The Weaver's Daughter

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by Sarah E. Ladd


  “Heard what?”

  “Father was shot.”

  “I know.” Charles’s face darkened. “How is he faring?”

  Shock robbed her of speech. She’d assumed Charles must not have known, or he wouldn’t be so calm and collected.

  When she did not respond, he blurted bluntly, “It was a leg wound, wasn’t it?”

  Kate nodded, barely noticing that Mr. Stockton had slipped from the room, no doubt to give them privacy.

  Still shaken by the news, Kate waited until the door latched to continue. “But why would Hen—I mean, Mr. Stockton shoot Papa?”

  Charles sighed. “He had to.”

  “What do you mean, he had to?”

  Charles sat down in one of the chairs by the desk and cast a glance into the fire. “Because Father was going to shoot Belsey. Mr. Stockton prevented our father from becoming a murderer.”

  Kate sobered. She had not considered that.

  “And there’s more,” Charles added. “Stockton could have turned Father over to the soldiers after he wounded him, but he didn’t. Machine breaking and the attempt to do so are punishable by death. Hanging. Stockton saved Father on two counts.”

  Kate swallowed and looked to the toes of her muddy boots.

  “Don’t judge Stockton so harshly. He’s not the enemy here.”

  Yes, she knew all too well who the enemy was.

  And the fact broke her heart.

  Charles folded his arms across his chest. “But I must say that I am surprised. Why are you here, exactly?”

  With a hesitant sigh she dropped down to the chair next to him. “Papa said I am no longer welcome at Meadowvale.”

  “He did what?” Charles’s face reddened, displaying the first sign of anger Kate had seen since her arrival. He rested his elbows on his knees, fixing an intent gaze on her. “Unbelievable. It is one thing to disown a son, but a daughter?”

  “He found out somehow that I was the one to warn you.”

  Charles shook his head. “If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times, you will always have a home with me.” In a sudden burst of energy, he stood and reached into his pocket. He extended a key toward her and dropped it into her outstretched hand. “Go back to the cottage and get some rest. I’ve no idea how long I will be here, but after a good rest we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  As her brother retreated to the countinghouse’s back room, Kate tucked the key in her pocket, looped her hood over her head, and stepped back into the daylight. She’d obey her brother, and no doubt, her body did cry for sleep, but she feared no rest would come to her this day.

  CHAPTER 37

  Henry had not slept in more than two days, but somehow energy coursed through him. The battle had been a long one. Some of his men had been injured, and one of the weavers had been killed. But through all of the drama and tension, a glimmer of light shone through.

  He should be optimistic. Mollie had safely delivered her baby. The damage to the mill was extensive but reparable. The machines, which had no doubt been the target, were untouched.

  But the dark cloud hanging over his head was his recent interaction with Miss Dearborne.

  He wanted so much to please her. To impress her. He wanted to see her smile, and he wanted to know that he was the reason for her smile. But time and time again, he’d failed. How he’d wanted to defend himself when she asked him about her father’s shooting. But how could he look her in the eye and tell her that her father could have been a murderer? Or worse yet, boast about setting the man free?

  No, some things shouldn’t be said.

  Perhaps everything was as it should be with Miss Dearborne. Perhaps she had been wise to refuse him that night at the festival. Some boundaries weren’t meant to be crossed, and this might be one of them.

  Henry continued his walk from the countinghouse to the north end of the mill’s main building. He glanced at three weavers lined up against the wall. With the help of the magistrate and the soldiers, the law would be on his side. If these men would divulge who orchestrated the attack, they could bring the man or men to justice, and by doing so, they might be one step closer to discovering the identity of the man who killed his grandfather.

  The prisoners’ injuries were not life threatening. Two had been shot, and one had broken his leg after falling from his horse. The men had each received medical attention, and now the magistrate was preparing to take them to the village lock, pending Henry’s orders.

  “It is up to you, Stockton.” Tierner scowled at the three men. “I’ve no patience for cowards like this. Do you want to press charges? If you let ’em go now, you’ll never see them again. If you want justice, you’d best get it now. Judge will be ’round in a few weeks.”

  The men looked dejected and scared, their faces smeared with dirt, soot, and mud. The black handkerchiefs that had been tied about their faces now hung around their necks. They were a pitiful lot, but he didn’t recognize any of them. They were not Dearborne’s men, he was certain. Nor did he think they were from Bremton. They were out for trouble, men who wanted to blame anyone—anything—for their dire circumstances and not take ownership for the situations in which they found themselves.

  He’d heard the story of how these unemployed men would get scooped into the plans of the weavers’ societies at large. These were not the men he was fighting against. Not really. He was fighting against a much larger organization. Someone had to orchestrate this attack. Someone had to unify the weavers across the towns.

  Henry stepped forward. “The three of you could feasibly be charged with vandalism, attempted murder, and a host of other charges.”

  The men exchanged uncomfortable glances but remained silent.

  Henry paced in front of them. “I know the weavers have a code, and they will not turn on one another or reveal another’s wrongdoings, but I have a code too. I’ll not pretend that I sympathize with you. I’d like nothing more than to see you punished for the crime you have committed against me, against my family, but I’m willing to come to an agreement with you.”

  He flashed his gaze toward Belsey. “You provide the magistrate with the men leading the society, and once they have been apprehended, you’ll be given your freedom. Until such a time as that, you’ll remain incarcerated.”

  He blinked away the smoke stinging his eyes and stared at the men. “If you don’t provide the names, you will be charged, and with the shift of tides in cases such as these, I’d not want to be on the wrong side of the law.”

  Grateful to be home—not to mention alive—Henry climbed the staircase to his sister’s chamber. Eagerness to meet his newest family member infused his tired steps with energy. After dealing with hatred and destruction, he could hardly wait to meet him.

  He rapped his knuckles against the open door and ducked his head inside. Rare, fleeting sunlight flooded the tidy space with a cheery glow and fell upon Mollie as she sat in her bed. In her arms, a dark-haired baby with rosy cheeks slumbered.

  His raw emotions would get the better of him, he feared. His chest swelled with affection for this brand-new being, and his eyes stung with an unfamiliar burn. The babe may not be his son, but he was still his flesh and blood, and his birth marked the dawn of a new Stockton generation.

  Was this not what his grandfather had desired?

  A smile lit Mollie’s face, and her dark hair streamed over her shoulders. She motioned for him to draw near. “Come see!”

  He went to her side, his eyes not leaving the angelic face.

  “I’m so glad you’re here at last.” Mollie beamed. “Henry, I’d like for you to meet your nephew, Henry James Stockton.”

  Henry jerked his head up at the name. His name. A much-needed smile cracked his face.

  “Do you want to hold him?” Mollie adjusted her position and started to extend the bundle.

  “Oh, no. He’s sleeping and I’m filthy.” He pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down. The thought of his dirty hands and clothes next to s
omeone so precious and clean seemed an absurdity. Instead, he angled himself so he could watch the child. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m much better than I was. I’m almost glad I didn’t know how dreadful it would be—I would’ve been even more frightened than I was.” The slumbering babe wiggled as his mother laughed. “Thank goodness Kate was here with me. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”

  “Kate?” He repeated her name. He didn’t want her to pass from the conversation. Not yet.

  “Yes. Miss Dearborne. She didn’t leave my side. Not once. The midwife was as sour as could be. I’m so glad Kate was here. I would have been so frightened otherwise.”

  Every time Miss Dearborne crossed his mind, guilt descended. He tensed. Would he always feel responsible for the situation the lady was in?

  Mollie’s face grew somber as she looked down at little Henry. Her words grew soft and her eyes narrowed, almost as if she were about to divulge a great secret. “I told her about my husband or, rather, my lack thereof.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, I confessed everything. It is amazing what one will say while in childbirth.”

  Henry didn’t know much about childbirth, but he did know how cleansing the truth could be. “And what was her reaction?”

  Mollie tilted her head to the side, her gaze fixed on the tiny cherub. “She was gracious, especially considering the fact that I’d deceived her for all these weeks.”

  He leaned back in the chair. “How do you feel now that the truth is out?”

  With the softest touch she smoothed the baby’s hair. “All right, I suppose.”

  “And Mrs. Figgs? Does she know yet?”

  “Yes. I told her. You know how she is—she became all growly and gruff, but what’s done is done. She said that lamenting the fact won’t change the matter, and she could understand my actions. I’ll need to have a conversation with the vicar’s wife and the Penningtons, but hopefully once that is settled, all of this business can be put behind us.”

  Henry stiffened at the reference to the Penningtons. The relationship had been tense for some time, and now, after Pennington’s rude treatment of Miss Dearborne just a couple of days ago in his countinghouse, the relationship was dissolving. Henry doubted there was any way to save it, even if out of respect for his grandfather.

  She lifted her gaze. “Mrs. Figgs told me there was trouble at the mill.”

  Henry crossed one leg over the other, attempting to appear calm for his sister’s benefit. There was no need to worry her, not with what she had endured. “Everything is under control. Nothing to fret over.”

  But Mollie refused to let the matter go. “She said the weavers attacked and there was a great deal of damage.”

  He smiled. “Nothing that cannot be fixed.”

  “Is that how you hurt your hand?”

  Henry glanced down to the bandage on his hand, flexed his fingers, and nodded.

  “Miss Dearborne was by earlier today and told me all about how her father asked her to leave his house and how she was staying with her brother. Isn’t that terrible? I can hardly believe a man would treat his own child so coldly.”

  Henry frowned and stilled his hand.

  He hadn’t heard those details of the story.

  Dearborne had traveled to London to see about a few replacement parts shortly after the conversation in the countinghouse. He’d seen Miss Dearborne around the courtyard from time to time, but he never would have guessed she was staying at his cottage.

  “You didn’t know?” Mollie raised an eyebrow as if reading his thoughts. “I must say, I’m surprised. You seem to be very familiar with the Dearbornes.”

  “How would I know something like that?”

  A knowing smirk tilted her lips. “Come now, Henry. I’m not a fool. I may get quite a few things in life wrong, but I know love when I see it. The two of you are the most stubborn two people I know.”

  “Bah. Love.”

  She adjusted the child in her arms. “Just now, when I mentioned her name, you got all flustered and strange. And yesterday, when I mentioned your name to her, her face flushed such a becoming shade of pink. It’s just a shame that the two of you are so pigheaded you refuse to see what is right in front of you.”

  He could only stare.

  “I know you think me a fool, Henry, but I had that feeling once, that feeling that would make me blush the moment his name was mentioned. It turned out that I had fallen for a man of poor character, but that is not the same for the two of you. She is smart and kind. You could do worse, big brother.”

  He waved his hand as if to shoo away his discomfort with the topic. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “I am not, and don’t look so annoyed at my recommendation. I have taken my fair share of advice from you over the past few months, and it’s only fair that you take time to consider what I’ve said.”

  “Very well, if it will make you happy, I’ll consider it.” He turned his attention back to the sleeping baby. He was swaddled in a blanket of yellow wool, but his tiny hand had poked out and now rested against the side of his pink face.

  As the child’s small chest rose and fell with each breath, he began to understand, for the first time, what his grandfather had meant about legacy. Henry would show his namesake the ways of the mill, as his grandfather had shown him, and hopefully teach him the lessons he had to learn along the way. The child was perfection—the ideal image of purity and innocence. Each finger so tiny and precious. He was something good born out of something perceived as disgraceful. Henry hoped he would have children of his own one day, and his incentive to continue to fight and grow burned even brighter.

  CHAPTER 38

  Tierner rushed into the countinghouse and slammed the door.

  Henry lifted his head from his letter at the sound.

  The magistrate’s caped coat was shiny with rain, and his round face was ruddy with cold. His face beamed bright with triumph. His smile fell slightly as he pointed his thumb out to two workers in the small room. “What’s going on here?”

  “Repairing, and in most cases replacing, windows.” Henry stood from his desk as the two workers continued repairing the glazing bars in the countinghouse window. “I never stopped to consider how many there were in these buildings until they all needed to be repaired. Quite an unexpected expense.”

  “Well, I have news that might ease that pain, if only for a bit.” Using his hat, Tierner pointed toward the back room, forged inside, and motioned for Henry to follow. Once inside the private space, the hefty man removed his wet coat and moved next to the small fire. “They’ve agreed to it.”

  “The weavers?” Henry’s pulse thudded. Could it be they would share information so soon?

  “The very ones. Turns out a few days in jail was enough for them. It’s a bleak prospect, and even some of the toughest crumble when behind those iron bars. They’ve given us the names of the men who organized the attack from Leeds. Of course, men from Amberdale participated and will no doubt have to answer for their actions, but it is the men from Leeds who will face most of the charges. The weavers in Amberdale never would have been able to pull this off on their own, as tough and stern as they may be. Soldiers are on their way to Leeds to help the magistrates take them into custody as we speak.”

  Satisfaction spread fast and warm through Henry, but even as welcome as this news was, it was not really the one answer he was looking for. “Did you question them about my grandfather’s death?”

  Tierner nodded, but the smile that had lightened his expression faded. “Aye, I did. The men had no knowledge of who was responsible.”

  Henry widened his stance. “And you believe them?”

  “Aye.” Tierner met his gaze. “I do.”

  Disappointment quickly replaced the optimism that arrived with Tierner’s news. Yes, he wanted justice for what happened to his mill. But the mill could be replaced. His grandfather was flesh and blood, and meant more to him than any mill ever cou
ld.

  With a sniff, Henry reached for his coat on the nearby hook. “Not much more work will get done here today. I’m taking my meal at the inn tonight. Care to join me?”

  His request was not a social one. He wanted to find out more about the men who were being arrested. He had no interest in punishing the mass of men who attacked his mill. They were as sheep following their shepherd. More importantly, he was interested in finding out exactly what role Silas Dearborne played in the attack.

  Tierner patted his round belly as if he were full and then gave his head a sharp shake. “Well now. It’s never a good idea to turn down a meal. Sir, lead the way.”

  The inn was always busy this time of night. Many of his millworkers, especially the unmarried men and the families living in the millworkers’ cottages, took their meals here.

  Outside, darkness had fallen, and inside, warm light flickered from a dozen low-hanging lanterns strung from the rough wood beams that ran the length of the room. A large fire roared from the hearth, and chatter and laughter welcomed them. Henry should be able to relax in such a place, even for a bit, but tension pulled his shoulders back and screamed through his neck.

  No, this was not a place of rest.

  For Tierner had more information, and Henry needed to hear every bit.

  He leaned back long enough for the scrawny barmaid to place a bowl of lukewarm mutton stew and a mug of ale in front of each of them. When she’d retreated to the kitchen, Henry leaned with both elbows on the table. “Listen. I’m done waiting. My grandfather’s dead. My mill and home have been attacked. I’ll not stand by while another catastrophe occurs. I’ve a sister and a nephew under my care, and I’ll take no more chances.”

  Tierner forked a bit of mutton and tore off a piece of bread with his teeth before responding. “I understand your impatience. I do. But we’ve gotten a confession and names. Best to let it play out. Once the leaders start to crumble, the men following them will dissipate. If the weavers are behind your grandfather’s death, someone will know something. There are no secrets among the weavers.”

 

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