The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  With preparations in the mill ready, Henry made his way into the countinghouse. Despite the cold, perspiration beaded on his forehead and dampened his shirt. Miss Dearborne had told them the men would be meeting at midnight. He glanced at the clock. The hour was past midnight; the night was still. Not even the wind dared to disrupt the reverent calm.

  Henry looked around the black room. There was not even a fire in the grate. No one spoke. No one moved.

  Two magistrates, including Mr. Tierner, had joined Henry, Belsey, and Dearborne in the countinghouse. They had been able to secure three soldiers, all of whom stood with their weapons at the ready, and Pennington had dispatched a few of his men to offer support. They all knew that this building—the countinghouse—was the most vulnerable. It was made of stone, but portions of the frame were made of wood. It would be easy to gain entrance, especially if someone was familiar with the layout.

  Minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness.

  Perhaps Miss Dearborne had been misinformed?

  He lifted the edge of the window covering.

  Nothing.

  He was about to turn to the other men when he heard it—the deafening crack of iron against iron.

  The gate.

  He snapped his head away from the window to avoid being seen. Belsey’s brows were raised.

  He’d heard it too.

  And then the footsteps started. Slowly. Steadily.

  He’d heard the footsteps before. Just like the ones he’d heard in battle. But instead of fighting for their country, these men were prepared to fight for their livelihoods.

  His heart thudded, and sweat dripped into his eyes. He blinked it away before reaching for his pistol on the table.

  With a furrowed brow and lips pressed to a firm line, Dearborne stepped next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “That’s them.”

  Behind him, grave expressions painted the faces of all gathered, and one of the magistrates withdrew out the back door, no doubt to connect with the men in the mill.

  The time had come, and there would be no turning back.

  CHAPTER 34

  Kate gripped Mollie’s hand and winced as the young woman cried out.

  Pain twisted Mollie’s face. Her jaw clenched. Perspiration dampened her hair, clumping it in thick, black locks over her pale forehead.

  Tears burned in Kate’s own eyes at the sight. It was not easy to watch another in such pain. The night’s darkness added to the uncertainty of the evening, although she doubted sunlight would make much of a difference. She squeezed Mollie’s hand back and looked to the midwife, who stood near the foot of the bed.

  “It will all be over soon, Mollie,” Kate whispered, even though she had no idea how long the labor would last. “Soon.”

  As another pang seized Mollie, she clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. Perspiration trailed down well-worn paths on her face, and she flailed her hand and grabbed Kate’s arm. Her fingernails dug into the flesh, but Kate didn’t pull away. She obeyed the midwife’s every order. She wiped Mollie’s brow. She fetched clean linens when bid to do so.

  The hours dragged on mercilessly and excruciatingly for the young mother. When the midwife withdrew from the room, Mollie clutched Kate’s skirt. “Don’t leave, Kate,” she panted. “Please.”

  “I’ll not leave.”

  The fire’s light reflected off the moisture on her brow. “Do you promise?”

  Before Kate could respond, a sob from another spasm of pain seized Mollie. Anguish deepened her cry.

  “You’re strong,” Kate encouraged. “Your husband would be so proud of you.”

  Kate had expected the words to be a comfort, but as they passed her lips, fresh sobs shook Mollie’s form.

  “I’m sorry.” Panicked, Kate reached for her and pressed a linen cloth to her forehead and reached for words. “Please don’t cry.”

  Mollie pushed the rag from her face and lay back on the pillow, the strands of her long, dark hair clinging to her face. She ran her hands over her face and covered her eyes as she spoke. “I’ve deceived you.”

  Clearly the woman was talking out of her mind. Kate put her hand on her shoulder. “Hush now. You’ve not deceived me.”

  “Yes, I have.” Mollie’s voice punched with sudden strength, and she jerked her hands away from her face. “You have been kind to me. A friend. And I’ve deceived you. I’ve deceived everyone.”

  Confused, Kate stared at her. Did she know what she was saying?

  More tears flowed from Mollie’s blue eyes. “Why am I lying? Have I really gone so far?” Tears merged with the perspiration on her face and tracked down her cheeks.

  Kate moved a pile of damp linens to the floor. “I don’t understand.”

  “My name is not Mrs. Smith.”

  Kate straightened and then frowned. Surely the pain was altering her thinking. “Of course it is.”

  “No. My name has never been Mrs. Smith. I have always been Mollie Stockton. Just—Stockton.”

  Surely she was delirious. “We can discuss this later. Just focus on—”

  “Do you not understand?” she hurled back. “It means that the baby’s father couldn’t care less about how I’m doing.”

  As the meaning of the words sank in, Kate let out a slow exhale.

  Mollie had never been married.

  She had no husband.

  Not knowing how to respond to the sudden, breathless admission, Kate remained silent. She was torn. She had been lied to. Blatantly. But as she watched the woman writhe in pain, did it even matter? She knew how women who had a child out of wedlock were treated. Had Kate not been treated as an outsider by others at times? The harsh rejection of her childhood friendship with Frederica Pennington and the recent dismissal of her by her own weavers burned.

  These were hardly on the same level as what Mollie would endure.

  Kate forced a smile and wiped perspiration from her own brow. “Well, at this moment that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but staying calm. It will all work out in the end. You’ll see.”

  “But will it?” A different emotion flashed in her eyes. “Please don’t hate me. I couldn’t bear it. You’re the only friend I have here. You’re the only friend I have anywhere.”

  A fresh wave of pain broke over Mollie, and her words stopped. Instead, between groans and cries she gasped for air.

  Kate watched helplessly and waited for this round of pain to pass. As she did, she held Mollie’s hand again. She thought of Henry’s request for her to help take care of Mollie. Did he know all of this?

  At the thought, she could not help the worry seeping into her mind. Were Henry and Charles safe? What was happening with the men at the mill? Mollie had no idea what the men were facing this night, for the battle she was fighting required her full concentration. But the knowledge that an attack could be under way nagged Kate. Toyed with her. Frightened her.

  She could not let Mollie know that her brother was in danger. She breathed a little prayer, then returned her full attention to Mollie. “Does your brother know about the—the—”

  “Yes. He knows I’ve been lying, and he’s been cross with me about it.” Every word was exhaled as a breathless pant. “But how can he possibly understand what this means for my future, my baby’s and my future?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know that your brother will not betray you. He loves you.”

  The midwife bustled back into the room.

  Mollie clutched her arm. “Please. Keep my secret.”

  “Of course.” Kate rubbed Mollie’s hand. “It isn’t my story to tell.”

  Henry’s heart thumped in his chest. Erratically but strongly, alertly. He stood at the countinghouse window, his body shielded by the window frame.

  He sensed their presence. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He swallowed hard. His finger flexed near the trigger of his pistol.

  “What do we do?” Belsey whispered.

  “We wait.”

  A sudden, sharp crack, like wood sp
litting, echoed in the night. Henry jumped.

  “It came from over by the stable.” Belsey pressed his body against the wall and peered out the window.

  And then Henry saw them. Shadow people, perhaps fifty of them, moving silent and slow toward the mill like a great black wave, weaving in and out of the silhouettes of trees and outbuildings.

  Suddenly, the sharp ping of a stone crashing through a window shattered the silence and showered glass to the ground. Henry whirled around.

  Without warning a rock sailed through the window next to Henry. First one and then another. The glass exploded. Henry ducked and covered his head. The rock ricocheted from the rear wall.

  A slew of curses spewed from the magistrate’s mouth, and one of the soldiers stepped forward, filling the space just to the left of the window. “Take notice,” the soldier shouted, his side pressed against the wall. “This is a member of His Majesty’s army. I’m charged with keeping the peace in Amberdale and defending the legal rights of this establishment. You are ordered to disperse and return to your homes. If you fail to do so, force will be used.”

  Henry held his breath.

  But mere seconds later, another rock flew and shattered another window. A cheer rose from outside.

  The soldier cursed this time. He aimed his rifle through the broken window toward the black sky and fired. The muzzle flash flared in the dark night, and the shot echoed from the outbuildings. “This is your final warning. Disperse!”

  Instead of discouraging the weavers, the warning incited the crowd.

  Henry widened his stance and tightened his grip on the firearm.

  Shouts and calls thundered. Faceless silhouettes stole across the yard. And then he saw it—a flash of fire across the courtyard. It grew from a flicker of a flame to a roaring blaze.

  “They’ve set the wagon on fire!” cried Dearborne.

  Henry exchanged a sober gaze with the magistrate. Their only retaliation would be to fire upon the crowd. That he would not do until fired upon first. Flames engulfed the wagon. A horse’s silhouette raced in front. Had they gained access to the stable?

  The fire illuminated some of the attackers. He had no idea there would be so many. They wore wide-brimmed hats, and black handkerchiefs covered their faces.

  And then it happened. A series of gunshots—sharp, clear, and loud—rang out in the night. Two of the men in the countinghouse dropped to the ground at the sound, and Henry pressed against the wall again. Perspiration stung his eyes. His mouth grew dry.

  The line had been crossed from mere vandalism to something much more sinister.

  He looked out the window. Two more fires had been started, one at the north end of the courtyard, the other at the south. The north end ran against the river, and next to it, the waterwheel.

  Another shot rang out.

  Tierner pushed past him, leveled the barrel of his rifle on the jagged glass of the windowsill, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  “What are you doing?” Henry grabbed his arm once the shot had been discharged.

  Tierner’s annoyance flashed. “The animals will pull your mill down brick by brick. Is that what you want? You’ll not have all night to decide if you are going to act or not.”

  Before he had a chance to respond, a volley of gunfire rang out over the courtyard. Shot after shot bellowed.

  Battlefield images rushed him as real as an enemy wielding a knife. Henry struggled to separate the vivid memories from the sights, sounds, and scents he encountered now. Just as a war raged in his courtyard, another raged in his mind.

  Then he saw it. Across the courtyard, the fire’s light illuminated a man hammering at the waterwheel. Only half of the huge wheel was visible, and he squinted to make sure his eyesight could be trusted. The waterwheel powered several of the machines within the mill. He had thought they would be after the machines themselves, but destroying the waterwheel would halt production completely.

  Confident he saw real men and not just shadows, Henry motioned for Belsey to follow him and crept out the countinghouse’s rear door. The cold air rushed him, stealing the air from his lungs and pricking his fevered skin.

  Under the cover of darkness, he and Belsey rounded the back of the mill and crawled through a small tunnel that ran the length of the mill’s wall and provided access to the waterwheel at river level.

  Then his suspicion was confirmed—two men crouched near the wheel, hacking at the wheel with axes, sending chunks of wood flying into the rushing water below.

  Next to him, Belsey seemed less affected and more angered by what was happening. He, too, brandished a gun, only he was less hesitant than Henry. The older man took aim and fired. The men dove to the ground.

  Now that the perpetrators were alerted to their presence, Henry snapped to action and lurched from the safety of their tunnel. He pointed his pistol at the man. “You there!”

  The closest man jerked up his head and yanked a pistol from his coat.

  To Henry’s surprise, the man was pointing his pistol not at him but at Belsey.

  Henry did not think. He just responded. He would not have a man fighting for him injured or, worse, killed. He knew what he needed to do. He aimed for the man’s leg and pulled the trigger.

  The man screamed and fell backward, the pistol tumbling from his grip onto the muddy ground. In the confusion, the other attacker retreated back to the courtyard, leaving his fallen comrade.

  Henry nearly dropped the pistol from his hand when the man rolled over. The light from a nearby fire shimmered on the face of none other than Silas Dearborne.

  Dearborne cried out in pain and clutched his leg, fixing his eyes on Henry.

  One glance at the location of the wound told Henry that the shot was not a mortal one. He would survive.

  Henry had a choice. He could drag the wounded man back to the countinghouse, where the authorities would be ready to take him captive, or he could let the man return to the other weavers.

  Belsey nudged him in the arm, his rifle now pointed at Dearborne. “What do you want to do with him?”

  Henry stooped to pick up Dearborne’s dropped pistol. “Let him go.”

  “What?” cried Belsey. “Have you gone mad?”

  Henry did not take his eyes off Dearborne. “Yes. He and his men will not be successful, not on this night or any other. I am not frightened of them, and I never will be. Let him nurse his wound. We’ve other matters to deal with.”

  Belsey grumbled under his breath, but complied and backed away from the wounded Dearborne.

  Henry had no doubt that the other man who had fled would return for the wounded Dearborne, but he could not—would not—return to the countinghouse with Silas Dearborne as a prisoner. Not with Charles within those walls, and not after what Miss Dearborne had risked to warn him.

  He and Belsey returned to the countinghouse. The fighting waged for hours. At times the activity would lull. At other times the activity would stir into a frenzy, punctuated by gunshots, crackling fires, angry shouts, and showers of stones. Several hours into the battle, the weavers felled one of the larger courtyard trees, sending it crashing against the roof of the stable and dye house, but even then, they did not relent.

  With the exception of protecting the waterwheel, the millworkers never left the safety of the mill and the countinghouse. The weavers scurried around the courtyard like ants around an anthill, bent on destruction and mayhem, but throughout it all, Henry, the magistrate, the soldiers, Dearborne, Belsey, Pennington, and the various millworkers pressed forward, answering every gunshot and thwarting every attempted entry.

  After hours of fighting, the weavers, little by little, retreated into the forest. Men wounded by gunshot or fire were carried off. Soon the silver light of dawn revealed a smoke-filled and badly damaged courtyard. Not a single window remained intact, but the mill, the waterwheel, and, most importantly, the machines inside were safe.

  There were still unanswered questions. Despite strong suspicions, he did not know wit
h perfect certainty the identity of the man who was ultimately behind this attack. He still did not know who had killed his grandfather. But he did know one thing: The weavers would not take his mill. Not tonight.

  CHAPTER 35

  Kate pulled Stockton House’s iron gate closed behind her and jogged down the lane. Relief and fear mingled in every thought. She’d not slept the entire night, and even in her fatigued state, apprehension still fueled her steps.

  After hours of relentless labor, the babe arrived: pink, plump, and healthy.

  But several hours into the night, staccato gunshots had shattered the silence. As if watching Mollie grip life during childbirth had not been difficult enough, Kate had to wrestle with the fact that the men in her life were engaged in an entirely different battle.

  Hours had passed since the last shots rang out. The fighting—or whatever it was—had to be over. If there had indeed been a battle, she would be wise to return home. But was Meadowvale even a safe haven anymore?

  She stood in the lane, chewing her lower lip. The wind swept down from the trees, fluttering the ribbons on her straw bonnet and filling her lungs with its freshness. If she turned left, she would arrive at Meadowvale. If she turned right, she would cross the bridge into Amberdale and, in essence, be at the mill’s doorstep.

  Despite the exhaustion begging her to rest, her soul would not be quieted. She turned to her right, and before long she stood at the base of the stone bridge. Smoke teased her nose and burned her eyes, and that fact alone sent a chill up her spine. Kate clutched her cloak and ran over the bridge and past the churchyard to the gates of Stockton Mill.

  Not a soul was in sight. She put her hands on the locked iron bars and looked to the courtyard within. This time of morning it should be alive with activity, but the only motion she saw was the flickering of several small fires scattered around the courtyard. Two large trees had been felled, one of which had landed on the thatched roof of one of the outbuildings. Debris and splintered wood littered the soggy ground, and the light from the fires glimmered off the shattered glass.

  Horrified, Kate saw all that she needed to see. She staggered backward and turned to run—and she did not stop until she reached Meadowvale’s gate.