome features and the intensity of his gaze made it difficult to concentrate on words. “The weavers are dancing now, and you—you are—”
He gave a good-natured huff. “Not a weaver.”
She looked around again. There were so many people. What could a short conversation hurt? They had spoken several times in passing on the road since the day he helped her with Ivy. Each interaction had tightened the invisible thread that seemed to pull them together. She had seen him when she went to visit Charles. Their paths crossed every Sunday at church.
But every interaction, however small it was, always left her wanting to know more about this mysterious man who held such an iron grip on his mill yet cared enough to provide his young workers with cloaks.
Perhaps he was wanting more too.
His presence was commanding, as if she were unable to walk away. He was close enough she could smell the sharp, intoxicating scent of sandalwood.
He leaned closer. “And how do you feel about that, this division of the weavers?”
She looked up at his clear blue eyes, a bit surprised by the question. At first she thought he was making fun of her or making light of the situation, but the expression on his face was earnest. His question was a sincere one.
It unnerved her. She was rarely asked about her thoughts and feelings on any topic. In fact, she was often told how she was supposed to feel and act. She attempted, in that small sliver of time, to remember the last time her opinion on anything had been solicited. She normally had no problem freely giving it, but had anyone cared to listen?
She drew a deep breath. “I find it sad, actually. Very sad. My father is on one side and my brother on the other. I will forever be suspended in the middle.”
“Must be difficult. You see, Miss Dearborne, I loved my grandfather, but he was a stubborn old goat. He’d not deny that statement either. I see no reason to continue a grudge, especially when I have little knowledge of the beginning of it. And if dancing the weavers’ dance will mend that division, so be it. Besides, if the grudge remains, then how shall I better make your acquaintance?” His gaze did not waver.
Was he flirting with her? Teasing her? Grooming her to hurt her father, as John had suggested?
She smiled, reminding herself what was at stake if she misjudged his intentions. “That would take a significant shift of perspective. But it is an admirable thought.”
He lifted his gaze to the crowd before fixing his eyes on her again. “Do you think it possible to overcome this prejudice?”
A dozen questions rested within that one question. She had to be careful how she answered. “I like to think it is possible.”
“Despite what you may think, I am on your side, Miss Dearborne. I hope that you and I can overcome this and maybe even become friends.” The inflection in his voice rose, and his gaze blazed with intensity. “I do hope one day you will accept my invitation to dance.”
She could get lost in this moment, lost in his words, lost in the picture he was painting, lost in the suggestion of a life that was different from the one she had now. She could believe he wanted to know her better, and the prospect sent warmth flooding through her, tingling the tips of her fingers and making her head dizzy.
“Kate.”
The sound of her father’s voice snapped her from the moment. She whirled around and stumbled back, nearly bumping into Mr. Stockton.
Her papa’s hard eyes pinned her, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?” he thundered, garnering the attention of the villagers around her. His resolute gaze lifted to Mr. Stockton.
Mr. Stockton dipped his head in a greeting. “Mr. Dearborne.”
“I’ll not pretend I’m glad to see you,” huffed Papa. “You have a right to be here as much as the next man, but you’re hardly welcome.”
Mr. Stockton raised his eyebrow. “At least we are clear on that count.” If he was rattled by the rude greeting, he did not look it. He stared her father dead in the eye, an act not many men could do. Strength and confidence radiated from his firm stance.
Kate bit her lip and sheepishly glanced around. People were taking notice of the interchange. Her father never spoke to Stocktons. Ever. And yet here he was doing just that.
Questioning gazes were focused in their direction. John and Mr. Wooden stepped threateningly near.
Panic began to encroach. Kate looked in the opposite direction. Her brother and Mr. Belsey were approaching.
Her father’s voice rose over the crowd. He was a master at persuading others to follow him, and it was clear—his goal was to further label Henry Stockton as the enemy. “But since you are here, there is a conversation that needs to be had.”
Kate leapt in. “Papa, I really don’t think this is the time. Perhaps you will—”
“Quiet, girl.”
She snapped her lips shut at the rude dismissal and flashed her eyes toward Mr. Stockton.
His calm gaze slid from her father, to her, and then back to Papa. “I don’t think it’s necessary to speak to a lady in such a fashion.”
Her father leaned in toward Mr. Stockton as a man leaning into a fight, daring the other man to strike the first blow. “You’ll not tell me how to speak with my own daughter, and you’ll not take a highbrow tone with me.”
Mr. Stockton’s eyes narrowed to slits, the act of which delivered a threat of its own. His very deliberate gaze shifted to both of the men behind her father before he spoke, and his tone reeked of sarcasm. “Very well. If that is how you feel she deserves to be spoken to. What did you wish to discuss?”
Her father’s expression darkened, and a bead of moisture that had gathered on his creased brow dripped over a flaming cheek. “We know the gig mills are here.”
Mr. Stockton crossed his arms over his chest and broadened his stance, creating a more intimidating presence. “They are. Just as you, I have every right to do what is best for the future and sustain my business for my employees.”
John pushed his way forward from behind her father’s comrades and stepped in front of Papa. The wild glint in his eyes suggested he had been waiting for a moment just like this to provoke Mr. Stockton into breaking his composure. He fairly spat his words. “For your employees? You mean for yourself.”
Mr. Stockton stepped forward. Kate resisted the urge to grab his arm to hold him back. “Every man who is in business for himself seeks success. Only a fool chases after failure.”
“But success at what cost?” goaded John. “To the detriment of the community you live in?”
“Stockton Mill provides employment for more than 150 people in Amberdale.”
Papa cackled. “Listen to him, boys. He speaks of the mill as if it’s the fruit of his own labor, as if it were something he built from the dust with his own hands. It was built by your grandfather, who would employ any means necessary to squelch the competition and trample anyone in his way.”
“Yes, my grandfather built the mill, but it is mine now. I’ll run it as I see fit.”
Her father was shouting now and pointed a thick finger at Mr. Stockton’s chest. “It’s a disgusting lack of humanity. Let me be clear, boy. There are those of us concerned with the welfare of those whose livelihoods you are so quick to destroy.”
Color flamed to Mr. Stockton’s face. His square, clean-shaven jaw twitched, and he stepped forward another pace. “I am not a boy, sir. And I have no need to answer to you or to anyone for the decisions I make. I will not be swayed.”
“So you will continue with this cruel, ill-advised decision of yours?” John stood shoulder to shoulder with her father. “Be careful with your answer, for the room is full of people here who have short tempers and long memories.”
Mr. Stockton glared. “I will proceed.”
Charles, no doubt drawn by the harsh sh
outs, now stood behind Mr. Stockton. How Charles could look their father in his tenacious face was beyond her, but he had made his opinions clear time and time again. Perhaps it was growing easier for him, but every time the two were in the same vicinity, the tension tore at Kate’s already fragile heart.
John turned his attention to Charles. “You. You’re as guilty as he is. You are a part of this.”
Charles pressed forward, fists balled at his sides. The muscles up his arm flinched.
Please don’t, Kate mouthed, a silent plea for her brother to stand down.
He did not look at her.
Kate whirled. John was just behind her now, close enough that she reached out and pushed against his chest, trying to create space. If he cared for her in the least, like he said, surely he would listen.
“John, don’t. Please.” Her voice grew louder. “He’s my brother, I beg—”
A shove stole the breath from her lungs, then she heard the eerie sound of fist meeting skin. She wheeled around and, to her horror, saw blood smeared across Charles’s face.
Suddenly shouts and screams replaced the musical strains. The noise of scraping chairs and breaking wood filled her ears. Fists flailed and bodies writhed, so much so that she could barely tell who was who.
On instinct, she stepped forward, but someone had her by the waist. “Let go!” She struggled against the tether, but the arm held firm. She looked back and found none other than Mrs. Figgs holding her steady.
The older woman tightened her grip, but her words were gentle. “It’s not your place. Let them beat each other senseless. You stay strong.”
Stay strong.
She could almost laugh at the bitter irony of it. How could she stay strong if her family fought before her, severing her heart and destroying her future?
Even though the brawl seemed endless, it was only a matter of seconds before bystanders—both weavers and millers—drew the men off each other, their huffs and grunts the only sound in the now-still room.
The Weaver's Daughter Page 21
