“Very, very large. But I am well, I suppose.”
Kate leaned back in her chair and waited for Mrs. Figgs to close the door before speaking. “Does the midwife think your time is near?”
Mollie shook her head. “One cannot tell these things, but I do think it will not be long.”
“You must be eager to meet the little one.” Kate warmed at the thought.
Mollie’s smile faded, and she tilted her head to the side. She nibbled her lower lip and frowned. “We’re friends, are we not?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Good. Then I can confide in you.” Mollie’s voice grew quiet. “If I am honest, I am frightened of what is to come.”
Sympathy tugged at Kate. She knew little about children and childbirth, but she had heard stories and knew of more than one woman who did not survive the experience. “Of course you are.”
“I’m not so much frightened for the birth, mind you—God will protect us through that—but I am frightened about what comes afterward. My baby will have no father. I have no husband. What will become of us?”
Kate reached out and clutched Mollie’s hand reassuringly. “Your brother will not let harm come to you. Surely you know that.”
“Yes, I know, but how long can I—we—rely on his kindness?”
A cloud seemed to cover the sun outside, for a shadow traversed the room. Could she not say the same thing? It seemed every woman she knew was dependent upon a man for her provisions. In that moment her underlying yearning for independence surfaced. Was this why she worked so hard in her own right? “That will all work itself out in due time.”
“I wish my mother were still here.” An apprehensive laugh whimpered from Mollie’s lips. “I suppose every daughter who has lost her mother says that during times like this.”
Kate searched her memory but could recall no details about Mollie’s mother. “I don’t remember her. When did she die?”
“It is no wonder you don’t remember her. I don’t think she ever set foot in Amberdale after she married my father. You see, Grandfather did not approve of her as a match for his son. When she died we were living in London. My father was teaching in a small university there.”
Kate was far from an expert on Stockton family history, but this sounded odd. “I thought your father worked with your grandfather at the mill.”
“He did when we were very young, but my mother refused to join him here. We—my mother, brother, and I—stayed in London while he worked here with Grandfather. I don’t have to tell you it takes a certain kind of man for this kind of work. Being separated from his family began to wear on my father, and it took a toll on his relationship with my grandfather. Anyway, he and my grandfather parted ways when he accepted the position at the university. Grandfather never forgave him. It was only after my parents died that my grandfather took an interest in us.”
It was difficult to imagine Henry Stockton as a child. She vaguely recalled Frederica pointing him out the evening she told her they could no longer be friends. Kate shook the memory away and returned her attention to Mollie. “I’m so very sorry. It’s hard to lose a parent.”
“But you’ve lost your mother too, have you not?”
“Yes, many years ago.” Kate swallowed. Would it never be easy to speak of her? “Scarlet fever claimed her. Life has never been the same.”
Genuine concern curved her friend’s eyebrows. “You poor dear. Oh, how the story makes my heart ache! I wonder if I will be a good mother to this child. I pray I will be. I’m all he or she has.”
“What of your husband’s family?” Kate adjusted her back against the sturdy wood chair. “Surely they would be eager to welcome the child.”
Mollie shook her head and looked to the window. “He had no family. None to speak of, anyway.”
“You will be a wonderful mother, I’ve no doubt. And you’ll not be alone. You have my friendship.”
A little laugh bubbled from Mollie. “I told my brother of your visits. He asked if your father was aware you were spending time here. He said that he and your father were not exactly on friendly terms.”
“That is a polite way to put it. But Father never asks where I go, so I feel no need to divulge the information.”
Mollie adjusted her coverlet. “Well, I’m grateful you see fit to visit me, vile though my family may be.”
Kate giggled at the exaggeration. It felt good to laugh at the serious aspects of life, especially when so little could be done about them. “I can’t believe our paths didn’t cross more when we were younger. We were neighbors! How did we never see one another?”
“I recall seeing you at church on occasion, but remember, I was away at school for many years, and for several years I lived with my aunt. I do believe that my grandfather loved me, but I just don’t think he knew what to do with a young lady about the house. He was much more comfortable with Henry than me.”
To this Kate could relate. Had not her own father poured his efforts into her brother? How odd that women from such different walks of life could have such similar stories.
Kate cleared her throat. “I find it odd that you have had no other visitors. What of Miss Pennington?”
“Mrs. and the eldest Miss Pennington have visited twice, but I do not have the same relationship with the Pennington family that my grandfather and brother enjoy. Since I was away at school much of my youth, we were never close. I think the only reason they visit now is because of Henry.”
Kate swallowed, pushing the rumors she had heard about a union between Frederica Pennington and Henry Stockton to the back of her mind, rebuking herself for caring about the topic in the first place. Her voice sounded small. “Why?”
If Mollie noticed any change in her demeanor, she did not let on. “Grandfather always desired for Henry to marry Miss Pennington, from the day we first moved to Amberdale from London, and I believe the Penningtons regard Henry as an advantageous match. Part of me believes that if he hadn’t gone to war, they would be married by now.”
A queer pang of jealousy stabbed Kate’s chest. She recalled how Mr. Stockton’s hand had held hers as he assisted her with Ivy and how her heart leapt at his nearness. Kate looked down at her fingers. “Why did they not marry?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I think the war had a great deal to do with it. Henry was always so eager to prove himself.”
“And he thought that becoming a soldier would satisfy that desire?”
“I don’t know.” Mollie shrugged and toyed with the fringe on the shawl resting about her shoulders. “I fully expected that he would return and marry immediately. I tried to ask him about it the other night, but he said he had too much work to do to think of such things. Sometimes I barely recognize him. In years past he would sit with me for hours and talk on any subject, serious or frivolous, it didn’t matter. Now he clutches every thought so close to his chest. He used to be an open book. Now it seems as if his time on the Peninsula robbed him of some piece of his soul.”
Kate could only imagine what tortures he endured. “Perhaps he has just matured with age.”
“No, it is something different.” Mollie leaned back against the pillows. “The other night I heard a shout in the black of night. It took me quite a while, but I managed to get up and walk down to his chamber. He was awake, pacing the space. I asked him what had happened, and he said he had a nightmare, nothing more. There was the strangest expression on his face, like a caged animal, trapped and afraid.”
Kate lowered her gaze. Her own father had fought in battles when he was a young man, and even now there were nights he would wake up shouting in his sleep. Her heart ached at the sights he must have seen and the things he must have done.
“But that is such a dreary topic.” Mollie sighed. “Mrs. Figgs told me the Winter’s End Festival will soon be here and that you are quite involved in the process.”
A nervous twinge tweaked Kate. With the tensions mounting, there had been talk of canceling the event in its enti
rety. But as of now, it would proceed as planned. “It is only a week away. Everything is in place.”
“I do wish I could attend. Perhaps next year. Henry is going. He has promised to share every detail with me.”
Kate ignored how excitement replaced trepidation at the realization that Henry Stockton would indeed be attending. “As will I.”
After Mollie and Kate passed a pleasant afternoon, Kate gathered her cloak and turned to her friend. “Do let me know if there is anything I can do for you or bring to you.”
“Just your company. Promise you will return soon.”
“You have my word.”
Bits of ice and sleet stung the exposed skin of his cheeks and jaw. Henry’s every muscle twitched, ready at high alert, poised to react in a split second. The horse beneath him thundered across the arctic moor, its hooves grasping the frozen grass and heather, propelling him farther. Faster.
He flicked a glance toward Charles Dearborne, who rode in a similar fashion, body hugging low on the horse, gaze fixed ahead.
The moon was white and full in the predawn hours, its light flashing on the icy terrain below. At the speed he was traveling, its glow reflected and glimmered like diamonds on the hoarfrost.
Just ahead of them, two wagons, each conveying a gig mill, jostled over the uneven gravel road. In the distance a handful of yellow lanterns swung, guiding the wagons toward the safety of the mill’s stone walls. He and Dearborne had lagged behind the caravan as they made the midnight journey from Leeds to Amberdale to watch for any attackers who might come from the rear. But none had come.
They’d done it. Everything had gone as planned—so far. Cautious satisfaction spread through his chest, broadening and deepening each breath. With a shout, he urged the horse beneath him to a quicker pace.
He’d not ridden like this since his time on the Peninsula, but instead of riding away from something, he was rushing toward something—toward the first taste of success since he’d arrived in Amberdale. Toward the fulfillment of the unspoken promise he had made to his grandfather and the people he employed. He licked his lips, blinked away bits of snow, and kicked his heels against the horse’s belly.
Ahead of him, one of the lanterns rose in the darkness and moved from the right to the left and then back again. The signal indicating that the mill was uncompromised—that the weavers were not waiting for them.
The caravan began to slow at the sign, first the wagons and then the riders flanking them. The closer they drew to Amberdale, silence was essential. Henry and Dearborne followed suit, drawing their horses to a trot.
A glance toward Dearborne confirmed that his counterpart was as breathless as he. Frosty plumes puffed with his every breath, and he leaned his arm across his legs as he rode, as if to give his body a rest.
Henry squinted to see in the shifting mist. His heart threatened to burst from the confines of his ribs. He felt alive, truly alive, for the first time since the early days of the war.
Even though a wide-brimmed hat shadowed Dearborne’s face, his white teeth flashed in a smile. “Congratulations, Mr. Stockton. Looks like we’ve done it.”
Henry nodded. “I’m not ready to celebrate quite yet.” Expected shadowed figures began to swarm the wagons as they crossed the bridge. Only a few hundred more yards.
Henry hurried ahead so he was even to the wagon as it traversed the mill gate. Familiar faces rushed forward—trusted millworkers—standing ready to usher the gig mills inside the safety of the mill’s sturdy brick walls.
His future transformed before his very eyes in this moment. Yes, everything was changing. And the change started this dawn.
CHAPTER 26
Butterflies danced within Kate, and she anxiously ran a hand down the front of her embroidered muslin gown and stroked the lustrous fabric. She whirled to see her reflection in the small looking glass hanging on Jane’s bedchamber wall. Candlelight shimmered against the silver threads embellishing the neckline, and she smoothed the ribbon along the gown’s empire waistline. An unguarded smile bubbled up before she could censure it.
The night of the Winter’s End Festival had arrived. After weeks of planning, after months of uncertainty. Her gown of pale yellow glittered in the light, and she pivoted to see how the bodice’s back gathered in a column of tiny fabric buttons before releasing in a flow of fabric reaching to the floor.
Jane, who was pulling a pair of gloves up to her elbows, stepped behind Kate. “I remember that gown.”
Kate did not look away from her reflection and brushed a piece of lint away from her sleeve. “Yes, it’s the same gown I wore last year, but it’s the best gown I own. Do you think anyone else will notice? I added some embroidery and made a few other adjustments.”
“I’m sure they won’t.” Jane dug in a small box atop her wardrobe chest, retrieved two earbobs, and secured them to her earlobes. “Can you believe it has already been a year since the last festival? My, time passes so quickly. I wonder where life will find us one year from this very night. Perhaps another Winter’s End Festival?”
Kate smiled at the thought, but it also made her stomach clench. Where would she be in a year? Would she still be at Meadowvale dyeing cloth? Would she be married? Instead of exciting her, thoughts of the future and what it might bring brought a sense of dread. She fought it and jutted her chin in the air, meeting her own gaze.
Her friend retrieved another trinket and approached her, extending the necklace. As if reading Kate’s mind, she muttered, “I hope I shall be married this time next year.”
Kate silently accepted the trinket and looked back to the mirror to fasten it about her neck.
Jane leaned in front of Kate to view her own reflection and continued. “It is a lovely thought, but I do think it is much more likely that you’ ll be married this time next year, not I.”
“Who would I marry?” Kate shot back, amused at the banter.
“John, of course.”
At the name and the matter-of-fact tone of her friend’s voice, Kate sobered. “Well, we needn’t speculate about any of that tonight. I only want to dance until we can dance no more. For one night we can put work and expectation behind us and enjoy being young.”
Conversation faded as Jane tended the wild mass of brown curls atop Kate’s head. As Jane wove a wide ribbon across her crown and braided it into the arrangement, Kate’s mind wove ideas of its own.
Henry Stockton.
She shouldn’t care for him. But she did.
Mollie mentioned that he had a new coat made for the event since none of his coats from before the war fit anymore. It was a trivial detail, but one that Kate clung to, as if she was apprised of some great secret about the man that no other person knew.
She gathered her reticule and a cloak of pale cream wool that had belonged to her mother. With its pink satin ribbons and silk hem, the cape was far too delicate for the everyday demands of Amberdale, but for one special evening she would don the billowy fabric. She thought her mother would want her to do so, and it made her feel as if her mother were with her.
Armed with the memory of her mother, the anticipation of perhaps encountering Mr. Stockton, and the promise of a night of revelry, she withdrew from the Abbott home and stepped into the night.
Bright light filtered from the inn’s windows facing the village street as Henry approached, the yellow glow spilling onto the melting snow outside. Boughs of evergreen and holly adorned the windows and doors. Already, lively notes of violins and flutes sang from within, and the chatter of excited voices floated on the strains.
His heart pulsed, and his shoulders relaxed. The sound recalled simpler, happier times—a time before he knew the horrors of war or the weight of responsibility.
Henry eyed the villagers making their way to the venue. Villagers from every walk of life—the foundling children from the poorhouse, the rustic farmers in their rough linen coats, the perfumed and powdered Bremton ladies—all were present. Hundreds had gathered, and since there was not enough
space in the inn to accommodate such a large crowd, the festivities had spread out to the town square.
Yes, nearly everyone in town was present.
And that meant she would be here.
He scanned the gathering crowd for the familiar crimson cloak she often wore, and he pressed his lips together in disappointment when he did not see her. Miss Dearborne had been on his mind far more than he cared to admit. She seemed to be more a part of the fabric of Amberdale than anyone else, and it captivated him.
Often she would visit her brother on the mill property, and he found himself scanning the courtyard in the midst of every day to catch a glimpse of her. He would see her at church, and even though they rarely spoke in public, she would smile and nod, and the simple acknowledgment would feed his lonely heart for days. He knew she was visiting Mollie regularly, and the thought of her in his home warmed him. But it was the chance meetings on the road that connected their homes—the sudden, unexpected moments when they were free to speak and laugh and interact without fear of condemnation—that sent his imagination soaring.
And she would be present tonight.
Dearborne and Warren both walked next to him in casual company, one on each side. Warren had been in the village a couple of weeks. He’d been working at Pennington Mill, but other than church, this was his first real introduction to the villagers of Amberdale—and the weavers. Henry was a bit nervous at the prospect. Even among the millers, the welcome Warren received had been a cold one. He was an outsider.
Dearborne was the first to speak since starting the short walk from the mill to the inn. His burly voice was barely audible above the merriment. “Well, Warren, what do you think of our village now?”
Warren laughed. “It is quite a bit larger than the village I am from.”
“Rest assured, there are normally not so many people in the square. This is Amberdale at her finest.” Dearborne swept out his arms in mock formality, like the carnival performers Henry recalled when he was a child. “People from every walk of life come out for the Winter’s End Festival. It’s been a tradition for as long as I can remember. Take a good look at it now. There’ll likely not be another gathering like this until next year.”
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