The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

  But what if he was as earnest as he seemed?

  It had been easier to lash out at him than to admit her feelings for him were intensifying. And whether they were feelings of infatuation or genuine affection did not seem to matter. The fact that he was her father’s enemy should be enough to keep her far from him, and yet that particular reason seemed to become less and less compelling.

  She groaned and tightened the covers about her. Part of her wished she could take back the words she’d hurled in his direction. The other part of her knew the words were just. Regardless, all of her heart was confused and weary. The concept of loyalty was becoming a messy blur.

  Kate eventually succumbed to a restless sleep and awoke several hours later. Upon rising, she moved to the window to assess the day. What she saw surprised her. Several men were gathered in the courtyard, their coats shiny and wet with rain. She frowned. What were they doing?

  She squinted to see their faces. She recognized John’s thick frame and Thomas’s distinctive pug nose, but many of them she did not know.

  She pushed herself away from the window and dressed quickly in a high-waisted gown of light-brown linen. She looped her hair in a low chignon, secured it with pins, and exited her chamber. Voices wafted from the floor below. Even though she could not make out the words, she recognized her father’s unmistakable brogue.

  Something was not right—Kate sensed it. Excitement hovered in the air, charging the cottage’s cool atmosphere.

  “You sure she’s here?”

  Kate stiffened at the unknown voice. They were talking about her.

  “Of course she’s here, but she’s abed and has been since we returned home,” Papa said. “Needn’t worry about her. She’ll not wake, not after a night like last night.”

  Kate held her breath, fearing she would not be able to hear them above her own exhale.

  “You know her reputation, Dearborne. That episode last night proved it.”

  She gripped her skirt tightly in her hand, sat on the step, and leaned against the wall.

  “What do you mean, her reputation?” Her father’s voice was gruff.

  “It pains me to tell you this, Silas, for I’ve nothing but respect for you. But the other members of the weavers’ society are questioning her loyalty.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Papa boomed. “My daughter is as loyal as I am, if not more.”

  “Is she?” A pregnant pause followed the question.

  Surely her father was not listening to this man.

  “You saw her,” continued the other voice. “Everyone saw her. She was speaking openly with Stockton. Dancing with the mill folk as she pleased. We all know where Charles’s loyalties ended up landing. Do you not think it possible that his sister followed in his footsteps? We are asking for discretion on this matter.”

  “Very well. I will make sure she stays inside until this passes. I will say nothing to her about our plans.”

  She frowned. What plans did they mean? She strained to hear the muted words.

  “It’s for the best. In a mission like this, if we are to be successful, complete secrecy is vital. This may be the only opportunity we’ll have to take Stockton by surprise. Then, with any luck, he’ll know that the weavers are not to be ignored.”

  She was hearing their words, but she had a hard time believing them. Tensions had been high. Anger had reached a boiling point. Were they really planning to attack the mill?

  Could her own father stoop to such a cowardly level? To burn it down, as they said? To destroy the machines?

  Panic raced through her. All this time she had been defending her father. To her brother. To the Stocktons. To herself.

  Kate leaned forward as the voices continued.

  “The Wester men will be joining us after midnight tomorrow at the crossroad south of the village square. There will be two score of them. The men from Bremton and Beltshire will be there too.” The man’s voice broke with excited laughter. “Mark my words, Stockton will have no choice but to heed our demands after this.”

  “Are you sure we can count on them?” Papa asked. “Those boys from Beltshire are a shady, brawlin’ lot. Always have been. I’ve never trusted’ em.”

  “They take the accusations against Wilkes personally. Claim he’d nothing to do with old man Stockton’s death, and they are going to fight to prove it.”

  “Good. And what of the magistrates?”

  “Bah. They won’t expect a thing this close to the festival. Therein lies the brilliance of our plan. They are sleeping off their drunken stupor, and I know for a fact that the soldiers in the area have been sent to Leeds to manage the crowds there. The timing is perfect.”

  Her ears throbbed. Without the magistrates and soldiers, Stockton Mill would be like a sitting duck, waiting for the hunter’s shot.

  She sat back. Charles would be at the mill, his cottage just a few steps away from the main gates.

  Could her father really participate in an act of violence that could potentially harm his own son? Did they not see by damaging the mill, they would do the exact thing they were fighting against? No mill would mean fewer jobs. Even more of Amberdale’s villagers without work. In a time like this, they needed to promote as many jobs as possible, not add to the numbers of the unemployed.

  The men stopped talking and began to stir, and Kate lifted her skirts and crept back up the stairs. Still not entirely sure she believed what she had just heard, she returned to her chamber.

  A war raged within her. The way she saw it, she had but two choices. She could confront her father, but she doubted he would listen. She could warn her brother, but by doing so she would expose her father.

  Could this have been how Charles felt in the days leading up to his decision to leave Papa’s business? This horrific severing of ties and tearing of loyalties? This hurried need to decide whom you would betray and whom you would defend?

  She didn’t want to betray her father, but she didn’t want to see her brother or Mr. Stockton attacked. Perhaps she was the one being disloyal. Yet she could not live with herself if she did nothing.

  CHAPTER 30

  Henry winced as he gripped the newel post and pivoted from the stair’s landing to the next flight of stairs.

  He had not realized exactly how hard he’d been hit in the ribs until today. Every muscle around the injury protested his movements. But did he not deserve his current discomfort? He could have—and probably should have—refused to react when John Whitby’s fist pounded against his jaw.

  He hated to admit it, but satisfaction had been sweet with his retaliation in the form of a swift punch to Whitby’s belly. Despite the discomfort, he adjusted the tea tray on his hip and stepped up the next flight. He traversed the hall and paused outside of Mollie’s chamber before rapping his bruised knuckles against the door.

  “Come in.”

  He pushed the door open. Mollie was abed, tucked in a cocoon of white linens with pillows propped around her at every angle. She was clothed in her nightdress, and a heavy black shawl hung askew over her shoulders. Her dark hair was gathered in a single plait flipped in front of her shoulder, and the gentle gray light highlighted the shadows beneath her eyes and emphasized the pallor of her cheeks.

  Her red-rimmed eyes widened only slightly at his arrival. “You’ve returned! What on earth took you so long? You must tell me everything about the festival.”

  “I will, but first you must drink this. I encountered Mrs. Figgs on my way up here, and she said to make sure you drink your fill.” Henry rested the tray on a small table near the bed and poured his sister a cup of steaming tea from the pot. He extended it toward her. “Here.”

  Mollie scrunched her face and lifted her hand. “I don’t want it.”

  He lowered the cup. “She also tells me you’ve not been eating. How do you expect to have strength for the coming days if you don’t eat?”

  She shrugged and then looked toward the window, as if searching for faraway thoughts.

 
The sadness on her face tore at him. He hated to see her in such a state. He wanted to say something to ease her discomfort. He cleared his throat. “If you tell me what is bothering you, perhaps I can help.”

  She fussed with the coverlet over her legs. Her small voice was barely audible. “Nothing can be said or done to help the situation I am in.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

  He put the cup of tea on the table before he drew a chair up to the bed. He didn’t know what to say or do. But at least he could be present.

  She swiped her tearstained cheek with the back of her hand. “I fear I have ruined not only my life but the life of my baby.”

  “Soon this particular state will be just a distant memory.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You’ll have your babe in your arms and all will be well. I promise.”

  “How can you promise? It’s too late. Can’t you see? All because of one foolish decision.”

  He clutched the small white hand on top of the coverlet. “Everyone makes mistakes in their life. It is how you respond to them and learn from them that matters.”

  “And you think me a liar and a fool,” she blurted out.

  It would not do to upset her further, yet he could not pretend to feel something he did not. “I don’t think you a fool, but I don’t understand the reason behind the lie you’ve told. The longer you live in it, the tighter the grip this mistake will have on you. It will be a constant reminder.”

  “I know, I know. But too much has been said. I’ve lied to too many people. Mrs. Figgs. The Penningtons. Miss Dearborne. Even the vicar and his wife. It’ll be like unraveling a tangle. I fear it will not be easily undone.”

  Henry nodded and looked at his hands. “No, it won’t be easy. But you’ll not be free until you cease the lie. Then the forgiveness can begin.”

  She huffed a sarcastic laugh. “They’ll never forgive me.”

  “I wasn’t referring to them forgiving you. I was referring to you forgiving yourself.”

  They locked gazes for several moments. Fresh tears gathered.

  He wanted to erase the pain and humiliation she suffered, but could that ever really happen without truth’s full disclosure? “I’ve asked you this before. And I’m not asking to embarrass you, but perhaps if you told me more about what happened, you might feel better.”

  He thought she was going to refuse, to shut him down as she had other times this topic had come up. But instead her chin trembled.

  “While I was living with Aunt, I met a man, a soldier. He was a relative of one of Aunt’s friends. We became quite close, and after a while, he declared his love for me. He spoke of a future so lovely, I should have known it couldn’t be true. He spoke of how we would be married, and when he was done being a soldier, we would move to the country where he would run his family’s shop. I believed him, Henry. Like a fool, I believed every word he said. Until one day I realized I was with child. I—I was so frightened. I could tell no one for the shame of it. Now everyone knows.”

  He forced his brotherly defenses down. “Did you speak with him about it?”

  “I did. He grew angry. Said he did not believe me and that he wasn’t responsible. I knew he was, but he was indignant. And then he disappeared.”

  “Have you tried to find him?”

  “To what end? He became cruel. He’ll never own up to his actions, but I will live with the consequence of mine until the day I die. And my child will suffer for it too. I had to lie—I had to! Do you not see it?” Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding.

  He sighed and scratched his head. “Part of me wants to hunt this man down and make him pay. But the more practical side of me knows that will do no good. In the end, you need to find the strength to deal with this. It is in you, Mollie.”

  “But I am all alone! Who will love me now? I shall die just as I am—alone and relying on the charity of others.”

  “You aren’t alone. You are still the same person, and you are still worthy of love and affection. But I fear you’ll not be willing to accept it until you can forgive yourself. And you’ll never be able to truly forgive yourself if you cannot be honest about what happened. You don’t want your baby growing up believing a lie.”

  She sniffed again.

  “Just promise me you will consider what I’ve said.”

  At this she nodded and sighed. “I suppose you think me dreadful.”

  “I think you are my sister, and I love you.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Kate could wait no longer. Tonight was the night Stockton Mill would be attacked. Something had to be done.

  She dressed quickly, skipped the morning meal, and tended her sheep before making her way to the dye house to set the crimson wool. She kept her eyes low, but never had she seen so many men in the courtyard. Their eyes were fixed on her. They said nothing, yet their questions hung thick in the air, like an ominous rain cloud threatening to spill forth.

  She’d been branded the enemy.

  Perhaps she was. Even John would not make eye contact with her.

  She went about her duties as normal, but by late morning her head throbbed with such distraction that her hands began to tremble.

  How she wished she could have heard the news and let it pass from memory as quickly as a mundane bit of gossip. But the information was lodged in her mind. In her heart. From the window she spotted her father heading away from the loom house. She ran to the door and flung it open. “Papa, will you come here, please?”

  Annoyance shadowed his face, but he stopped, looked toward the cottage, and then headed in her direction.

  She ushered him into the steaming room and closed the door behind him. They’d not exchanged a word since the Winter’s End Festival, which shouted louder than any whisper could. Silence was, and always had been, his heaviest weapon.

  Once the door was closed, she wiped her hands on a cloth and pushed her hair from her face with her forearm. “We must talk.”

  “About what?” he barked. “Make it quick, there’s much to do.”

  She did not have his attention, she knew, so she blurted out the words. “I heard you talking about the plan to attack the mill.”

  Father jerked his head up, but the intensity of his eyes belied his words. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  She skirted around the dyeing bin and deposited the cloth on a table. She drew near enough that he could not look away. “Yes, you do, Papa. I heard that you are going to be meeting the men from Wester and Bremton and Beltshire.”

  “Are you eavesdropping on me now, Katie? Is it not enough that you made a spectacle of yourself with Mr. Stockton, pining over him like a little puppy, and now you have to meddle in weavers’ affairs?”

  “But, Papa, I’m a weaver just like you, and—”

  “You’re not a weaver. You’re a woman. And you will remember your place.”

  He moved to step past her, but she sidestepped and blocked his path. “Fine, you’re right. I’m not a weaver like you. I’ll always be a woman, and I’ll never be able to take Charles’s place in your mind. But attacking a mill is not the answer.”

  “You’ve done enough. You’ve no right to speak to the current affairs. You and you alone are responsible for why the weavers are questioning my loyalty. My loyalty! I lack a great deal of positive characteristics, but at least I’m loyal. A trait that did not pass to my children, I see.”

  She winced at his words, but she could not back down now. “Don’t you see that I worry for your safety? For Charles’s safety? Nothing good can come of this.”

  “Safety is nothing. Pride and loyalty are what matter. And if you are loyal, you will claim your rightful place and take your path.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “And what place is that? In the cottage, sewing and knitting?”

  “Don’t be cheeky. It’s in marriage, girl. Marriage to John. How can you be so blind that you don’t see what is right before you? You must secure your future. I know he has broached the topic and you
denied him. Foolish girl! Do you not see the harm you are doing?”

  “But my loyalty is to you, not John.”

  “I trust John. He is a good man. He shares our vision.”

  “He shares your vision.”

  “I’ve had enough.” Her father’s face shook. “You’ve pushed me to a limit that can’t be ignored. You will reconsider a union with John. You will cease communication with Charles once and for all. You’ll do both of these things immediately, or you’re no longer a daughter of mine.”

  With this he pushed past her and jerked the dye house door behind him, shaking the glass in the panes and the walls of her own breaking heart.

  At the door’s slam, tears flowed unchecked, then dissolved into sobs. She sank onto the chair next to the hearth. The heat suffocated her, adding physical discomfort to the turmoil churning within. She cried tears that had built up for so long—tears of sorrow over her papa and brother.

  Tears of frustration over her feelings for Mr. Stockton.

  Tears of fear for the future.

  She sniffed and wiped her nose on a cloth. How easy it would be to just give in and comply with her father’s demands. She should be a dutiful daughter. If only she would do his bidding—stay quiet, keep to the house, and marry John—her life would be so much easier. Why could she not cease striving? Why could she not be content, like other ladies, to live a life that was dictated to her by those in charge of her?

  As much as she tried to convince herself that was the path she should follow, her stomach clenched in fretful disagreement. She had to believe she was here for more than that—that God had given her a heart and soul, and she needn’t just blindly accept what she was told to do.

  Forcing her thoughts aside, she finished her dyeing, cleaned her work area, and prepared to leave.

  As she shrugged the apron from her shoulders, the door flung open. John hurried in and closed the door.

  She frowned. She had avoided him since before the Winter’s End Festival, and she’d hoped it would stay that way. But instead of looking cross, as he had so often of late, his eyes were bright.