Warren stopped struggling, gasping for breath after the rush of words. “I’m not innocent in this. I’ll admit, I could have stopped it, but I didn’t. Pennington did his research and found out that you and I served together. He contacted me and promised a handsome sum to make my way close to you. To inform on you. But now it seems he’s had a change in plans, for his pockets do not run deep enough to pay me for my services. When I threatened to go to you with his plans, he told me his intentions for framing me for old man Stockton’s murder and as the informant to the weavers. Yes, the weavers are angry in their own right, but they are not nearly as big of an enemy as this wolf in sheep’s clothing. God help me, I may be guilty of lying and betrayal, but at least I am not a murderer.”
“I killed no one. The accusation is ridiculous!” spat Pennington, cutting off Warren’s words. “And what do you mean you’re not a murderer? You shot me in cold blood.”
Henry drew a sharp breath, his blood throbbing through his veins and Warren’s words pounding in his head. “I have seen the man handle a pistol. If he wanted to kill you, you’d have a bullet in the center of your chest.”
The clues were coming together, like a puzzle nearing completion. Now he understood why they could find no fault with the weavers in Grandfather’s death, for they were never involved in the first place.
Nausea settled over him. As if a veil had been lifted, he suddenly saw Pennington in his true light.
Pennington grabbed Henry’s arm, clutching it, as if sensing that his defense was slipping. “Surely you do not believe this man, do you? I have known you all your life, and this is how you treat your grandfather’s closest friend?”
Henry jerked his arm free and stepped back from Pennington.
Within moments Dearborne and Belsey were both at his side. “What do you want us to do with them?”
“Take them both to the lockup,” Henry ordered.
Pennington shouted and fought, but Henry scanned the crowd. Every expression showed on the faces of those surrounding him. Horror. Shock. Even amusement on some as they beheld how the mighty had fallen.
As the men were led, fighting and flailing, down the cottage lane, the crowd began to disperse. Dearborne had found his way to the center of the activity and clasped his hand on Henry’s shoulder, gently urging him away from the scene.
Stunned, Henry put one booted foot in front of the other.
It was not a weaver who took William Stockton’s life, as Henry had suspected, but one of his grandfather’s closest friends.
Friend indeed.
How had he not seen it? It had been right in front of him.
He wanted to be away from the mill. Away from everything it stood for. There was no reason to stay here, in the street. He turned to stomp down the road but then stopped in his tracks.
Kate.
CHAPTER 40
Warren had said he was a man with nothing to lose.
Henry felt completely different about his own situation, for he had much to lose.
Despite the past, Stockton House gleamed with new life and a promise of things to come. The gruesome mystery around his grandfather’s death had been solved. He knew who was responsible, and he knew who was not. Why did he not feel a sense of satisfaction? Why did it all seem as dire as the day before?
While some ties had been severed, others had grown strong, like iron forged in fire. Perhaps he’d trusted the wrong people and mistrusted those he shouldn’t have. His prejudices and assumptions had proven to be wrong in some instances. All would need forgiveness, and that forgiveness needed to start with him. Yes, he bore scars that would likely haunt him until the day he died, but he didn’t need to carry hate for the men who put them there.
He yearned for a new beginning and closure to the past. But there was more reason than ever to continue fighting for a future.
And his future was right ahead of him—if only she felt the same way.
The cottage alley was now empty, save for Kate. All the onlookers had returned to their homes, but she stood in the shadows. Watching silently. Was she relieved at this development? Was she shocked, as he had been?
She rubbed her hand over her arm as he drew near. “Are you all right?”
He did not respond. He only reached out to take her hand.
It was a simple touch, but the warmth of it soothed the jagged edges ripping within him.
She did not resist his hand. Instead, she allowed him to lead her to the space between two cottages. There was not much room, but he preferred it that way.
Her eyes were downcast, and her long lashes fanned her cheeks. She shivered. In a moment of boldness, he reached out and placed his hands on her upper arms to warm her.
She stepped closer. “That must have been difficult for you to hear.”
“What was difficult was not knowing. At least now I can rest assured that justice will be had.”
“But the Penningtons.” She lifted her wide eyes to meet his. “With everything between you and Miss Pennington, well, I thought that you—”
“Why do you not believe me when I say that time has deadened that relationship? And now, well, nothing will ever be as it was.”
“But are you saddened by it?” Her eyebrows drew together in question. “My mother once told me that we cannot control what others do. We can only control how we react to it. Being angry will only hurt you, not them. And yet, lost affection can be painful.”
He smiled. The fact that she was concerned for his feelings gave him reason to hope that her attitude toward him had changed since the night of the Winter’s End Festival. “Affection is not the word I would use to describe my relationship with the Penningtons. She causes me no pain. The only pain I feel now relates to you.”
“To me?” She gave a little laugh. “How?”
“I meant every word I spoke the night of the festival. If anything, the events of the past few days have only deepened my feelings. I have seen you be kind. Strong. Giving. Brave.”
She trembled in the cold. Perhaps she did not believe him.
He inched closer still, the warmth of her body now reaching through his coat, infusing him with bravery. “I can’t help but feel responsible in some way for the position you are in, and I want to spend my days proving to you that love can be loyal and that it will never go away.”
“I’ve never known never-ending love.” She looked to the cobbled path beneath them. “I’m not entirely sure it exists.”
The wind blew a curl over her forehead, and he reached up and brushed her hair from her eyes. Fire rushed him at the touch, intensifying every sense. “Oh, Kate.” Her Christian name slid easily from his lips. “If I thought for a moment that your opinions from the festival night had changed, I’d be complete.”
She leaned closer. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I was frightened that night.”
Her skirt swooshed against his legs. He was so close now he could feel the soft flutter of her breath on his neck where his cravat had been. “I should have, well, I should have—”
“Are you still frightened?”
She placed her hands on his chest and lifted her face. “No. Not anymore.”
He closed the gap between them, lifted her chin with his forefinger, and pressed his lips against hers. Warmth radiated from the union, wrapping him in a peace like he’d never known.
This was what he wanted. Not mills or money or wool or power.
He wanted Kate.
She melted against him, filling the empty spaces in his soul.
Then gently, she eased away. The moonlight, now fleeting behind the gathering clouds, illuminated tears in her eyes.
Concerned, he brushed the hair from her face once more. “What is it?”
“It’s only that I am happy.” She smiled. “For the first time in a long time, I can see a future ahead of me. And I never want to look away.”
He drew her close and kissed her forehead. He, too, could see his future before him, and it glowed much more brightly th
an he ever thought possible.
Frederica balled up her fine taffeta ball gown and stuffed it in the trunk. Once it was settled she gave it an extra punch to relieve the tension mounting in her slender frame.
It didn’t work.
She propped her hands on her hips and surveyed her bedchamber. Sadness, anger, and fear jumbled within her. In four short hours she would be leaving Briarton House for the last time. And she would likely never return.
Normally her abigail would see to a task like packing a trunk, but her maid, along with half of Briarton’s other servants, had abandoned her post when news of her father’s crime surfaced.
As it turned out, no one wanted to work for a murderer.
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed. Crying would do no good now. Her best chance for a decent future was to do as her mother had said: leave Amberdale behind and relocate to her grandmother’s in London. It would take months, maybe years, for the scandal to reach the distant neighborhood. Perhaps she would have time to secure a husband before the news caught up with her.
Frederica reached for another garment in the wardrobe and paused when her hand landed on the emerald gown she had worn to the Winter’s End Festival. With a deep breath she let her finger run down the fine, shimmery silk and traverse over the fine pearl beading. It truly was a magnificent gown. She had best take care with this one. It was the last fine garment she had made before her life fell apart, and with the creditors even now beating down their door, she doubted she would be able to afford such luxury for some time—if ever.
She knit her fingers together so tightly it was a wonder they didn’t break. What if their plan didn’t work? As they had all discussed, her sisters were traveling to live with distant relatives, each hoping to outrun the scandal, and her mother would stay at Briarton alone to deal with the fallout of her husband’s actions. Father’s reckless spending and foolish investments had drained their funds. Everyone in Amberdale—nay, everyone in Yorkshire—knew the story of Arthur Pennington’s betrayal by now. His full confession of burning the stable, murdering Mr. Stockton, and attempting to bribe the weavers’ society had left no doubt.
Even now, as she packed up as many earthly possessions as she could fit in the traveling trunk, she did not understand it. How could the man she loved, her father, do such things?
Frederica drew a shuddery breath. She had to prepare herself. He would likely face the end of a noose for his crimes. The thought forced bile up her throat. That was what happened to murderers.
Murderer.
The word echoed hollow in her mind and tasted bitter on her tongue. Anger burned afresh, clenching her stomach and numbing her fingers and feet. Perhaps what hurt the most, even beyond the betrayal of her father, was the fact that his actions destroyed any chance she had to become Mrs. Henry Stockton. Henry would never speak to her again. And she did not blame him. He would never believe that she knew nothing of her father’s deceit.
Before long a tear slipped down her cheek. Then another, and another. If she thought it would do any good, she would throw herself to the ground in a tantrum to rival that of any child. But there was no one to see her. No one to care.
In the past, pouting and feigning distress was the surest way to get what she wanted, but now she doubted it would have even the slightest effect on anyone—not even a fool like Mr. Bryant, who had fussed over her at the festival.
She’d been an idiot not to accept Mr. Simmons when she had the chance. Even though he was old and portly, he was safe. For now, who would want her? She would even trade places with Mollie Stockton, who became pregnant out of wedlock and then lied about it.
Mollie Stockton’s humiliation was great. But Frederica’s was greater. At least Mollie’s sin could be forgiven. But to be the daughter of a murderer?
No. Society would never forgive that. And without society’s approval, what options did she have?
Frederica tucked the last items in her trunk, let the lid fall, and glanced around her room one final time. The moment she stepped out the door, her life would never be the same.
CHAPTER 41
It had been four months since the attack on the mill. Four months since Kate had last spoken with her father. Four months since her engagement to Henry Stockton had been announced. And four months since her heart began to find freedom.
It was hard to comprehend how much her life had changed in less than a year. Life had been plagued with uncertainty and feelings of inadequacy. Now she was making more friends. Finding new purpose. But there was something that needed to be done.
The skies were clear and vibrant above the pastures flanking the public road leading to Meadowvale’s gate. Summer’s warmth had replaced winter’s snow, and the heather dressed the distant moors in shades of violet and lavender. Pastures now hosted lambs and sheep, and the sun’s light blanketed all.
She tightened her grip on Henry’s arm. He looked down at her and smiled, and her heart swelled at the sight.
How her life was altered because this man was in it.
Charles fell into step next to her, and he tilted his head to the side. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Nervousness surged through Kate. But yes, she was certain. She had resisted her mother’s words for so long. Not forgiving her father would only hurt her. She nodded. “We need to.”
Henry patted her hand on his arm. “This is the right course. You need closure. At least now you will know you’ve done what you can to set things right.”
The trio stopped in front of the gate to Meadowvale Cottage. In the blue skies above, warblers and robins darted about, their chirping cheery and optimistic. Butterflies fluttered in Kate’s stomach. It would take a miracle for her father to even speak with them, especially after the months that had passed and the events that had transpired. But what did she have to lose? What did any of them have to lose?
Kate pushed open the gate, just as she had done a thousand times before. The familiar sound of it creaking on its hinges cast a melancholy shadow over her anticipation. Her hand trembled as she released the gate. And her heart sank when she assessed the grounds.
Normally summer marked a productive time at Meadowvale Cottage. Her father had always taken great pride in maintaining his property. But now all was overgrown. In fact, there were few signs of life.
Charles whistled under his breath. “Look at this place.”
Kate could only stare. If the grounds were any indication of how her father was faring, all was dire indeed.
She quickened her steps, suddenly desperate for answers to the questions that had been simmering within her. Now that she was considered a traitor by the weaving community, no one, not even Jane, had spoken to her. For all she knew, Papa could be sick, or hurt, or worse.
She broke away from the men and hurried to the cottage door. An eerie silence permeated the space that once had been so full of activity. No sound of looms running met her ears. No cloth hung from the tenterhooks on the south edge of the property. No chatter echoed from the stables or dye house.
Where was everyone?
She pushed open the door. Betsy, who was standing in the parlor, jerked her head up. She dropped her armful of linens to the table. “Miss Dearborne!” Her eyes widened when she noticed Charles and Henry behind her.
The sight of her old friend tugged at her, but Kate needed to keep her emotions steady. “We need to speak with Papa. Do you know where he is?”
Betsy’s face blanched. “I—I do. Just a moment. I’ll see if he is available.”
Betsy disappeared through the doorway, leaving them alone in the drawing room. No fire lit the grate. Kate tapped her fingers along the bare table with nervous energy. This room used to be the heartbeat of weaving in Amberdale. It was always alive with visitors and meetings. But now it seemed almost dead.
Henry stepped beside her, lifting her hand from the table and squeezing it. She was about to suggest they move to the sofa when uneven footsteps clomped in the corridor.
She turned just in time to see Papa’s bulky frame fill the door frame.
She gasped at the sight of him. A full gray beard hid the lower half of his face. His graying hair was in need of a trim. He leaned heavily on a cane, no doubt a result of his gunshot wound. He wore no coat, and his wrinkled linen waistcoat hung askew on his frame.
Kate dropped Henry’s hand and stepped toward her father, but when he made no motion to receive her, she stopped. Her father’s cold expression shivered her spine.
Perhaps Charles had been right.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
She swallowed. “Papa.”
His hard gaze shifted from Charles to Henry and back to her. “Why are you here?”
Kate stiffened. She had thought about what she would say. She had planned it out in detail. But now that she was standing before her father, her mind was blank. “Can we sit?”
She expected Papa to reject the idea, but he pointed to the worn sofa and the chairs next to the fireplace. Once seated, Papa set his cane on the ground next to him. “I suppose you’ve won, then. Is that what you have come here for? To gloat?”
Kate shook her head, and her words tumbled forth. “It’s not about winning or losing, Papa. I miss you. I want our relationship to be as it was.”
“Nothing will be as it was, Katie.”
She could not help but ask. “Where is everyone? John? The other journeymen?”
“John is in prison. Seems he had accompanied the shearmen in Leeds and was arrested for breaking machines. He could hang. The rest of the men have other employment.”
Kate’s stomach churned. She and John may have had their differences, but they had a long history together. She did not want to think of him in such a situation, regardless of what had transpired between them.
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