“But the economy of the entire village is not our business, is it? We are in the business of making cloth. Making money.”
Mrs. Figgs raised her eyebrows and shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Depends on how you look at it. Your grandfather and the other Yorkshire mill owners decide who works and who doesn’t. The weavers argue that as a prominent village leader, your grandfather should be more concerned about the village’s overall economy and caring for the poor. The matter’s not an easy one to solve, and I fear it will not be solved any time soon.”
Henry stretched out his booted leg beneath the table and crossed his arms over his chest. Grandfather had always been fiercely loyal to those who were dedicated to him and scorned those who were not. It had been one of his greatest attributes—and one of his worst faults.
Mrs. Figgs fixed her gray eyes on Henry. “If I’m being honest, this has been difficult on your grandfather. ’Course he’ll never admit to such, but it’s taken a toll. He’s suspicious of everyone. With the exception of Mr. Belsey, young Mr. Dearborne, and a few others, he dismissed the majority of his supervisors and hired new ones. Even here at the house, you’ve no doubt noticed the staff is much smaller.”
“I noticed the lawn seemed quite altered.” Henry recalled the overgrown shrubs and the rusty gate.
“He dismissed the groundskeeper for no other reason than he was related to one of the discharged shearmen. He dismissed several of the kitchen maids, leaving pretty much myself, Mr. Figgs, a stable boy, and a housemaid. He feared they would side with his enemies and sabotage him.”
Henry frowned. The behavior was odd, especially for someone as self-assured as his grandfather. “When did this begin?”
“About a year and a half ago, several weavers cut down trees and broke windows at Stockton Mill. One of the trees fell against the waterwheel and halted production for days. Mr. Stockton was furious. Soldiers were brought to town and stayed for weeks to keep the peace, but ever since they left, he’s been vigilant, awaiting the next attack that may or may not come.”
“So that explains his brashness with Miss Dearborne earlier this evening.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Figgs’s thinning eyebrows rose, and she clicked her tongue. “The feud with the Dearbornes goes far beyond cloth.”
“You’re referring to Charles Dearborne,” Henry clarified.
“The very one.” She took a long sip of tea, gave her head a sharp shake, and sighed. “Cloth is one thing, family is another. Rumors are rampant, and the fact that the son of the Amberdale Weavers’ Society head weaver turned his back on his own father to work at his rival’s mill was fine fodder for gossip for miles around. Silas Dearborne was humiliated.”
“Charles has a mind of his own. No doubt he can make his own decisions.”
“No doubt he could, but that’s what people are saying, and sometimes just the mere mention of something makes it truth in the minds of some.”
Henry blew out a breath and forced his fingers through his drying hair. There was a greater story here, he was sure, one he was certain he would learn before too much longer.
Mrs. Figgs reached across the table and patted his other hand. “This is a fine welcome home for you. You look tired. Your room should be warm and toasty by now. You need a good night’s sleep. All will look different on the morrow.”
She was right. He was tired. A million other questions for her raced through his mind—questions about Mollie, about the Penningtons and the Dearbornes, about dozens of other things—but all that could wait. He pushed himself up from the table and crossed to the paned window to look into the black night. Grandfather had stormed out of the house after his terse conversation with Miss Dearborne and had not yet returned.
The snow had stopped, yet he could not see far. “I wish Grandfather would come back. I don’t like not knowing where he is, especially after what has happened.”
Mrs. Figgs retrieved a shawl from the hook and joined him at the window. “I also used to worry for him, but don’t trouble yourself too much. He’s an apprehensive man, as much as he pretends he isn’t, and is wrestling with his own demons. I’d bet a month’s wages he’s at the mill, sleeping in the back.”
Henry’s jaw twitched. The irony was not lost on him. Was he not wrestling with his own demons—demons that had stowed away with him from battlefields of the Iberian Peninsula?
He gathered his things to retire to his chamber. As he did, Mrs. Figgs caught his arm, halting him in his step. “Be patient with your grandfather. For all of his foibles and shortcomings, he is searching.” Her warm smile transported him back to when she would soothe his childhood fears or offer advice.
She patted his cheek with unmasked maternal affection. “God’s working on him. Just like He’s working on you and every one of us. Your grandfather is scared. He’d deny it to his dying day, but fear’s got him in a trap with the jaws clamped tight. I can see plain as day that you disagree with him, and I’m not saying everything he does is just, but things aren’t always as they seem.”
CHAPTER 12
Restless, Henry stood from the chair and paced the length of his bedchamber. He pulled back the brocade window covering at the west window and peered through the leaded glass—again. Meadowvale was spread out, slumbering in the dark of night. Several outbuildings clustered around the large cottage. A thick forest separated it from the actual village of Amberdale, and several smaller pastures created a border around the rest of the property.
How had Miss Dearborne lived in such proximity all those years and he never noticed?
Smoke curled into the clearing sky, dancing with the fluttery snowflakes, making the small estate seem awake even when all was still.
She was within that quiet house—with her feisty spirit, tenacious determination, achingly beautiful eyes, and intense hatred for him and everything he stood for.
Henry hoped her injury was not too painful. The gash had been a nasty one. But the injury did not upset him as much as the expression in her eyes when she beheld him.
Mistrust.
Dislike.
Suspicion.
He dropped the window covering and slumped into the wingback chair flanking the mantelpiece. He tried to imagine what Miss Pennington’s reaction would be to the night’s events. No doubt she would have collapsed with the vapors at the sight of fire, fainted dead away at the appearance of blood, and required days abed to refresh her frazzled nerves.
He pulled off his boots, careful to avoid the bits of mud still clinging to them, and leaned his head back against the chair. The fire’s warmth and the popping embers’ soothing lullaby had nearly lulled him to sleep when a sharp crack echoed.
Henry launched from his chair.
A gunshot.
But had he really heard it? Or was it a nightmare?
Eyes wide and heart racing, Henry spun to his right, then his left.
All was still and quiet, save for the soft, steady ticking of the mantel clock. He put his hand on his chest and took deep, deliberate breaths to slow his breathing.
It had been a common occurrence for months now. He would suddenly awaken from sleep in a panic and cold sweat. His dreams were so vivid he could hardly tell reality from imagination.
But then another shot rang out, equally as loud and real as the first one.
He jumped. That was indeed a pistol’s fire. And it was near.
He grabbed his discarded boots, paused just long enough to yank them on, and raced down the hallway. His steps were not as certain as they usually were as he traversed the darkened corridor. He bumped into the wall and nearly ran into the door frame as he turned to the servants’ stairs. At the landing he continued down the stairs.
Mrs. Figgs’s harried voice met his ears before his eyes saw her. “Do be careful.”
Henry rounded the corner into the kitchen to see Mrs. Figgs, in her wrapper and sleeping cap, standing next to her husband. Mr. Figgs was donning his hat, a rifle clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
“
What is going on?” Henry demanded.
Mr. Figgs lowered his hat atop his gray head. “That is what I am going to find out.”
“I’m coming with you.” Henry reached for one of the oilskin cloaks hanging next to the door and flung it over his shoulders. “Has Grandfather returned?”
Mr. Figgs shook his head, his expression sober.
Dread wove itself through Henry’s mind.
Something was not right.
“Is there another rifle?”
“Pistols are in Mr. Stockton’s office. I’ll fetch you one.”
By the time Figgs returned with the weapons, Henry had found a hat and was waiting by the door. His pulse hammered through him. He had not been back long enough to fully understand the scope of the turmoil between the mill owners and the weavers, but he knew the situation was dire.
Once Figgs returned, the men stepped out into the night and hurried to the stables for their mounts. No sounds, not even the call of the night birds, echoed from the forest until a crash followed by a man’s cry reverberated from the darkness. Wild thrashing ensued, followed by the fading sound of retreating hoofbeats.
Alarm coursed through Henry. With pounding pulse, he pulled himself up on his horse, cocked the pistol, and galloped toward the woods.
He’d been here before—not long ago—racing toward the sound of gunfire. Fear had learned its place—to wait in the shadows until the action was complete. Then, and only then, would it be allowed to emerge and claim the respect it was due.
He tightened his hold on the loaded pistol as the horse charged over the lawn and soared over a low fence.
Well aware that Figgs was just behind him, Henry pushed farther into the forest, not sure what—or who—they sought. He stayed just off the well-worn path cutting through the forest to the mill. After several agonizing moments they drew to a halt. Figgs paused next to him and whispered, “Probably just gypsies. Or poachers.”
Reason agreed with Figgs, causing Henry to lean back in his saddle. The hair prickled on the back of his neck—a reliable warning sign with which he was all too familiar. He would not concede until he was certain that his family and their property were secure. “The mill’s just beyond that bend. After what happened with the stable, we should check on it to be sure.”
They continued on. Just ahead, Henry glimpsed something lighter than its surroundings nestled at the foot of a tree. He squinted to see in the darkness. Without a lantern or the moon’s guiding light, it was difficult to see, but as he approached, it became clear: a figure was slumped in a heap on the ground.
Henry snapped to action and slid from the saddle, nearly losing his footing as his boots landed on uneven ground. In four large paces he was next to the body. He dropped to his knees, placed his weapon at his side, and leaned low. “Can you hear me?”
The masculine figure—cloaked in a dark, caped greatcoat—did not move.
Henry grabbed the unresponsive man’s shoulder and rolled him so he could face him.
Horror thrust Henry back and stole the wind from his lungs.
Grandfather.
His grandfather’s face was ashen in the forest’s nocturnal shadows. His eyes were closed, and a smear of blood marked his hollow cheek. His entire body lay limp, like a man who’d taken leave of all consciousness.
Perspiration dotted Henry’s brow in spite of the biting wind that howled down through the leafless oak branches and invaded the moment between grandfather and grandson. Henry’s blood thundered through his ears and he pressed his face close to his grandfather’s, desperate to feel the warmth of a breath puffing from his lips.
He felt none.
Panic gripped tighter.
With frantic movements he felt for a pulse at the neck.
None.
He didn’t believe it. He lowered his hand into his grandfather’s coat to feel for the heartbeat. A warm, sticky substance met his hand.
Henry’s breath caught in his throat, held captive by desperate uncertainty, and he yanked back the coat, garnering courage to face whatever might meet him.
Even in the darkness, he knew the sight. It was the sort of image that would be burned into a person’s brain. Blood gleamed dark on Grandfather’s light waistcoat.
Henry’s hands shook as he forced his mind to organize the facts at hand. He knew the proper protocol, but this was not an unknown soldier. This was his grandfather.
He cupped his grandfather’s whiskered chin with his hand. “Grandfather.”
No response.
Henry shook his shoulder again. Harder. “Grandfather!”
Again no response.
Figgs said something and touched Henry’s shoulder. Henry flung his arm back, pushing the older man away much harder than he’d intended. Could Figgs not see that Henry was busy? That his grandfather needed him?
He cleared clothing away from the wound. He’d expected a bullet wound, based on the gunshots he’d heard. And with his next breath he thought he smelled gunpowder. But that did not matter. This was a stab wound.
Henry’s stomach revolted at the sight of the sticky liquid. He thought he might be sick.
Figgs touched Henry’s arm again, and this time Henry did not push him away. “He’s gone, sir, he’s—”
“Go back and fetch a lantern and Mrs. Figgs. Hurry!” Henry ripped his coat from his shoulders and jerked the sleeves free, refusing to hear the words he knew were true. He pressed the fabric against the wound, holding it with all his strength, determined to stop the flow of blood.
Perspiration—or perhaps tears—trickled down his face. He continued to apply pressure. Harder. The bitter sting of bile rose in his throat as the blood on his hands thickened. Henry’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. “Come to, Grandfather. Wake up!”
He pinned a hard gaze on Figgs. “What is wrong with you?” Henry shouted, his head throbbing. “Go now! Get Mrs. Figgs and fresh linen.”
Figgs grabbed Henry’s arm, firm enough this time to still Henry’s movement. “He’s gone, Henry. He’s gone.”
Chest heaving, lungs burning, Henry lowered his hands, suddenly unable to bear the weight of holding them steady.
The silence—the deafening silence—roared through him, ripping at the few remaining bits of his soul.
Grandfather was dead.
And he’d been unable to save him.
CHAPTER 13
The rumors are true, gentlemen.” Silas Dearborne’s gravelly voice rose once again above the impromptu weavers’ meeting, demanding attention and daring anyone to interrupt him. “William Stockton is dead. All eyes are now on us.”
Kate chewed her lower lip, mustering the courage to glance around the room at the dozens of somber masculine faces. All was silent, save for the wind howling across the distant moors and rattling the windows in their casings. Not a single attendee moved; not a single voice uttered a whisper.
Kate refocused on her sewing as she sat in the back of Meadowvale’s drawing room without really seeing her needlework’s emerging pattern. Concentration was elusive, a fickle companion—one made even more unpredictable by recent morbid events. The fire to her left was becoming too warm and stifling in the overcrowded room, but she dared not move a muscle.
William Stockton had not even been laid to rest yet, and already the weavers grew nervous. Too much change had happened too quickly. The rapid change, compounded with Henry Stockton’s recent return and the impending arrival of the gig mills, forced the tension among the weavers to a boiling point, like the dye vat ready for fabric.
Her father, however, stood tall and calm in front of his colleagues. If the murder had rattled him, she could not tell. Sweat beading on his upper lip was the only sign of discomfort. “I spoke with the magistrate, Mr. Tierner, on the matter. They are still investigating potential suspects and motives, but what you have heard is true. Stockton was murdered in his own forest just two days ago, not far from the mill itself.”
A fresh shiver skittered down Kate’s spine. She had
been one of the last people to see him alive, a fact that made her feel inexplicably connected to the matter—and one she refrained from sharing with her father.
Mr. Wooden cleared his throat and lifted his hand for the floor. “Are they sure it was murder and not an accident? He’d not be the first hunter to mishandle a weapon.”
“Tierner said he suffered a knife wound in his chest and a blow to his head. ’Twas no accident. A discharged pistol was found at the scene. No one seemed to recognize it, but a gunshot was heard, so perhaps Stockton was attempting to fight someone off. Regardless, they’re searching for a man named Wilkes from Beltshire. He was at the mill looking for work and became enraged when he was not given a position.”
“I know him,” Mr. Codding interjected, his long, narrow face made to look even longer by the shadows from a nearby sconce. “His wife died last year and left two wee ones behind. I saw him in the village myself and talked to him at the public house. But what’s he got to do with it? There’s no shortage of men who hate the likes of William Stockton.”
Father’s voice remained steady and deep. “Whether it was Wilkes or someone else, something needs to be done. This is beyond mere mischief and mayhem. Cold-blooded murder will not be forgotten by the authorities or the other millers. The magistrate has sent for soldiers to keep the peace. We are being watched, gentlemen. We and the other weavers like us. I implore each of you to be on your guard.”
Father’s lips formed a thin line before he resumed. “This leads us to another issue. Until this time we all believed that if something happened to Stockton, that milksop of a fool Belsey would run the mill in his stead, but now that Henry Stockton is back, this will no longer be the case. Now is our opportunity to make sure that young Stockton knows his place.”
Kate lifted her eyebrows at the mention of Henry Stockton’s name.
“Now is the time, my brothers, that we unite. We may not be behind the murder of William Stockton, but we must take this opportunity to make our voice heard. The weavers of Amberdale are not to be trifled with, and we will take what is ours, or die trying.”
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