The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She drew a sudden intake of breath and met his gaze once more, brightness returning to her eyes. “I was surprised to see that your sister has returned to Amberdale.”

  The words refocused his attention. “You saw Mollie?”

  “Yes. You must be excited about the prospect of a niece or a nephew.”

  He nodded, wondering exactly what Mollie had told her about her situation. “I—I am.”

  His horse nuzzled her arm, and she laughed and patted the animal’s velvety nose. They stood for several moments in comfortable silence before her expression narrowed again. “Miss Abbott told me of the order for the cloaks. It—it was very kind.”

  “Then you have probably heard that her father is refusing to fulfill the order.”

  “I know that as well.” Sincerity filled her somber gaze. “And I’m sorry for it.”

  He continued. “But I’ve heard of another tailor in Bremton who is more likely to work with a horrid mill owner.”

  She laughed at his sarcasm and then spoke gently. “Regardless of who makes them, it is a gigantic step. And I am grateful.”

  A wagon could be heard coming down the road, and her smile vanished. “I should be going. Have a good evening, Mr. Stockton.”

  He bowed, and as quickly as he had noticed her, she pivoted away from him just as a wagon curved the bend.

  He watched as her crimson cloak disappeared from view. He no longer felt the cold or the pain from the day’s frustrations. For in this moment, their simple conversation brought lightness to his steps as he led his horse through the Stockton House gate.

  To Henry it seemed odd to be home in the afternoon hours. He’d spent nearly every day from dawn until the black of night at Stockton Mill since he arrived several weeks ago.

  Today he’d remained home to answer letters and to spend time with Mollie. She had grown increasingly melancholy, and he thought company might do her good. As they sat in the drawing room, Mollie on the sofa reading and Henry at the desk writing, a shrill laugh echoed from the drive.

  Henry jerked his head up and jumped from his chair at the sudden noise and moved to the window. Following Mollie’s request, he had not shared the news of her arrival with anyone, not even Belsey or Dearborne. As far as he knew, Miss Dearborne and the vicar’s wife, who had called a few days prior, were the only people aside from the Figgs who knew of her return.

  He lifted the edge of the velvet curtain just enough to see past the thick fabric. He groaned at the sight of Mrs. and Miss Pennington circling the drive.

  His relationship with the Penningtons had seemed to cool ever since the father and daughter called at the mill when Miss Dearborne was present. He’d only seen Frederica at church, and her reception toward him had been cordial at best. So why was she here?

  He turned from the window and frowned, prepared to see Mollie distressed, but he found quite the opposite to be true.

  “Visitors at last!” she cried, her blue eyes wide as the saucer she held in her hand as she sipped her tea. “Hand me that blanket, will you?”

  He leaned over to the settee, retrieved the small coverlet in question, and tossed it in her direction. She draped it over her midsection and smoothed her dark curls.

  A knock on the heavy oak door sounded their arrival. Mrs. Figgs’s shuffling footsteps could be heard moving across the stone floor. Metal scraped metal as the door’s latch was lifted. Greetings were uttered.

  He and Mollie had not yet discussed how they would present the details of her presence at Stockton House. He had thought they would have time to formulate a plan, but he left before she woke and she was usually abed by the time he returned. They had not spoken much, and now it was too late.

  The door to the parlor burst open, and energy pulsed into the small space.

  “Oh, my dear, oh, my dear!” The female Penningtons rushed into the room, their presence and floral scents filling every corner, from the high molded ceiling to the polished floor beneath. “It’s true you’re here! Oh, how long has it been?”

  The Pennington ladies leaned down and kissed Mollie’s cheek. They fussed over her and petted her.

  Henry watched with bated breath. It was clear they were not aware of Mollie’s condition. In truth, he did not care what they thought about it, but he did care how Mollie would feel about their reaction.

  Mrs. Pennington clasped her hands in front of her. “Mr. Pennington called here for Mr. Stockton yesterday, but he was away at the mill, presumably. He saw you in the garden. He told us last night, and we could not wait for you to call on us.”

  Frederica whirled around, and for the first time since their visit in the countinghouse, she turned her full attention to Henry. “Why didn’t you tell us your sister was in town? We would have visited right away!”

  Before Henry could respond, Mollie moved to stand. “Don’t blame Henry for that. I haven’t been feeling well, you see. I’ve been resting, but now it does me so good to see you both again.”

  A silence, thick and heavy, suddenly descended upon the room.

  Mrs. Pennington stared at Mollie’s midsection, and Miss Pennington’s mouth fell open.

  Henry’s defenses rose at the expressions of shock on their faces. Had they never seen a woman with child before?

  Their guests exchanged glances.

  The silence was deafening.

  He flicked his gaze to Mollie. No smile curved her lips, yet no frown did either. He waited for someone to say something. Anything.

  The mantel clock marked several uncomfortable seconds before Frederica finally broke a smile, leaned over Mollie, and patted her hand. “Don’t move a muscle, not a single muscle. Mother and I are quite capable of making ourselves at home.”

  Frederica took the liberty of tugging the bell pull to call for tea, and before Henry realized what had happened, the women fell into quick and easy conversation, as if they forgot he was in the room.

  They ignored him completely.

  He did not mind one bit.

  “It’s been well over a year since you were last in Amberdale, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Miss Pennington waited for Mrs. Figgs to hand her a cup of tea before finishing. “And look at you, you’re glowing.”

  Miss Pennington’s words rang with unspoken questions, and her mother edged closer to Mollie. “My dear Miss Stockton, you must tell us everything you’ve been about these many months. You know men are the worst to rely upon for news, especially mill men. Their minds are endlessly preoccupied with wool and broadcloth.”

  Mollie did not even so much as glance in Henry’s direction before speaking. “Well, it’s no longer Miss Stockton. My name is now Mrs. Smith.”

  Henry cringed inside.

  So the lying had begun.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Pennington’s hand flew to her mouth. The awkward pause was much shorter this time. “Well then, congratulations are in order!”

  Mollie bit her lip. A demure, pensive expression tugged down her lips. “You may think that I am wearing black in mourning for my grandfather, and while that is true, I’m also in mourning for my husband.”

  The Penningtons gasped.

  Henry’s heart thudded in his chest, then sank to his stomach.

  His sister was going to forge ahead with the falsehoods of her own invention.

  Pity played on the Penningtons’ faces.

  His jaw clenched. Nothing positive could come from this.

  It almost appeared as if tears were forming in Miss Pennington’s chocolate eyes. “Oh my. What you must have been through! It is a wonder that this news was never brought up by your grandfather or brother. You must have felt positively alone.”

  “They were only following my wishes. Besides, my aunt has been most kind. But I would be lying if I said this hasn’t been difficult to endure.”

  Mrs. Pennington patted Mollie’s arm. “There is much to your story, I’d wager.”

  Mollie placed a protective hand over her belly. “I’d been staying with my aunt these many tryin
g months, but when Henry returned, I thought it best to come to the country.”

  “As well you should.” Frederica moved to pour Mollie a fresh cup of tea. “But am I to understand that you have been traveling? The journey here can be an irksome one, and in your condition? I can scarcely believe your aunt allowed such a venture.”

  “There will be no more traveling for me for quite some time.” Mollie finally turned to Henry. He shivered at her ability to look him in the eye and lie as easily as if she were reciting a poem. “My brother is kind enough to let me stay on with him.”

  Miss Pennington cut her eyes toward him. “A kind man indeed, but that is what family does for each other, is it not? And the Stocktons are the epitome of family loyalty and grace.”

  Henry moved closer to the window so the chilly air seeping through could cool his heated senses.

  “Good heavens, Mr. Stockton, you look sour.” Frederica lowered her tea. “Are you not pleased your sister is here? I’d think you should be grateful for the company. It would be lonely for a bachelor in this big house, all alone.”

  Frederica’s ability to remind him of his single state was not lost on him. He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I fear my sister is the one who is lonely, for the mill occupies my days.”

  “And often your nights,” Mrs. Pennington supplied, “if you keep a schedule anything like Mr. Pennington.”

  Henry did not miss the hint of sadness in Mrs. Pennington’s tone.

  “I’m not so lonely.” Mollie’s expression brightened. “I have had a few visitors. The vicar’s wife paid a call the other day, as did Miss Dearborne.”

  Henry nearly choked on his own tongue at the mention of Miss Dearborne. Not even the coolness by the window could dissipate the heat rising to his cravat and up to his scalp.

  “Miss Dearborne?” Miss Pennington shot back, a frown shadowing her face. “Miss Katherine Dearborne?”

  “Yes, she was lovely.” Mollie’s countenance gave no indication of discomfort. “I am surprised, since she lives so close, that we had never chatted before.”

  Miss Pennington and her mother exchanged confused glances, and then she pivoted toward Henry. “That is a surprise. I am astonished to hear that another Dearborne has set foot on Stockton property. Has there been a change?”

  All feminine eyes were on him.

  How he wished the polished floor would swallow him whole.

  When Henry did not respond quickly enough, Mrs. Pennington interjected, “Well, never mind that now. From now on you shall have suitable companionship, shall she not, Frederica?”

  A more neutral conversation ensued, but Henry could not relax. Lie after lie slid easily from Mollie’s lips. She was cool and confident in her claims. The easiness of the act alarmed him. She had not reconsidered or heeded his caution. Instead, she forged ahead.

  He wanted to intervene, to set the record straight, but how could he do so now? His sister had made her decision. It was out of his hands.

  CHAPTER 22

  Henry pressed his lips shut, lest a protest slip. He could listen to no more. The Penningtons believed every word of his sister’s lies.

  And why would they not?

  True, Miss Pennington and his sister had never been close, especially since his sister spent much of her childhood away at school or at their aunt’s home. But still, there would be no reason for them to doubt Mollie’s story.

  He’d muttered an excuse, retreated from the drawing room, and settled in Grandfather’s study to finish his letter writing. He’d been at the task for a quarter of an hour when a rapid tap sounded at the door. He lowered the quill. The brass handle jiggled and the paneled door moved. A dainty white hand gripped the door, and then blonde curls appeared around its edge.

  “Henry?” Frederica’s voice was soft as she poked her head inside.

  He straightened at the sight of her slender form sweeping around the door as naturally as if she owned every inch of the space.

  She shouldn’t be in here alone.

  He did not have to consider his welcome, for she sauntered farther into the room, as if cognizant of how attractive she appeared in the gown of dark-green velvet, and seated herself across from him. “Why did you not tell me about Mollie? My, if I had known of her presence here, I would have called straightaway.”

  Henry remembered his manners and stood as she entered. As soon as she had settled in the wingback chair across the desk, he resumed his seat, returned his quill to the inkwell, and leaned back. “She requested privacy. It wasn’t my place to say anything.”

  “Don’t be a goose. Of course it was! Why, she’s one of us, is she not? We can’t have her spending her days shut up here alone, now, can we?”

  He tilted his head, unsure of what message Miss Pennington was trying to convey with her direct stare and playful posture. Her words were of inclusion and acceptance, and yet they lacked sincerity.

  She fussed with the lace trim of her cuff and cut her eyes coyly at him. “I know you’ve been gone for quite some time, but it saddens me to think that you no longer feel you can trust me with such information.”

  “It has nothing to do with trust.” Henry restacked the heap of papers before him so as not to look at her. He refused to tell lies for his sister. “As she said, she wanted privacy.”

  “What happened to her husband?” Her eyebrows drew together in consternation. “The poor dear must be beside herself.”

  “She’ll tell you in her time, I am sure.”

  “You know, you are quite frustrating, Henry. I can tell plainly that there is something you do not wish to tell me.” Her practiced, pretty pout was directed at him. “I’ll get you to tell me, you know.”

  When he did not respond, she sobered and shifted in her padded chair. “I was surprised to hear that Miss Dearborne had visited Mollie. Of course, it is none of my business, but the way things have been going . . .” Her voice trailed off before returning with candid emphasis. “After all, you know her father and his viewpoints.”

  He scratched his neck and pulled at his cravat, grateful that she seemed not to know of Miss Dearborne’s presence during the fire. “I believe she was delivering something to Miss Figgs and they struck up a conversation.”

  “But still.” Miss Pennington clicked her tongue. “The Dearbornes are dangerous people. Mollie is so gentle. I fear she may be manipulated.”

  Henry could not help the laugh that slid from his lips. The statement was ridiculous. “Miss Dearborne may be part of the Dearborne family, but I hardly think her capable of targeting Mollie in a sinister plan.”

  She shivered as if disgusted. “You’ve heard the reports regarding the mill at Bremton. Do you really think the Dearbornes innocent of such an act? And even if they didn’t have direct involvement, do you not think them supportive of it?”

  Henry stared at Miss Pennington, not sure how to respond. Her opinions and questions rang hollow, as if she was repeating someone else’s thoughts and words, yet they were eerily similar to the warning issued by Mr. Tierner in the countinghouse. Regardless, he could not be so quick to judge the Dearbornes, especially since he’d not even spoken with Silas since he returned.

  Miss Pennington stood and walked to the window before sidling close to the desk. Her tone took on a thoughtful air, and she tilted her head to the side. “What happened to you, Henry?”

  He narrowed his eyes but did not answer her question, for his response could shift the conversation to a path he did not wish to tread.

  She angled closer, her scent of lily of the valley dangerously near. “You’ve changed.”

  Frederica had said the same words the night after his arrival, but this time they held none of the teasing playfulness. Memories rushed into his mind of a time when they had been younger—before war. Before death. Before the mill became the central focus of life. They would flirt and laugh, talk and dance. She seemed much the same person, though. She’d always been direct and decisive. But he felt different about her and so many thin
gs.

  She leaned her hip against the desk, picked up a piece of twine that had been discarded from a parcel, and ran it through her fingers. “You know what’s expected of us.”

  He forced a little chuckle. “You don’t strike me as the sort to always do what is expected.”

  She did not join in his joke. After several seconds, she shifted the topic. “Why don’t you call me Frederica anymore? You always used to.”

  He cleared his throat. “We are no longer children.”

  “But are we not still friends? For in my mind, you are Henry. The formality of referring to you as Mr. Stockton is suffocating.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “And what is expected of you?”

  She tilted her head to the side and looked toward the ceiling. “Oh, marriage, children, a passion for all sorts of textiles, especially broadcloth, and the ability to do my needlepoint politely and without complaint.” A teasing smile stole across her smooth features. “Not that I mind. It sounds like a lovely future, don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know how I would fare at needlework, but—”

  “Don’t tease me.” She swatted his arm playfully. “And you? What is expected of you?”

  She was investigating him, and hiding her intentions poorly.

  He sobered. “Now that Grandfather’s gone, the only person placing expectations on me is myself. I’d like to think my actions would honor him in some way, but I’ve no desire to rush into any decisions, especially with everything happening at the mill.”

  He looked at her and allowed himself, for just a moment, to relax. She really was beautiful. And entrancing. The attraction that had once pulled him to her, however, had weakened.

  He could not help but compare her to the one who was unknowingly drawing him toward her.

  Miss Dearborne.

  Would Miss Pennington ever worry if a child did not have a cloak? Would she be willing to go out of her way to tend a sick child, even if it meant facing her enemy to do so?

  Frederica lacked something. Kindness. Gentleness. He never thought those qualities mattered . . . until he saw them in action.