Her father did not respond. His eyes flicked to John before looking to his stew.
Kate followed his glance. A strange, almost guilty shadow tightened John’s normally relaxed expression, and he studied his stew and poked at the carrots with his spoon.
They knew something she did not.
“What?” she demanded, leaning her elbows on the worn table.
Papa cleared his throat. “Don’t fret yourself with the working of the looms. John will tend to the running of things in my stead.”
She blinked. Was he serious? She was a Dearborne, and as such should be in charge when her father was out of town, as she had been in the past.
But his drawn eyebrows and pale complexion suggested he was in no humor for arguing.
Then a realization settled.
Papa had chosen John over her. Again.
“But, Papa, are you certain? It is no trouble, really. I only want to help you.”
“You can be most helpful by tending to things in the cottage.” Papa wiped his mouth with his napkin and then, as an afterthought, added, “And the dye house, of course.”
Anger warmed her. It was their age-old disagreement. Papa wanted her to be a lady—to remain indoors and sew, knit. Any responsibility she shared regarding their business was limited to the dye house.
She wanted something entirely different.
She’d spent her life around looms, spinning jennies and mules, dyes, sheep, and broadcloth. It was as much a part of her as the color of her hair and the hue of her eyes. Especially after her mother’s death nearly a decade ago, she had been absorbed into this world more by survival than desire. The older she grew, the more Papa tried to force her into a role she was not willing to fill. Even after her brother Charles had left to go work at Stockton Mill, she thought, for a brief time, that her father would have a change of heart. But his mind was set.
John, as if sensing the mounting frustration, stood. “I’m going to make sure the sheep are bedded down.”
After the door closed behind him, Papa angled himself toward her. “I know you want to help. You’re not like most young women, and glad I am for it. I can hardly stand silly girls who care only for gowns and trimmings. But you need not muddle your thoughts with the day-to-day order of things. Everything I have built has been to provide for you, not be a burden to you.”
“But I—”
“Quiet, and listen to me.” He pinned her with his gray-eyed stare, forbidding her to make even a peep. “I had built this livelihood for your brother, but he left us. This work was never intended to be yours. It was intended to provide your dowry. Times have changed and they are dire. Now more than ever, you must know your role.”
“But I enjoy it, Papa. Does that count for nothing? If it weren’t for my work, what would I do? You said so yourself that I would never be content confined in the cottage with needlework all day.”
He chuckled. “No, and God save us all from your wrath if ever that fate should befall you. But it’s time for you to consider other things, at least until the weaving landscape settles. John will oversee the men in my stead. So don’t give him or me trouble. All will be well, you’ll see.”
She bit back her retort—and her hurt. Papa loved her, in his own way, she knew. But she would never be her brother; she would never be a boy. And that alone was an inexcusable offense.
As per his habit, her father signaled the end of the topic by switching to another. “Did you finish the dyeing?”
She swallowed hard. “The indigo is done and drying. I just removed it from the dye wash earlier this afternoon. I’ll finish the scarlet tomorrow.”
“Good girl. At least one positive thing came of today’s trip to the cloth hall. Trent Riley expressed interest in the indigo. He said he heard of the superior saturation. I intend to show him a swatch next week. If he likes it, it could be a nice little sale for us.”
“Perhaps I should go with you to the cloth hall. I could answer any questions he might have. I could—”
“The cloth hall is no place for a woman. I’d not be able to tend to business for fear of your safety.”
“But John and Benjamin would be there to keep me company, and I—”
He raised his hand. “No.”
“Papa, I—”
“Don’t argue with me. I’ve no humor for it. The cloth hall is for men. You’re a lady.”
She lowered her eyes to hide her disappointment. A lady indeed. Kate had no desire to pick a fight with her father, especially in his state. But it hardly seemed fair. She was a woman of one and twenty, and whether her father liked to admit it or not, she had spent her entire life working the wool. Dyeing it, carding it. She knew the process better than she knew how to do anything else.
She stood from the stool and retrieved his pipe from the mantelpiece and his pouch of tobacco. He’d want it after he finished his meal.
He tilted his head and smiled as she set it next to his bowl of stew. “Ah, now there. How is it that you’re so good to me?”
She nodded toward his empty mug. “Would you like some more ale?”
“No, no, child. I have all I need. Come. Sit with me. Keep your old father company.”
She resumed her seat at the table. For a moment all seemed as it always was, and as long as she let the topic of her helping at the cloth hall or overseeing the looms drop, all would stay well. The fire crackled in the grate. The clock ticked off the seconds. The winter wind rattled the windows in their casings. She relaxed her shoulders.
After several moments of silence while he lit his pipe, he spoke and reached out his hand, letting it hover several feet off the floor. “Do you remember when you were this high, how you would sit at my knee each night?”
She gave a little laugh. “Yes, and I remember how you always smoked that very pipe.”
He chuckled. “Your mother didn’t like the smell.”
“It never bothered me. Not really.”
The bittersweet memory tugged at her. How different their home had been at that time. It had been just her, Papa, Mother, and Charles. Their family was small, but they had been happy. Her papa had been but a journeyman and worked for a clothier on the far side of the meadow. His goal had been to better himself, and he worked toward his goal night and day.
Now he was a master clothier in his own right, respected and revered by other weavers. Three journeymen called Meadowvale their home—two of whom lived in cottages with their wives on the edge of the property and John, a bachelor, who lived in a room off the back of the kitchen. With the addition of a handful of servants, their lives couldn’t be further from how they had been those years ago. But in quiet evenings like this, it seemed that she could slip back to a happier time.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the memory of her interaction with Henry Stockton flashed through her mind. She had to tell her father what had happened earlier, for if he found out from another source, he would no doubt be angry.
She toyed with the fringe on her shawl. “I saw Henry Stockton on the road earlier today. I didn’t have a chance to tell you before Jimmy came in.”
Her papa’s head snapped up. A scowl darkened his weathered face. “Why did you not say as much?”
“You were busy, with the weavers.”
He lowered his pipe, eyes boring into hers. “Did you speak with him?”
She shifted. “Just in passing.”
His words rushed out. “Best to stay away from him, lass.”
She paused for several moments and then lowered her voice. “I will. But do you think things might change once he’s in charge of the mill? He’s not his grandfather. He could be different.”
“No.” Her father’s response came sure and swift. “He has Stockton blood running through his veins. That is all you need know of the scoundrel. I’ll hear no more on the topic.”
In a sudden turn, his voice softened. “You look like your mother, sitting just so. I’m a lucky man, I am. I dread the day when a man comes to ask for y
our hand and takes you away from me.”
“Oh, Papa.” She laughed at the ludicrousness of it. “You needn’t worry about that for a long, long time.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain.” He pointed his pipe in her direction. “You’ve become quite a bonny thing, and I’m hardly the only one to notice. You must consider these things. I’ll not be here forever. I need to see you settled if I’m ever to rest easy again.”
“I’ll not hear of you dying.” She patted the rough broadcloth of his coat’s sleeve. “Please don’t speak of it.”
“Not speaking of it doesn’t make it any less real. I don’t jest, Katie.”
She settled back in her chair and thoughtfully wound a long, loose lock of hair around one of her fingers. “But what if the man I fall in love with is not a weaver?”
“Love—bah.” He harrumphed. “Best to stay with your own people.”
Her own people.
She knew what her father meant—a weaver.
He took a swig of his ale, then covered her hand with his calloused one. “Love is all fine and good, but you cannot count on love, a fickle fancy, to help you find the most secure situation. This life is uncertain. Do you not witness that every day? Security first. Happiness second.”
She sobered and studied the indigo marring her fingernails.
“Weaving.” His voice rose passionately, as it had when he was addressing the weavers. “It’s in your blood. That’s why it’s so important that you find yourself a good weaver with a decent head on his shoulders. One who will work hard to provide for you, keep you safe, and preserve our way of life.”
“I am safe, Papa.” Her voice sounded small.
“Aye, safe today, but what of tomorrow? And the day after that? Every day men like the Stocktons are trying to prevail and force change. No. You will find a weaver. I need to know you are cared for.”
She swallowed and forced a smile. “Perhaps all that will happen in good time, but you needn’t worry. Besides, Charles would never turn me out in the cold.”
Her father’s face tightened, as if she referred to a monster instead of his own son. “Don’t speak of him in this house.”
Her heart squeezed within her. “But Charles is not a bad sort. He made a different decision than you did, ’tis all.”
“Loyalty, girl. Loyalty is what keeps friends as friends and holds families together. Where would any of us be without remaining true to those who helped us along the way? I brought that boy up in the trade with sound values and the best education. He knows as much as I know about weaving, and what did he do? Took that information and went to work for a man who puts profits above people.”
Kate winced inwardly. Would she ever be able to speak of her brother without inciting such anger? “But he’s your son. Surely there will come a time when we can all put our differences aside and—”
“Stop, Katie. Your brother made his choice the day he decided to turn his back on our way of life and accepted the position at Stockton Mill. He betrayed everything our family stood for. And I will never forget it.”
CHAPTER 4
By the time Henry arrived at church the next morning, the news that he was indeed alive—coupled with the important detail of his return—had catapulted through the village. Half of the people he’d encountered on the way in had welcomed him and smiled as they shook his hand. The other half glared at him, as if he alone were personally responsible for every ill that befell Amberdale. And now as he sat, stiff and straight, in the Stockton family pew, the weight of their questioning stares and hushed whispers pinned him to his spot.
The ancient oak pew creaked as Grandfather leaned close and lowered his voice. “I know you wanted to remain abed, but are you not glad you attended? See how everyone has welcomed you home?”
Henry cut his eyes toward the sea of people filling the pews. As happy as he was to be home, it still felt unbelievable after years of extreme environments, and the attention—both positive and negative—added to his skepticism. He kept his tone light and forced a smile. “Far be it from me to break your longstanding rule.”
Grandfather chuckled. “Ah yes. You remember. Do you disagree that every family member and every Stockton House servant should be at church on Sunday morning?”
“No, sir. I don’t disagree.”
Even in a whisper, Grandfather’s voice reeked of authority. “As leaders in this community, we must set an example for those whom we employ.”
Come rain, sun, snow, or fog, every Sunday the entire Stockton household, from master to kitchen maid, attended church. Grandfather had demanded it for as long as Henry could remember. Even now, his grandfather was settled beside him in the family box, his expression stoic, his gaze fixed on the prayer book in his hand.
One important person was absent from the gathering, however. Henry glanced at the empty spot next to him where Mollie should be seated.
He was uncomfortable with her absence. He was even more uncomfortable with the situation she was in. Was she frightened? Did she feel alone? Abandoned? As soon as it made sense, he’d travel back to London and see her. Regardless of her situation, he’d not turn his back on her.
A sudden commotion and feminine voices, combined with Grandfather’s sharp elbow jabbing his ribs, drew Henry’s attention.
“Ah, there they are.” Grandfather’s voice rasped low. “I sent word last night letting them know of your return.”
Squat, round Arthur Pennington entered through the church’s arched entrance with his wife on his arm. Henry raised an eyebrow at the man’s attire. The button of his checked silk waistcoat complained against the pressure of his round belly, and his white stockings and buckled shoes were altogether inappropriate, considering the inches of snow on the ground.
Nevertheless, it was not Mr. Pennington, nor his jewel-encrusted wife, who piqued Henry’s interest. His daughters—one in particular—drew his eye. Miss Frederica Pennington stepped from behind her father into the dimly lit church, handed her gloves to her mother, and lowered her cloak’s hood.
She had not changed a great deal in the previous three years, not really. She was slightly taller than he recalled, and her meticulously curled golden hair was gathered at the base of her neck and held in place by a pearl-laden ribbon. Having just come in from the cold, she had bright-pink cheeks, and her large brown eyes were alert and glittering—just as he remembered.
“So it is true.” Arthur Pennington extended his pudgy hand in greeting as he rushed toward Henry. “I wasn’t sure if I could trust my eyes when I read your grandfather’s note, but here you are, in the flesh.” Face beaming, he clamped his other hand on Henry’s shoulder and squeezed. “Egad, it’s good to see you.”
Henry stood, shook the man’s outstretched hand, and returned the smile. “And you, sir.” He lifted his gaze past Pennington’s shoulder, to where his wife and daughters were standing, and bowed.
The ladies curtsied.
Mr. Pennington snatched his attention. “We’ve much to catch up on, that’s certain. But the service is about to start. We’ll speak afterward, but I insist you join us at Briarton House this afternoon.”
Henry grinned and caught another glimpse of Miss Pennington. How could he decline? “I look forward to it.”
The Penningtons were seated just ahead of him in their family box. As the service began, Grandfather leaned toward him and whispered, “Now there, I’m not the only one in Amberdale happy to welcome you home. I daresay Miss Pennington agrees.” He indulged in a knowing chuckle.
Henry followed his gaze to the eldest Pennington daughter. She smiled at something her sister said and flicked a glance back in his direction before turning her attention to the vicar.
He and Frederica had been friends since he first arrived in Amberdale all those years ago. But a friendship it had always been—nothing more. Despite this innocent relationship, Grandfather had always been vocal about the advantages of a matrimonial union between the two families. He’d mentioned it twice since Henry�
��s return, and he was certain he’d not heard the last on the topic.
Henry cleared his throat and looked around once more. Many of the parishioners had lost interest in him and now were focused on the sermon, but as he was about to face the front, someone caught his eye.
Miss Dearborne.
She was seated perpendicular to him and he could only see her profile, but the gentle yet unmistakable sloop of her small nose drew him in. She wore the same red cloak she had worn the previous day and was seated between another woman and a man who shared her likeness.
The seconds ticked past. He must have been staring. Miss Dearborne shifted slightly, and their gazes met. Her cool, hazel eyes narrowed and lingered on him for several seconds before returning to the vicar. She offered no warm smile like Frederica, and her brief stare was as icy as the frozen graveyard outside the stained glass windows.
Henry released his breath and turned forward. Melancholy crept in like an uninvited guest, nullifying the sense of belonging that had entered with the Penningtons. His world had changed—arguably for the better—in a single day. He was home again, but with that came the realization that even though some welcomed him with open arms, this was not as inviting a place as he had thought.
A strange panic tightened his stomach. His usual routine was already resuming, so why was he so uncomfortable? The minutes and hours ticked on as if the war had never happened. As if he had not seen the horrors of inflicting harm on another in the name of survival or heard the pain of men dying.
He tried to focus on the vicar’s words, but his mind focused on the past. He wanted to forget it, but doubted he ever would.
At the conclusion of the service, Kate and her brother stood outside of the church, waiting for her friend Jane Abbott to exit.
Kate tightened her cloak around her shoulders and stepped closer to Charles. Since their father did not permit him to step on Meadowvale property, she cherished their interactions, even if they were just at church.
She leaned closer to be heard above the wind’s persistent howl. “So many people are here today.”
The Weaver's Daughter Page 4