The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  CHAPTER 2

  The Dearborne name was one Henry associated with nuisance and mischief. Yet Miss Dearborne seemed to be neither.

  The contemplation nagged Henry as he guided his mare through Amberdale’s familiar cobbled street toward the north bridge. He shrugged off his interest in the odd interaction as that of a man who had not been in the company of ladies for years.

  He continued down the empty street past one familiar building after another: the butcher, the grocer, the apothecary. Gold light glowed through the windows of the town’s public house. Even though these buildings warmed his memory, one building mattered to him most.

  As he rounded the church’s courtyard, he saw it: Stockton Mill.

  His breath suspended at the sight, and Henry slowed his horse. He’d almost forgotten how majestic—and foreboding—it was. The massive stone building stretched three stories above the churchyard’s bare trees. Years of soot clung to the structure’s textured walls, and large, symmetrical leaded windows reflected the faded sky’s pale light. Smoke puffing from the outbuildings and nearby cottages mingled with the low-hanging fog shrouding all the grounds in shades of silver. Save for the sound of the river rushing behind the mill and the occasional winter bird flitting overhead, the grounds were quiet.

  But even in the establishment’s hushed state, memories lurked behind the trees and crept amidst the rows of modest thatched cottages. Not a day had passed when he did not think about this structure and ponder his future with it. As Henry was growing up, the mill and its workings had always been his grandfather’s passion, not his. But time and experience changed all. The sooner he could lose himself in the mill’s business and forget the horrors of war, the better off he would be.

  Henry tugged the reins to the left, and with a click of his tongue and the flick of his heel he urged his horse into a trot. The horse’s hooves clopped heavily over the stone north bridge. The sights of the village faded into the grays and browns of the wooded landscape. As each stride took him closer to Stockton House, his chest tightened. How long had he waited for this? How many nights had thoughts of this very moment occupied his dreams?

  Boyhood memories flashed and groaned as he drew to a stop in front of the iron gate separating Stockton House from the public road. Some of those memories were pleasant, some not, but his grandfather, his sister, Mollie, and Mr. and Mrs. Figgs would all be within those ancient walls. It no longer mattered what he had done or what he had seen in the three years that had separated him from what he held dear. What mattered now was resuming life.

  Stones and bits of ice crunched beneath his top boots as he slid from the saddle and pushed open the gate. Clouds hung low over Stockton House’s gray gabled roof, and an eerie mist covered the still grounds. Stockton House’s pale stones blended in with the white snow, voiding the scene of life, yet yellow light winking from the windows on the lower level stood testament to activity, and to his left, an unseen horse whinnied in the stable.

  As he led his horse through the opening, overgrown shrubbery scratched against his buckskin breeches. He frowned. Normally a single branch would never be out of place on Stockton grounds, but as he studied the landscape, much of it appeared unattended.

  Once at the main door, Henry did not knock. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. Anticipation’s warmth rushed him in the cool darkness, and he stood still for several moments, listening to the familiar sounds—a distant fire’s crackling, the shuffling of paper, Mrs. Figgs’s off-key singing echoing from a distant chamber. Henry placed his satchel on a side table against the wall and followed the sounds to the door of his grandfather’s study. He didn’t know why he should be nervous, but as he approached the space, a numb weakness threatened his fortitude.

  Henry turned the corner. One look confirmed that everything was the same as when he’d left. Mint’s and brandy’s unmistakable scents tickled his nose. The fire popped and hissed in the grate, bathing the room’s contents in a flickering orange light. Ancient swords still crossed above the mantel, and heavy oak bookcases still flanked the room’s two curtained windows. Even the tall clock stationed against the back wall ticked its predictable methodic cadence.

  But it was not the overflowing bookshelves or the unchanged decor that captured Henry’s attention. It was the man positioned behind the mahogany desk.

  Grandfather.

  “I’ll take no brandy this evening, Figgs.” The older man did not look up from the letter he was writing. “Bring me my pipe, will you?”

  Henry made no motion. Grandfather clearly thought him to be the butler.

  “Did you hear me? I said—” Grandfather jerked his head up.

  They stared at one another, both frozen in the significance of the moment.

  Henry had expected his grandfather to be pleased at his return. Instead, the older man’s mouth dropped. Confusion colored his face, which deepened to a crimson red before blanching to deathly white.

  An odd welcome, but his grandfather was known for his quirky manners and peculiar tendencies. It was not his habit to show affection. But even armed with this knowledge, Henry had expected a smile at least.

  “Grandfather.”

  He dropped his quill, nearly upsetting the ink pot.

  When Grandfather made no other movement, said nothing further, Henry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. This was odd indeed. He managed, “Are you well?”

  But still Grandfather sat motionless. He stared at Henry as if he were a ghost—a vaporous figure returned from the grave. The clock’s ticking, which moments ago had seemed welcoming and familiar, now threatened. Henry stepped farther into the room.

  Grandfather inched back, the leather of his desk chair squeaking in protest at the motion. He slowly removed his wire-rimmed spectacles. “You—you’re alive.”

  “Of course I am.” A huff rushed from Henry’s lips at the cold greeting. “Very much so.”

  “But you’ve been reported dead. Killed in action during a battle on the Peninsula. Months and months ago.”

  The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck prickled. There had been times over the past few years he had felt dead, lifeless. But now his grandfather’s expression pushed him back to a place of empty dread. “What?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Grandfather nodded, his words rushing like the water from the mill’s waterwheel, faster with each utterance. “Three months ago we received word of your death. Look.” With sudden energy he leapt from the chair, yanked the desk drawer open with a trembling hand, retrieved a newspaper, and thrust it toward Henry. “Read for yourself.”

  Henry arched his eyebrow and lunged to catch the paper as it began to drop to the Persian rug beneath his feet. He scanned it hungrily, as if it contained the priceless antidote to a deathly poison. Sure enough, his name was at the top of the second column of the list of the dead.

  It was his turn for his motions to slow and his face to heat in shock. “There was some mistake, clearly. Perhaps I should have been listed among the missing. But the dead, no.”

  Grandfather was close now, close enough that if he wanted to, he could reach out and embrace Henry. Instead, he stood as unmoving as a statue. The fire’s intrusive crackling echoed in the otherwise silent chamber. Henry suspended his breath under the uncomfortable scrutiny.

  Moisture gathered in Grandfather’s reddening eyes. His whiskered chin trembled.

  Relieved at the subtle change in his demeanor, Henry said, “Regardless of what has been reported, I’m home now. I’m very happy to be, and I don’t wish to leave again.”

  As if he suddenly realized Henry really was home and not a figment of his imagination, color rushed to Grandfather’s face, and a gradual smile cracked his heavy countenance. “My boy, home! Why did you not send word instead of stealing into the house like a vagabond?”

  “There wasn’t time. As soon as I set foot on English soil and was free to do as I like, I bought a horse and departed for Amberdale.”

  Henry handed the newspa
per back to his grandfather, who folded it crisply and returned it to the drawer. “So you were missing, then?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You said you should have been listed among the missing.”

  Henry stiffened at the question and the memory it evoked. “Briefly, but that story can wait for another time. I’d rather see Mollie. Where is she?”

  Grandfather closed the drawer and straightened, then adjusted the pristinely tied cravat at his neck. “Your sister is in London with your aunt.”

  Disappointment surged through Henry. “You can’t be serious. I just traveled by way of London to get here. What is she doing there?”

  His grandfather motioned to the side table, lifted the glass decanter, and pulled the stopper. He poured himself a dram and indulged in a long swig. “Times have grown dark. It pains me to say so, but where your sister is concerned, all is bleak.”

  A sinking sensation commandeered Henry’s thoughts. He’d not been home a quarter of an hour, and already nothing was as he anticipated. “Is she all right?”

  Grandfather lifted the decanter and studied its intricately cut glass before returning it to the table. “I wish I could give you happy news of your sister, but it shames me to tell you that she has disgraced herself in the vilest of manners.”

  Mollie had always been spontaneous and a bit rebellious, but he couldn’t imagine what she could have done to cause such a reaction. He stifled a huff. “I doubt that.”

  “She is with child.”

  Henry’s smile faded. The words echoed in the room as if they had been shouted. Refusing to jump to a conclusion, he shook the negative assumption from his mind. “When did she marry?”

  “Therein lies the problem.” Grandfather drew a sharp intake of breath through his nose. “She is unmarried.”

  Mollie unwed and with child? Henry studied his grandfather’s face, seeking a sign of jest or mistake. Grandfather was not one prone to telling tales. Guilt quickly replaced his shock. Whatever had transpired, Henry should have been here to protect her. Questions bombarded him. “But who? When?”

  Grandfather’s response came painfully slow. “Time and time again I asked those very questions. She would give no answers, not to me, your aunt, or anyone. Oh, you know Mollie, headstrong and vain. I had no choice but to send her to her aunt’s until this business is past.”

  Henry pushed his fingers through his hair. If he had been here, she would have confided in him. He knew it. “Did she desire to go to London?”

  “Nay. She vehemently protested the idea, but she could hardly remain in Amberdale and become the source of gossip for every idle tongue. We’ve more than enough to deal with, what with the mill in its current state. Adding your sister’s indiscretion to our list of burdens isn’t an option. Mollie will give birth to the child, send it away, and then and only then, she can return to Stockton House. As of yet, not a whiff of scandal has reached Amberdale’s perimeter. If we’re lucky we’ll all come out of this unscathed.”

  An argument balanced on Henry’s tongue. Regardless of his sister’s action, he refused to see her as a source of shame. He was about to say as much when the sharp sound of clattering silver and shattering glass exploded, followed by a cry.

  Henry whirled around.

  Mrs. Figgs, their family’s housekeeper, stood in the doorway, a mess of broken china and an overturned silver tray piled at her feet. Wiry white hair poked from the confines of her cap. Her long, bony fingers covered most of her face, with the exception of her wide gray eyes.

  They stared at each other for several moments.

  This woman had been more like a mother than a servant. She’d reprimanded him as a boy when necessary. Comforted him when there was no one else to do so. Grandfather may have taught him about business, but Mrs. Figgs had taught him about life.

  She dropped her hands. “A ghost, then. You must be a ghost.”

  A smile tugged his lips. “Come now, Mrs. Figgs. You know I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  She lifted her black skirt, stepped over the debris, and stopped inches in front of him—so close that he could smell the scent of garlic that clung to her from the kitchen.

  She poked his arm with a thin finger. Then poked him again. “You, you are—?” She leaned back and assessed him, as if searching for a sign of harm.

  His chest tightened at the gesture. “I’m as alive as I can be.”

  She clicked her tongue and gave her head a sharp shake. “So thin! When did this happen? Have you not been eating?”

  “Yes, I’ve eaten.” He chuckled, comforted by the fact that her desire to care for him clearly had resumed. There was no reason to tell her the truth, of long days with little more than a morsel of bread or the occasional bit of meat when one of the soldiers managed to trap a rabbit. “But I wouldn’t turn away one of your raspberry jam tarts.”

  Tears filled her pale eyes. “I thought I’d never see you again, and here you are, plain as day. You are a sight to see.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand before she propped her hands on her hips. “Mercy, but look at you. Naught but skin and bones. I’ll fatten you right up. And your coat! I never saw the like for its shabbiness. Fortunately we know where we can get the finest broadcloth in the area.”

  He no longer had to force a smile. “I don’t know what I did all those years without you to take care of me.”

  She beamed under the praise. “Well, you’re home. And scrawny or not, that is all that matters. It’s a miracle, that’s what it is. And happy I am to see you here.”

  “And I’m happy to see you.”

  She wrapped her arms around his torso, and he returned the sweet embrace. The top of her faded head did not even reach his shoulders, yet she hugged him with all the tenderness of a mother clinging to her child.

  It had been years since another person touched him with any sort of affection. He’d been beaten. Shot at. He’d even been stabbed in the thigh. The resulting limp—albeit slight—that now accompanied his every move would serve as a constant reminder. But at the present moment, the compassionate embrace erased, for just a moment, the weight of the memories clinging to him.

  After endless days and countless nights, he was home with people who cared about him. He was safe. Henry could put down his weapon without fear of attack or injury.

  He was home.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kate stifled a yawn and tightened her grip on the woolen shawl circling her shoulders as the last weaver exited the parlor. She cast a glance toward the mantel clock as it chimed the midnight hour. The impromptu meeting had stretched much later than she’d anticipated, but with such weighty topics to discuss, Kate was glad she had been allowed to remain. Normally all women were shooed away from such meetings.

  The tallow candles now drooped, and the fire hissed low. Her papa and John Whitby, his lead journeyman, were seated by the waning fire, their heads bent toward each other in earnest conversation.

  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to hide yet another yawn. She was tired. No doubt the men were tired. But there would be little rest at Meadowvale Cottage tonight.

  Kate stood from where she was sitting near the back entrance and ducked into the kitchen. “Betsy, set out the stew, will you?” She retrieved two pewter mugs from the cupboard and a jug of ale before she returned to the drawing room.

  “Papa, John.” She approached them by the hearth. “Come to the table. Betsy has kept the stew warm. You must be famished.”

  Papa heaved a deep sigh, raked his fingers through his thick gray hair, and pushed his spectacles up on his nose. Initially she thought he would dismiss her suggestion, but then he stood and took two steps toward her as his mouth eased into a weary smile. He cupped her cheeks with his rough hands, tilted her head forward, and kissed the crown of her hair, just as he had done since she was little. “That’s my girl. What would this old man do without you to care for him?”

  Without waiting for an answer to his question, he moved to the ta
ble, his eyes red-rimmed and his coat wrinkled, and was seated. John, his youngest but most trusted journeyman, joined him.

  Kate lifted the jug of ale to pour it, but her actions slowed as her father’s words met her ears.

  “I’ll leave for Leeds at dawn’s light.” His words were directed to John, not her. “The clothiers’ society there can help us with this situation.”

  “Never would have guessed that young Stockton would return.” John, who was only six years her senior, spoke as if he were an old man instead of a young journeyman still finding his place in the industry. He cocked his head and huffed. “The Stocktons are the luckiest fellows who ever walked the earth.”

  Papa nodded. “We’ll need a bit of luck of our own, the way things are going. That’s why I’m headed to Leeds.” He leaned back so Kate could fill his mug. “The weavers to the south are fighting a battle of their own. Even so, they may be able to offer support.”

  Kate moved to pour ale for John.

  John offered her a half smile of appreciation before returning his attention to her father. “Are they the ones who broke the gig mills in Sheffield a few months ago?”

  “Of course no one will say for sure, but who else could it be? Their actions are a bit drastic for my taste. I’ve no desire for violence, as I’ve told you. But they’ve traversed this ground before. If the gig mills do arrive, all the shearmen in the area may need to band together to refuse work in order for Stockton and the men like him to know we are serious, and we might need the support of our brothers in the south—financial or otherwise.”

  Kate placed the jug in the center of the rough wooden table and sat in the empty chair between them. “How long do you think you will be gone?”

  “Hard to tell.” Papa rubbed his big hand against his whiskered cheek before he spooned the stew into his mouth. “Hopefully no more than a few days.”

  She gave a firm nod. “I will instruct the rest of the men about tomorrow. I’ll take care of everything while you are gone. You needn’t worry about a thing.”