She drew closer. Her scent, at one time intoxicating, was now suffocating. She could be his, no doubt, but as much as he tried to deny it, Miss Dearborne, with her dye-stained fingers and beautiful heart, overshadowed her.
Frederica, oblivious to the war in his mind, twirled the long satin ribbon adorning her gown’s high waist. “Both Mother and Father told me I should not ask you about what happened while you were away, about what made you change so. They said it could be difficult for you to talk about. And yet I’m so curious.”
The conversation was too much. He stood and moved to stoke the fire, hoping to distance himself from the memories that came rushing to him at her words. He returned the poker to the stand and turned.
She was next to him. She stepped closer still, fanning the flame of a different sort of memory; one much preferable to a gunshot and a battle cry. Oh, if he could turn back time four years, back to his own innocence.
But those days were gone.
“Do you think it is possible to recapture the past?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
She reached out and smoothed his coat lapel with unabashed intimacy and then rested her palm on his chest. Brazenly. She looked up to him with wide, dark eyes. Hopeful.
In that breathless moment his arms ached to hold her. He longed for something familiar. For something that made sense in a world that was ever changing. To kiss her as he had once before, and to feel her return that kiss.
She seemed willing, but such an action would require a promise—a promise he was not certain he could give.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and ran his hands down her arms. He could kiss her now and lock the plan in place. He could marry her soon, and the future of the Stocktons and the Penningtons would be secure.
He hesitated.
“What is it, Henry?”
When he did not respond, her fair eyebrows arched, and she sighed and pulled back slightly. “You know, I saw you looking at her.”
“At whom?”
“Miss Dearborne.”
The clouds outside the window shifted, casting a shadow over them. Henry stiffened. “You’re mistaken.”
“Am I? Perhaps you have forgotten how fast news travels around a small town like Amberdale. It’s absolutely ravenous for a tale.”
“My interest in Miss Dearborne is not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
Again he did not respond.
“Whatever happened to you during the war must have been quite an ordeal, and I’m sorry for it. But I miss you, Henry. The old you, the one full of laughter. If he ever comes back, please have him come and see me. I’ll be waiting for him.” She withdrew her hand from his chest and left the room, leaving it quiet and still in her wake.
A strange emptiness ballooned within him. He was accustomed to being alone. He’d spent years with dozens of men but knew none of them. It hadn’t bothered him then, but now a strange loneliness blew over him, just as it had when he stood at his grandfather’s grave.
He looked out the window toward Meadowvale. Gray smoke plumed from the cottage and outbuildings. He lived so close to the Dearbornes, but they could not be farther apart. He could have pretended he was not looking for her, but he stood for several moments, watching the landscape between them blow and sway in the wind.
And then he was either rewarded or tortured for his spying. For a glimpse of crimson flashed. He did not think, did not contemplate what he would say or do. He simply grabbed his greatcoat and hat and headed toward the door.
Where was Ivy? Kate heard the ewe bleating, but with the wind and the brush, she could not determine her location.
She glanced up at the late-afternoon sky. Thick pewter clouds swirled against a colorless background, warning of possible rain.
The sound of Ivy’s renewed flailing recaptured Kate’s attention, and she sloshed along the melting snow near the tree line, then peered through the bare scrubs and brush.
It was not unusual for the sheep to free themselves from the pen. But did it always need to be when it was so cold and wet?
She cupped her hands around her mouth and called again. “Ivy!”
The sheep baaed, and Kate spied the wooly animal deep in the bare brambles. She pulled her small knife from her pocket and prepared to cut through the thicket when a man called her name.
She groaned without lifting her head. John had been following her for most of the day. No doubt he wanted to help her with another task.
She adjusted the small blade in her hand, then swept her hair away from her face with the back of her opposite forearm. A protest ready to spill forth, she turned, only to snap her mouth shut.
Mr. Stockton.
Kate straightened, immediately aware of the dirt clinging to her work apron. She brushed it clean. “Mr. Stockton. I didn’t hear you.”
He sat tall and straight atop a horse, his square jaw shadowed by his wide-brimmed hat. “Are you having trouble?”
She propped her hands on her hips and looked back at the wooly animal. “My sheep is stuck in the thicket. I fear she’ll injure herself.”
“May I help?”
She was about to decline his offer, more out of fear that someone at Meadowvale would notice him than anything else, but before she knew it, he’d dismounted and tethered his horse to a nearby tree. He looked at the knife in her hand and extended his palm.
She should refuse his help. She’d seen to this task dozens of times. But bits of rain were beginning to fall from the shifting clouds, and the wind raced through the trees, growing in intensity.
She handed it to him. “Be careful.” Kate shifted her position to watch him kneel down and cut through the thicket. “She’s a skittish one.”
“Come now, sheep.” His voice was surprisingly soothing, and he knelt to one knee and ducked to look through the brambles. “You’ll be free in a few minutes.”
Ivy bleated and flailed.
Kate could stand it no longer. Ivy was her pet. Kate knelt next to Mr. Stockton, pulled away the thorny brush to allow him a better view, and winced as a thorn sliced through her glove. “How did you get in here, Ivy?”
“Her name is Ivy?” Mr. Stockton snipped another wiry branch.
Kate nodded, pulling a long branch straight so he could clip it.
“Don’t worry, Ivy,” he murmured, emphasizing the name. “You’ll be out of here and eating your dinner in no time.”
“Watch her legs. She’s liable to be frantic when she’s free.”
After several minutes of careful cutting, Ivy pulled free and burst forth with all the energy her pregnant body could muster. Kate jumped to her feet, stumbling on her gown’s hem in the process. She lunged at the animal to keep her from getting loose again.
She doubted anyone at Meadowvale would give her unladylike actions a second thought, but even as she secured Ivy, heat crept up. Mr. Stockton was a gentleman.
Pushing embarrassment aside, she knelt and looped a lead around the animal’s neck and then stood.
Once the sheep was still, he reached down and offered her his hand to help her to her feet. She accepted his assistance, finding it much more difficult than she thought to regain her footing in the spongy, frozen moss underfoot.
His hand continued to steady hers as she pushed her hair away and straightened her cloak. Then he dropped his hand. “Is Ivy all right?”
“She’ll be fine. I worry for her, though, stuck in the bramble and thrashing around so. It could have been much worse.”
“I didn’t realize you had sheep at Meadowvale.” He extended her small knife back to her.
“We have a few.” Kate tucked the blade in her apron and motioned to the east. “They are put out to pasture in our meadow on the other side of the cottage, so I doubt you’ve seen them.”
Ivy jerked her head, as if eager to be free, and Kate rubbed her gloved hand against the ewe’s soft fur.
He brushed his dark hair away from his forehead and adjusted his
hat. “You seem to care a great deal for her.”
“She was orphaned at birth more than ten years ago, and my mother and I nursed her to health. Now Ivy is quite an old lady, I fear. But there seems to be no harm done.”
Mr. Stockton sniffed as the animal pulled against Kate. “She seems quite out of sorts to me.”
She laughed. “All sheep are that way. Do you not know their nature?”
“I confess, I don’t. For as long as I can recall, wool always came on a wagon, never directly from an animal.”
“Well, Papa prefers to control every aspect of the cloth-making process. Ivy here has been giving us wool and lambs for quite some time.”
Her words fell silent.
He was staring at her. Even as she looked down to Ivy, she could feel the warmth radiating from him, almost as if she could feel his very presence drawing her to him. Kate did not want to be affected by the blueness of his eyes or the softness in his expression, and yet she could feel it weakening her knees and quickening her pulse. She smoothed her hair, feeling self-conscious. It was not proper for her to be alone with him in the fields, yet the thought of walking away sent a surprising jolt of hesitation through her. “I should be getting her home. Feel the rain in the air?”
She turned to leave, but he reached out to halt her, stopping just short of touching her arm. “Wait. Please.”
An unexpected flutter started in her chest. She didn’t want to feel a response to him—she wanted to feel nothing but coldness and hatred for him, like her father and the other journeymen.
But something inside her prevented it.
He spoke abruptly. “The cloaks will be here. Soon.”
“Cloaks?” She lifted her head, jarred by the sudden change of topic.
“Yes. For the mill children. Your brother took the cloth over to another tailor several days ago. I thought you’d be happy to hear it.”
The annoyance that had lodged in her heart the day she saw him on the bridge was melting, she could not deny it. Either she had grossly misjudged him, or he was a master of manipulation. “You’ve been kind. After all that has transpired between our families, I can’t help but wonder why.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Because I like you, Miss Dearborne.”
Kate blinked, not sure she had heard him correctly. Her power of speech had momentarily left her. She wanted to believe that his words were in earnest. What woman would not like to have such a handsome man think positively of her?
She opened her mouth to respond when the sound of footsteps echoed.
Someone shouted her name.
She turned, and John emerged through the trees.
CHAPTER 23
Anger simmered in John’s dark eyes, but his focus was not directed toward Kate. His glare pinned Mr. Stockton. Boldly. Unwavering.
At first no one moved, despite the manner in which the bitter wind whipped down from the pasture and swirled at the tree line. Kate held her breath, awaiting—almost fearing—the words that would pass John’s lips. The journeyman’s fierce loyalty to her father made him unpredictable—a trait that frightened Kate.
Tightening her grip on the ewe’s lead rope, she rallied the courage to glance at Mr. Stockton. Moments ago his countenance had been friendly, but in the span of a second, coolness descended over his features.
Mr. Stockton clearly did not share the sense of fear that wound within her.
Kate blurted out, “John, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” His words were directed at Kate, but his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at Mr. Stockton.
“I’ve been out looking for Ivy.” She sounded more like a child caught in a mischievous act than a woman of one and twenty.
“And it seems you have found her. Stockton, you must have lost your way. This is Dearborne property. You aren’t welcome here.”
Kate jumped in. “He was passing by and helped me free Ivy. She was caught in the bramble there.”
“I don’t care why he was here. I know I speak for my master when I tell you to keep off our land.”
Mortification sank its teeth into Kate’s soul at the rude treatment. What bit even more was that she probably would’ve treated their guest in a similar manner a few weeks ago. What had changed? She pressed her lips together and dared to glance at Mr. Stockton from the corner of her eye. Would he be angry? Offended? Would he retaliate?
A smile toyed with Mr. Stockton’s lips. “My mistake. I’ll be taking my leave, then.” He looked toward Kate with the same disarming smile, one that dimpled his cheek and brightened his eyes. “Good day, Miss Dearborne.”
She managed to squeak, “Thank you for your assistance.”
Mr. Stockton glanced back at John with a raised eyebrow and then returned to his horse, which he mounted in one easy motion, urging him into a canter across the snow-clad countryside.
When he was out of sight, Kate braved a glance at John.
Without a word, he turned and stomped down the path, his heavy boots splashing up bits of frozen mud with each step.
She tugged Ivy’s lead and followed, careful to lift her skirts above the slush.
After several steps he stopped unexpectedly, and Kate jerked to a stop for fear of running into his back.
“What was that, Kate?” He folded his arms across his chest.
“What was what?” Her tone was sheepish. She knew exactly what he meant.
“Pause for a moment and imagine what would have happened if it had been your father who happened upon that little interlude instead of me.”
“There was no interlude.” Kate lifted her chin and brushed past him.
He halted her steps by wrapping his fingers around her forearm. “He is a Stockton, Kate. Need I remind you what that means?”
She whirled around to face him, forcing herself to remain calm. “Believe me, I know better than anyone the impact they’ve had on my family. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s our neighbor. He offered assistance, and I accepted it.”
He pointed his finger at her, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Don’t do that again.”
She laughed. “You have no authority over me. May I remind you that you work for my family? It’s not the other way around.”
“Your father seems to think otherwise.” He clenched his fist and released it, as if he was calming his nerves.
John sighed, softened his stance, and rested his gloved hand on her shoulder. “I should tell your father that Stockton was on his property. But I won’t. Do not put me in this position again.”
“Tell him what you will.” She jerked her shoulder away. “It matters not to me.”
His jaw twitched, stubble shadowing his square chin. “There will come a time, Kate, a time very soon, when you must decide. Battle lines have been drawn. You can’t continue to have it both ways: adoring your father and supporting your brother. It doesn’t work that way.”
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion on such matters.”
He chuffed out a laugh. “Like it or not, Kate Dearborne, my opinion may matter much more than you realize.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I have been more than patient in indulging your whims. But we both know what’s in our future.”
Kate scowled and took a step, but he moved to block her.
“Your father’s a powerful man. Once he declares that we’re to marry, do you think any man in his right mind will go against him?”
His words stung.
John dug deeper. “And are you really so naive that you don’t see what this wolf in sheep’s clothing is doing? The first day he arrived, he came to your aid. Now this. He is grooming you to turn on your father. Doing the same thing his grandfather did with Charles.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? The quickest way to break a man like your father is not to beat him at his game. It’s to crumble his foundation—you, your brother. Piece by piec
e the Stockton family is coming after him, and you, Kate, are his pawn.”
Kate swallowed. The memory of Mr. Stockton’s kindness burned a sharp impression on her heart. But was he sincere?
She did not know what to believe. Not anymore.
Henry had never spoken to John Whitby before today, but rumors of the man’s brash nature and passionate disposition wagged on the tongue of nearly everyone in the industry, weavers and millers alike. Now that he had witnessed Whitby’s threatening tone for himself, a simmering anger burned within his belly. He did not take kindly to men who employed such tactics. Furthermore, Whitby’s presumed authority over Miss Dearborne—and the harsh manner in which he wielded it—unsettled him. She had not appeared afraid of him, but the spark in her hazel eyes and the flare of her nose communicated that she was well versed in the lectures.
When Henry had returned home from his ride, the Pennington women had departed, leaving behind the promise of another visit very soon. But to Henry’s pleasant surprise, another visitor had called: Vincent Warren.
Warren’s face had not changed—not much, anyway. He still boasted high cheekbones and narrow-set eyes, but now his straight black hair was cut short, and he’d resumed what was likely his natural weight.
It was amazing how different a man could appear with regular meals and without the constant threat of death at every turn. But even though he appeared healthier, a hollowness radiated from him. His face was paler. His eyes looked more like a man in the winter of life instead of one just beginning.
“Mary had been dead two months by the time I returned home,” Warren explained as he sat across from Henry in Grandfather’s study. “I had no idea.”
Henry listened as his old friend recounted the events of his return home. It was a difficult story to hear. Henry shook his head, unsure of how to respond. Death was a painful yet dismally expected outcome of war. Generally one would expect the person fighting to succumb to its bitter sting, not those at home. Yet the life of Warren’s young wife had been cut short by a sudden, vicious fever.
“It was humiliating to write the letter and ask for a position at your mill.” Warren leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and fixed his gaze on Henry. “I wrote a letter and destroyed it a dozen times.”
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