The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She could not look at their faces. Not her brother, not her father, not Mr. Stockton, and certainly not John Whitby.

  She did not have time to consider her next step, for her father grabbed her by her wrist, wrenching her from Mrs. Figgs’s grip. He dragged her through the dispersing crowd. Blood from his hand soaked her white glove.

  She cast a single glance backward, and Mr. Stockton caught her eye. He was leaning on a table, looking down at his arm. His black hair fell over his forehead, blood trickling from his brow.

  Gone was any hope of what he had spoken of earlier. He would never want to know her now. Never want to dance with her. Never want to make her better acquaintance.

  Their romance, or at least the one she secretly imagined, was over before it had begun.

  CHAPTER 28

  It did not matter that a solid hour had passed since the brawl. Kate’s chest still burned. Her head pounded. And her broken heart stuttered. Even as she walked alone behind the stable in the alley, cloak wrapped tightly about her shivering shoulders, her mind struggled to make sense of what she had witnessed.

  For the most part she was alone. A few stable boys tended carts and horses belonging to the guests inside, but no one noticed her, and more importantly, no one here had witnessed the scene between her father and Mr. Dearborne.

  At the conclusion of the vile argument, her father had marched her over to the corner and deposited her in a chair, like a child. She sniffed defiantly. She had refused to be ordered about and made to sit on a chair, and at the first possible moment, she escaped through the inn’s kitchen and out the gate.

  Resting along the inn’s back wall, she allowed the cool air to wash over her like a balm. With searing tears gathering in her eyes, she spied the festivities through the window.

  She could see Mr. Stockton’s back, and Miss Pennington was at his side. Looking up at him. Speaking earnestly. Holding his arm possessively.

  How Kate wished she could see his reaction, but all she could see was that he leaned closer to say something to her. Did he really want to better make her acquaintance, or had he been attempting to use her as a pawn?

  Kate drew a shuddering breath.

  She had done what she told herself not to do. Somehow, in the cracks of daily life, she had let the wall around her heart crumble. It had happened so gradually she hadn’t even noticed it, but now, as she stood watching Mr. Stockton in the presence of the charming Miss Pennington, the stinging in her chest threatened to expand to every inch of her being.

  Mr. Stockton was her family’s enemy. Entertaining the thought for even a moment that there was a possibility of something more was a misjudgment. After what had just happened, there would be no future between them.

  Jane burst from the door, her eyes wide, expression panicked. “Oh, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Her friend gasped for air between words. “What a turn of events that was! I don’t know how you can handle it.”

  Kate dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her knuckle and sniffed. It would not do to show anyone, even a friend as dear as Jane, how deeply she was affected by the exchange. “I should have known better from the beginning. I never should have spoken with him.”

  “Why were you speaking with him?” Jane drew to a stop next to Kate.

  “It was all quite innocent.” Kate shook her head. “I finished the dance with Charles, and then after he went to fetch a drink, Mr. Stockton approached me. He’s not like his grandfather, and I wish Papa would see it. Mr. Stockton seems intent upon mending some of the broken bridges.”

  Jane leaned against the stone wall next to Kate and folded her arms across her chest against the cold. She gave a little laugh, her attempt at lightheartedness falling flat. “You deduce this from one conversation at a festival?”

  Perhaps it would be good to get her friend’s perspective. She weighed each word, measuring exactly how much to reveal. “We’ve spoken before, on occasion.”

  Interest brightened Jane’s eyes. “On occasion? Oh, Kate, you must tell me all. How could you keep this from me?”

  Flashes of their interactions blinked before her, but she could not—would not—share everything. “All I will say is that he is not as Papa believes him to be.”

  Jane toyed with the sleeve of her gown. “And here I was, thinking it was John who had captured your heart.”

  “No one has captured my heart,” Kate shot back.

  “Sorry. My mistake, then. But you are having quite a reaction for someone claiming indifference.”

  Kate looked into the wind, allowing its cool steadiness to dissipate gathering moisture. “I am in a difficult situation, that’s all. I—” She stopped short as the door behind Jane creaked open.

  There stood Henry Stockton. Alone.

  Kate reached for Jane’s hand and gripped it in a plea for her friend not to leave.

  But Jane, as if sensing the tension between the two, stuttered, “C-Come and find me, Kate. I must go tend to the food. It seems we never have enough.”

  And just like that her friend was gone, leaving her alone with the very man who had been at the center of the evening’s humiliation.

  They stared at each for several moments. She did not want to be affected by his nearness, but the pale bruising beneath his eye ripped at her. Was she to blame for this? Was it her fault her father had approached him and mayhem ensued?

  A horse from the stable whinnied, and Kate jumped. Her raw nerves were not ready for this. Suddenly the cool air that had been so inviting was now prickly and painful.

  She wondered if he was going to speak, but then his words tumbled forth, low and raspy. “I am sorry you were put in that position. I hope you can forgive me for the part I played back there.”

  And that was it. He offered no attempt to deny what had happened. He only offered an apology with an expression so sincere it could not be untrue.

  It was easier to become angry with him than to try to sort out her feelings. “I don’t know what you think of me, Mr. Stockton. And truthfully, I don’t care. But if you think you can affect my father through me, you are sadly mistaken. Now, seeing as our interaction has caused quite enough frustration for one evening, I will thank you to go back inside.”

  Henry winced at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. She bore no bruise, but he surmised that her wounds from the brawl were the deepest of them all. He would not go back inside. Not until he made things right with Miss Dearborne.

  His actions, his words, had hurt her. Embarrassed her. He should have turned away and refused to engage with her father. Silas Dearborne had been intoxicated, angry, and looking for a fight. At the very least Henry should have insisted they take their conversation outside.

  But he had not.

  And Miss Dearborne was the casualty.

  He saw her emotions—her fear, her sadness, her confusion—balancing in her eyes. He was doing the very thing that had been a source of pain by insisting on speaking with her, but he could not help himself. She was as an injured bird, needing assistance. Needing his assistance.

  She sniffed.

  He retrieved his handkerchief and extended it to her.

  She eyed it but did not accept it.

  He returned it to his pocket.

  She tightened her arms across her chest and met his gaze boldly. “I fear that somewhere along the way I’ve given the impression that my interest in you and your family is from a place other than congeniality. And if that is the case, then it is my turn to beg for forgiveness.”

  Her words burned in his ears. He did not believe her. He did not want to believe her. He shifted and hesitated a few moments to bolster his courage. “Let me be blunt. I don’t care who your father is, nor do I care who your brother is. I’ve watched you, Miss Dearborne, in these months since my return, and you’ve captivated me. I find myself thinking of you, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. I’m mortified at tonight’s events, not for the inconvenience they’ve caused me, but for the pain they’ve caused you. I wasn’t ly
ing when I said that I want to better make your acquaintance. In fact, I hope I can impress upon you my sincere and growing affection for you.”

  He stepped closer. “I am asking a great deal of you. Perhaps I would be wiser to keep my thoughts to myself, but after witnessing what happened tonight, I cannot.”

  She said nothing, but her gaze did not waver. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  Emboldened and energized by the fact that she had not pulled away, he reached out his hand. It hovered near her skin for a few moments before he wiped the tear away from her velvety cheek with his bare thumb.

  “Have I hope, Kate, that you might return my regard?” Her Christian name escaped his lips. He could not take it back.

  Another tear escaped. Her chin trembled. She cast her gaze downward, her wet, black lashes fanning over her flushed cheeks.

  As if touching a priceless treasure, he tucked her billowy strands behind her ear. He stepped closer, mere inches from her. His thumb lingered on her cheek until she looked at him again.

  Amid all the uncertainty, all the sadness, all the fighting, his hope sharpened. What did it matter if he won or lost against the weavers? She may be the daughter of his enemy, but she seemed the only person to understand the struggle. They were alike, painfully so, both fighting for a future. And his future needed her in it.

  He lowered his hands to her upper arms, resting them there gently. He was no longer a miller; she was no longer a weaver. Providence had brought them to this moment—a moment that, if he did not act now, might never present itself again.

  So he followed the command of his heart. Wordlessly, pulse racing, he lowered his lips to hers, and the feathery touch infused him with glowing fire. She rested her hands against his chest, melted against him, and returned his kiss with increasing intensity. He lowered his arm and wrapped it around her waist, pulling her closer.

  Words were not needed. They were two people fighting the same battle on different sides of the war.

  But then something snapped. She stiffened beneath his touch and shoved against his chest, putting space between them. Even in the night’s shadows, he could see vibrant pink flush her cheeks, and the cold breeze whipped long strands of chestnut hair about her face. “This cannot happen.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  He stammered, surprised at her abrupt statement. “I—I—”

  “What did you hope to accomplish by doing that?” Her eyebrows drew together. “Are you mocking me?”

  He shook his head, confused at the sudden change. “I thought that—”

  “Are you making fun of me? I don’t know what you think I am—” She stopped talking and pinned her sharp gaze on him. “That was a mistake.”

  She started to push past him, but he caught the crook of her arm in his hand. “Wait, Kate, it’s not what—”

  Every muscle in her arm stiffened beneath his touch. “My name is Miss Dearborne.”

  “Kate,” he repeated, softer, hoping to calm her. “It wasn’t a mistake. I would never—”

  She jerked her arm away. “I will not be played for a fool. I saw you, just now, through the window, talking with Miss Pennington.”

  “Miss Pennington?” Frustration began to mount. “Kate, I—”

  “She is clearly your choice.”

  “She is a family friend. At one time, yes, things might have been different. But time and circumstances change everything.”

  Fresh moisture pooled in her topaz eyes. “Do you really think me so naive as to be swayed by a moonlit kiss and a fancy apology? Like I said, I’m not a fool, and I’ll not be used as a pawn in this war you are fighting with my father.”

  “My feelings for you have nothing to do with your father and everything to do with you.” His words rushed from his mouth, so desperate was he to make her see. He stepped forward. “Oh, Kate, there is something between us. You must feel it.”

  Her words slid through gritted teeth. “You know nothing of my feelings, my heart, or anything else to do with me.”

  “I know plenty. I know that when I kissed you just now, you returned my kiss, and I know that I will never again stand by while another man speaks to you as your father did.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You overstep your bounds.”

  “You deserve more than to be treated like that.”

  She stepped back, allowing the cold air to rush between them. “I don’t know what your intentions are in telling me this, Mr. Stockton, but I assure you, I am not one of those silly girls whose fancies can be turned by affectionate words.”

  “But I—”

  She straightened, as if finding a fresh source of determination from somewhere deep within. “And now, allow me to make my intentions clear. I love my father. Regardless of his actions, I will be loyal to him.”

  Henry stepped back. He was treading on dangerous ground. Loyalty was an admirable trait—a trait she possessed in abundance. The realization that she was not going to change her mind slowly blotted out his earlier optimism.

  His expression began to sour. “Forgive me, Miss Dearborne. It appears I have misinterpreted the situation entirely.”

  Her jaw twitched as she stared at him, but anger no longer fueled the sharpness of her tongue. For tears gathered in her eyes once again.

  He did not want to leave her alone in the alley, even after what she had said, but how could he stay after she bid him go so bluntly? Feeling strangely numb, he stepped back and bowed. “I bid you good night, Miss Dearborne.”

  He withdrew back into the inn, where festivity and merriment surrounded him. But his countenance was far from merry.

  Frederica Pennington straightened her shoulders, her gaze blazing a trail as Henry entered through the back kitchen entrance, stomped through the dancers whirling the Scotch reel, and stormed through the main entrance out into the night.

  What on earth was he up to?

  She told herself that normally she would not care, but she had spied him, immediately after the dance they had shared, speaking with Miss Katherine Dearborne. Again.

  His head had been inclined toward her, as if they were lovers engaged in intimate conversation.

  The memory of it sent a bolt of anger through her. He shouldn’t be talking with her like that. Not a weaver. It was not decent.

  Head throbbing with questions, she barely noticed when a milk-faced young man appeared at her elbow, a glass of punch in his bony hands. “What do you want, Mr. Bryant?”

  “Here is your punch, as you requested.” His words were bright and hopeful.

  Exasperation pulsed through her with each heartbeat as the back of Henry’s tailcoat disappeared through the crowd. Horrid man. How would he ever have the opportunity to propose if he kept disappearing like he did?

  The evening was growing tiresome, and Henry was probably embarrassed from the ridiculous fight that had happened. But to ignore her? Bother. If she didn’t need to marry him so badly, she would write him off once and for all.

  “Oh, Mr. Bryant.” She huffed just loud enough to be heard over the crowd’s incessant chatter, waving her fan furiously in front of her face. “I’m in no humor for punch. Please leave me be, will you?”

  “But the dance is about to start, and you said you’d dance the next reel with me.”

  Drat. She had promised that she would dance with the man, but that had only been because Henry was present, and what better way to spark jealousy in a man’s heart than to be happy in the presence of another? But now she did not need him. “La, I fear a headache is afoot. You will forgive me, won’t you? I’ll not dance another step tonight.”

  The man’s nostrils flared.

  She didn’t care.

  He sulked away, like a child pouting over a withheld toy, but as he melted into the crowd, suddenly she wished she had not been so quick to dismiss him, for coming her way was the portly Mr. Reginald Simmons.

  She looked to her right, then to her left, curls bouncing as she did so. It was at times like this she wished she had a fe
male friend who could rescue her, for she was certain not a single person in her family would do her the favor—not when a marriage to the oaf would bring financial security not only to her but to each of her sisters as well.

  Frederica shrank against the wall, hoping to blend in, but it was useless. Who could ignore the dazzling emerald of her gown or the elegance of her hair? No, this was her lot. She straightened her shoulders as he approached, bracing herself for the deluge of flirting and flattery that was soon to come her way. But even as she bolstered herself, sadness cloaked her.

  In her fantasy world someone handsome, strong, and wealthy, just like Henry, would sweep her away, but she almost choked on the sad reality that all the beauty in the world could not protect her now. Nobody could protect her now.

  CHAPTER 29

  The morning following the Winter’s End Festival dawned gray and dismal, which suited Kate’s mood perfectly. Her head throbbed and her heart ached—at least the pounding rain and sleet blocked out the angry crying of her own heart.

  Clad in her flannel nightdress and wool wrapper, Kate sat atop the chest and looked out at the chilly drops pelting the brown earth below. By the time she had finally returned to Meadowvale after the festival, dawn was beginning to creep over the distant moors. Her body cried out for sleep, but how could she rest after all that had happened? Over and over she thought of the events of the previous night. The fight. The conversation. The kiss.

  Oh, the kiss.

  She’d never been kissed before. Even now she could still feel the warmth of Mr. Stockton’s—Henry’s—lips on hers, the warmth of his arms about her. Now that she had experienced it, her heart cried for more. But it was not to be. Especially now.

  With a sigh she moved from the window and dropped to the bed and shut her eyes, as if by doing so she could hide herself from the world.

  What had she done?

  Never before had anyone spoken such tender words to her. And what had she done in response? She accused him of mocking her. Of using her as a means to an end. Even now she did not understand her behavior. His affectionate words had frightened her.