The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  And that irritated her.

  She stepped away from the window, moved to her mahogany dressing table, and sat on the tufted seat. Before he left to serve his country, part of her had expected some sort of declaration of love, or at least some soft words of sentiment, but none ever came. Even throughout the time he was gone, she had never given up hope—until she learned of his death. She grieved for him, as if their love had been real and not just the fodder of her girlhood fantasies.

  She had almost accepted that she would be forced to marry one of the suitors her father had approved of. They were all old. Dull. Boring.

  Henry was none of those things. But now fear that he no longer matched her recollection of him took hold.

  The door to her chamber flung open and slammed into the wall. Prepared to reprimand her abigail, Frederica whirled around, her face flushing. She had told the silly girl always to knock before entering. But it was Isabella, not her maid, standing in the doorway.

  Clad in a white linen sleeping gown and with her tawny hair in curling rags, Isabella leaned against the door frame, a smug grin on her face.

  “How many times have I told you not to come in here?” Annoyed, Frederica spun back around to face her reflection in the looking glass above her dressing table.

  Isabella tittered, breezed farther into the chamber, leaned on the back of Frederica’s chair, and met her sister’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “’Tis a pity. Mr. Stockton barely seemed to notice you. I know you were expecting him to.”

  Frederica clenched her teeth with such frustration that her jaw ached. Isabella could be so childish. “Oh, will you go away?”

  Her younger sister sauntered to the bed and dropped atop the silk coverlet. Her voice took on a singsong quality as she flipped to her belly and propped her chin on her hand. “You cannot fool me, Freddie. I saw the way you looked at him. Everyone did. But oh well. Perhaps he met another lady in his travels.”

  If there was one thing Frederica hated more than being teased, it was being mocked. She removed the comb holding her hair in place and commenced to pull free the remaining pins. “Did you come here for any particular reason, or are you just trying to be a pest?”

  Isabella rolled over to her back. “Mother wants you to come to her chamber.”

  Frederica stilled her hands. Her mother never called her to her chamber. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But you’d better hurry. You know how she hates to be kept waiting.”

  With a groan Frederica let the comb drop to the table, ran her fingers through her hair, grabbed her wrapper, and slung it around her shoulders. “Fine. But you had better not be in here when I get back.” She paused long enough to cast a warning glare at her sister before she stepped out into the dark hallway.

  Her stocking feet were soft against the plush brown carpet. Guided by the moon’s light sliding through the corridor windows, Frederica made her way down the wide hall to her mother’s room and knocked on the paneled door. “Mother?”

  “Come in.”

  Frederica smoothed her hair and straightened her wrapper and did as she was bid. Her mother would notice anything out of place, even at this late hour.

  Her mother was seated at her dressing table. A tray of hot chocolate and Mother’s unpinned long, golden hair provided evidence that her maid had already been here.

  She waited in silence until her mother addressed her, feeling more like a child than a woman of one and twenty. Her mother’s casual voice did little to calm Frederica’s nerves. “How pleasant it was to see Henry once again. Why, his presence is practically a miracle after what he has been through.”

  Frederica had suspected that Henry was the reason for this invitation. She drew a breath for courage.

  With two long fingers her mother motioned her farther into the room.

  Frederica complied, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose at the overwhelmingly sweet scent of lily of the valley. The warmth from the fire was far too intense, and yet she wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “Sit.”

  Frederica obeyed and sat primly on a padded ottoman near her mother’s dressing table and clasped her hands together at her knees. Her mother had made it perfectly clear prior to Henry’s arrival that Frederica should do her best to capture his attention. Judging by his eagerness to be on his way, she doubted her success.

  Mother dipped her fingers in a glass jar and scooped out some salve. “You will have to do better than that, my dear, if you are to catch Mr. Stockton’s fancy.”

  Frederica winced at the criticism. “I can hardly expect him to throw himself at me.”

  “Why not?” her mother shot back as she spread the cream over her face before standing and tying her pink silk wrapper at her waist. “He’s a man. They are simple creatures, really. Consider what is at stake. You will soon be past marriageable age. It cannot be put off any longer. Mr. Tynes and Mr. Simmons are both eligible men, and if you fail to captivate Mr. Stockton, you will be forced to consider your fate.”

  The mere mention of the names of her suitors made Frederica’s skin crawl. She refused to shiver—or to give her mother a glimpse of her insecurity. “These things take time.”

  “You do not have the luxury of time, my dear. Every day that passes is one day closer to your father’s death, whenever that may be, and one day more for both Mr. Tynes and Mr. Simmons to cast their affections elsewhere.”

  Frederica nodded in silent acquiescence. She never cried, and she certainly would not now, but the feeling of defeat descended on her so heavily, she wondered if she could bear it. She stepped to the window, pretending to look out. “Did you notice how little he laughed?”

  Mother retrieved her brush and glided it through her hair. “People always change with the passage of time.”

  Frederica chewed her lip, pondering the strange, subdued behavior of the person she once knew so well. “But his entire countenance was different. He used to be so jovial. He seemed so . . . withdrawn.”

  “Do not discount the fact that he has been at war.” Mother angled her head and swept past Frederica to the wardrobe. “There is no telling what horrors he experienced.”

  Frederica let her shoulders slacken slightly and studied the floral carpet. She did not know much about the war. Once when she was bored in her father’s study, she had glanced in his newspaper at the account about the casualties. But other than that, she had never really given it much thought. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Her mother clicked her tongue as she retrieved a pair of slippers from the oak chest. “For heaven’s sake, stop frowning. If you keep your face like that, you will wrinkle far before your time. Regarding Mr. Stockton, we must act quickly. We’ll invent a reason to pay him a call. In the meantime, I will contact Mrs. Howell to inform her we shall need a new gown for the Winter’s End Festival.”

  Frederica straightened her shoulders. The wheels were in motion, and the price of failure would be high. She had to convince Henry that she would be the perfect wife . . . if for no other reason than to save herself from marriage to a man twice her age.

  She would not let her mother—or herself—down.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dawn had broken raw and cold, and the sun was just beginning its ascent into the cobalt sky as Henry approached Stockton Mill. Dots of light floating across the darkened landscape caught his attention. From the south a shadowy procession of workers was arriving to man the early shift, their lanterns swinging in rhythm with their lethargic steps.

  Henry’s boots thudded against the frozen ground as he dismounted his horse at the mill’s main gate. He led the animal through the iron barrier, through which several workers—men, women, children—also entered.

  He filled his lungs with the winter air and closed his eyes to drink in the discernible scent of smoke and frost. Familiar sounds met his ears. The waterwheel’s paddling whir. The varied chatter of voices. The crackling of the open fire next to the countinghouse. The seemingly never-ending roar of mach
inery. He opened his eyes again, and the scene in front of him matched the one he had imagined dozens of times.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Stockton.”

  Henry adjusted the reins over his horse’s neck and turned at the familiar voice. “Belsey. Good to see you again.”

  The mill’s overlooker extended his hand in greeting. “A miracle. A true miracle. How long has it been since you were here last?”

  Henry shook the man’s thin hand. “Three years.”

  Belsey whistled under his breath before gesturing to the mill and its outbuildings. “Well? Is it as you remembered?”

  Henry shifted his attention to the cottages. The storage barns. The dye house. The ever-present canopy of smoke puffing from the numerous chimneys over the grounds. He frowned. One piece was missing. “Yes, but what happened to the stable?”

  “Burned down.” Belsey’s sparse, faded brows jutted upward. “Struck by lightning in the dead of night, two years past. Of course the weavers claimed it was a sign from God Himself. Said it was proof that the machines within these walls are evil.” Belsey huffed. “Superstitious lot. Look there, to the east. There’s your stable. Built up just this past year.”

  Henry lifted his gaze to a stone-and-timber stable and frowned. It was a great deal larger than the old structure. “So big. What’s in there?”

  “Four horses and two carriages for transporting cloth and supplies and the like. And two large carts and smaller ones too.”

  Henry couldn’t recall the mill owning more than one wagon. “Can we afford that?”

  “Now that’s a question your grandfather never asks.” Belsey tilted his head to the side, amused. “’Course we can afford it. Perhaps you’re not aware, but since you’ve been gone this mill’s become the most productive one this side of Leeds.”

  Henry squinted to see in the pale light and scanned the grounds. “Speaking of Grandfather, where is he? I thought I awoke early enough to accompany him here this morning, but when I came down for the day, Mrs. Figgs said he’d already departed.”

  Belsey’s breath puffed out before him in a frosty plume as he folded his thin arms over his chest. “Your grandfather always arrives hours before daybreak, at least an hour before the first workmen.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s his way. He’s developed some peculiar habits, but I’m sure that don’t surprise you none.”

  Henry chuckled. His grandfather’s quirks and obsessive patterns were well known throughout Amberdale.

  Belsey gave an exaggerated shrug and motioned for a young lad to come over. “Give your horse to Billy there. He’ll see to ’im.”

  Once the animal was safely deposited with the stable boy, Belsey turned his attention back to Henry. “Let’s check the countinghouse first. He might be there still. Lately he’s taken to sleeping in the back room.”

  “That seems odd.” Henry raised an eyebrow and looked toward the tiny cottage that at one time had been his grandparents’ very first home, back when the mill was just a spark of an idea. The snow and gravel crunched underfoot as they crossed the courtyard to the thatched-roofed stone building. Smoke curled from its chimney. The flicker of a waning fire winked from the paned windows. Henry nodded at a cluster of workers staring at him as he passed. He stepped aside as a dog ran across the path.

  “Odd?” Belsey’s word snapped Henry back to the conversation. “You don’t know the most of it.”

  As if oblivious to the action around them and the attention they were garnering, Belsey pushed his hat back on his head, revealing a shock of wiry hair the color of aged ale. “Lately he has taken to personally checking on each of the workers individually. If they’re late, he docks their pay. He said if they start the day seeing the face of the man who pays ’em, they’ll be more respectful and grateful for the position they have.”

  Henry frowned. Docking a man or child some of their wages seemed a bit extreme. But he kept his mouth shut and focused on the countinghouse, which was growing closer with each step.

  Once they arrived, he ducked his head to enter the low-beamed building. It contained only three rooms: the old sitting room, a bedchamber, and the kitchen, which now served as the pulse of the mill’s office and quarters.

  Intense sentimentality rushed him as he moved to the hearth. The table where he had studied his sums was to the left of it. The chair where he used to sit quietly during mill meetings was tucked next to the window. His grandfather’s oilskin coat still hung on the peg next to the oak door, and Henry’s own old books still lined the hearth. Despite the activity just outside the door, time had frozen this office. Even the scents of tobacco, cedarwood, and dust lingered.

  Henry removed his greatcoat, shook the moisture and snow from his limbs, hung the garment on a peg next to his grandfather’s, and rubbed his hands together.

  Using the fire from the fireplace, Belsey lit two lamps before moving toward the large desk anchored in the center of the dark room. “Here are some letters and invoices regarding recent dealings. You’ll want to get familiar with them.”

  Henry accepted the stack, leaned against his desk, and sifted through the papers. If he were to have a hope of succeeding now that he had returned, he needed this man on his side. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Yes, we have added more jennies and mules, but I am sure your grandfather told you that. Oh, and our employee roster is up to 172—a far sight more than when you were here last.”

  Henry whistled under his breath.

  “Yes, sir. Fifty-nine men, forty-one women, and seventy-two children to be exact, most of them working more than seventy hours a week.”

  Henry frowned and lifted his head at the number. “Even the children?”

  Belsey nodded. “Some of the younger ones split their shifts, but most of the families need the money, so they work right up ’til the night bell.”

  Henry recalled the shadowy smaller figures walking through the iron gate, but he never expected such a large number. “Why so many children?”

  “They can run the new machinery just fine. With one or two adults supervising, they get the job done. Plus their wages are less, which keeps our costs low. Makes no sense to pay a grown man for what a child can do.”

  Henry didn’t like the thought of children working such long hours and had never felt comfortable walking down the rows of looms with his grandfather, twiddling his thumbs behind his back, when children his own age toiled for hours on end. But back then, Stockton Mill did not employ very many children. Now that number had exploded.

  Belsey reached over the desk, pulled a paper from a drawer, and handed it to Henry. “These are the sales numbers. Currently we are producing fourteen forty-yard superfine broadcloths a week, and we need every person to do that, including the work put out to the local shearmen to finish the cloth once it’s woven. When the new gig mills arrive, we should be able to either cut back on the amount of raising and napping we are doing or reduce our overhead and increase our output.”

  Henry glanced at the numbers. “When do the gig mills arrive?”

  “Two should be here within the next couple of weeks. Hard to say for certain. We are waiting to hear from the manufacturer. It is all very confidential. It has to be, you see. The shearmen and master weavers caught wind of your grandfather’s order, and they’re up in arms. With all the machine vandalism occurring north of Leeds, I’ll not be comfortable until the gig mills are safe within the mill walls where the ruffians can’t get to them.”

  Henry drew a deep breath. How had the business grown so much in his absence? He could scarcely recall the mill producing more than seven superfine broadcloths a week. Now the numbers had shifted, production had changed. “Do we have buyers for everything being produced?”

  “We do. Fortunately for us, with all of the unrest, the buyers are bypassing the cloth halls altogether. We’ve orders to keep us busy for months, and buyers are requesting more.”

  “And the Pennington Mill?” The dinnertime conversation from the
previous night was still fresh in Henry’s mind. “Are they faring as well?”

  “They get by. Master Pennington doesn’t have the knack your grandfather does for figuring the working hours, but as part owner of Pennington Mill, your grandfather usually spends a day or two out of the week there. Be that as it may, it is still a profitable mill in its own right. Last I heard it was producing roughly eight or nine broadcloths a week.”

  The door swung open, ushering in a swirl of gusty air and the figure of a man, much too tall and broad to be Grandfather. Belsey lifted his head. “Dearborne!”

  Henry whirled to face the name’s owner. The man’s broad shoulders nearly brushed both sides of the door frame as he entered, and he had to duck through the low opening. He swept his hat from his head, revealing thick, disheveled dark hair. His face and nose were red from the cold. Even in the early-morning darkness, the Dearborne family resemblance was strong.

  Henry said, “I know that name.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Dearborne extended his hand in greeting, letting out a good-natured laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not here spying for the enemy.”

  “Dearborne here oversees the ledgers,” Belsey said. “Has been for, what, three years now?”

  The tall, ruddy-faced man nodded and dropped a bundle on the desk. “Almost.”

  Henry leaned with his hip against the edge of the large mahogany desk situated in the room’s center. “I had the pleasure of encountering your sister when I first arrived in Amberdale.”

  Dearborne lifted his head. “Met Kate, did you?”

  Kate. So that was her Christian name.

  “Yes. She was carting wool in the midst of a near blizzard.”

  Dearborne shook his head with a laugh. “Not surprised to hear it. She’s not one to let much of anything stand in her way, much less a bit o’ snow.”

  “We’ll not keep you,” Belsey interjected, angling himself to Dearborne. “Stop by the countinghouse later today, will you? We’ll get Mr. Stockton here better acquainted with the numbers.”