Henry pressed his lips to a fine line and smoothed his neckcloth to dispel the energy gathering in his limbs. “It’s too late for that. Surely there is something we’re missing. Some clue. Some bit of information that will lead us down the right path.”
“The authorities in Leeds are involved now. They have many more resources. Now that they’re on the case, we should see faster movement.”
“But the murder is so far in the past.” Henry pushed his pewter mug away. Like a dog with a bone, he refused to let the matter drop. “The pistol—the one found beside Grandfather. What of it? Did you find out anything about the gunsmith?”
“The gunsmith’s a man out of Liverpool.” Tierner swiped his heavy wool sleeve over his mouth before taking a noisy swig of ale. “Says he remembered the weapon and made it specifically to order, but the pistol was retrieved by a messenger, not the buyer.”
Henry searched his memory. Liverpool. Pennington had mentioned a trip to Liverpool, but that was nothing unusual, seeing that many shipments of wool came in and out of the docks there.
“It just doesn’t make sense. Whoever did it was not after money; otherwise it would have been taken.”
By the time Henry had finished his musing, Tierner was almost done with his meal. Henry was about to take his first bite when he noticed the Dearbornes, Charles and Kate, at a table on the other side of the room.
He took a swig of ale and studied her from the corner of his eye. Mollie’s news that she was now living with her brother seemed to be true. He had never seen her taking a meal here before, but Charles did often. Part of her hair was loosely pinned atop her head, and long, wavy brown locks fell over her shoulders. A loosely woven shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders, and her crimson cloak puddled at her side. A gown of blue muslin hugged her curved figure, a gown, he noted, he’d never seen before. An easy smile graced her lips, and her head tilted to the side in relaxed amusement. At one point she threw her head back in laughter at something her brother said.
The sight tweaked a smile from Henry. The last several weeks had been hard on her. She deserved a few hours of carefree gaiety, even if in a tavern. His optimism was short-lived, however, as two millworkers stopped by the Dearborne table. They immediately focused their attention on Kate, nearly ignoring Charles completely.
Jealousy tightened within him, and he took another drink, his gaze never leaving the lady.
“What’s captured your attention, man?”
Henry jerked back to Tierner. He wanted to slap the knowing grin from the old man’s face.
Tierner leaned with his elbow on the table. A chuckle rumbled through him as he nodded toward Miss Dearborne. “Ah, to be young again.”
Henry did not wince. He didn’t even look back over his shoulder. But he’d be a fool to think that male millworkers would not take notice of their beautiful newcomer, especially now that she had parted ways with the weavers. Even his ears burned with the frustration of it. Charles was suddenly the most popular man on the property, for he was guardian to the most charming girl in the village.
Henry forked a bite, gulped down a swig, and rose. He dropped a few coins on the table, grabbed his coat, and punched his arms through the sleeves.
Tierner’s laughter rumbled loud and true. “If you’re going to act, now’s the time. She’ll not stay single long. The pretty ones never do.”
CHAPTER 39
The countinghouse was quiet. The glaziers were finally gone for the night. The men chopping the felled oak had stilled. Henry sat at his desk, stared into the leaping flames, and contemplated recent events.
He’d fix what had been broken.
He’d make sure the workers had jobs.
He’d do his best to grow the business.
But the numerous unsettled matters wrestling about in his brain distracted him.
He glanced at the clock atop the mantel, noting the hour’s lateness. Miss Dearborne would be just down the street, nestled in Dearborne’s tiny cottage, and she’d likely still be awake, sewing or reading or engaged in another such activity that drew a woman’s attention.
He grimaced at the manner in which the two brutes had ogled the young lady in the inn, and what made it worse was that she didn’t seem to notice their intentions.
He forced his fingers through his hair, growing annoyed with the clock’s incessant ticking. At one time, not so long ago, life seemed limitless. The world had been his to take. Love and life were easy. There was no gray, simply the stark contrast of black and white.
Now he could easily become lost in the murky shades of gray, where ideas were wrong for some and right for others; black for one side and white for the next. Never before had his decisions held such weight and impacted so many.
He tapped his foot against the leg of the desk. Grandfather never had qualms about his decisions. Decisions were always made for financial gain, and he never questioned his method.
Grandfather also had been black and white about his approach to relationships.
Henry had no doubt that despite the argument that had transpired between him and Pennington, if he were to propose to Miss Pennington this very day, she’d accept. It had nothing to do with love or feeling, but everything to do with money.
He huffed. At the day’s end, what did money matter? War had hardened him to such a point that the only way to feel human again was to find the beauty, find the peace.
To him, the one person who possessed both of those was Miss Dearborne—Kate. No, time and circumstance had not softened his growing affection for her, as he’d hoped they might. If anything, the events of the past few days deepened the resolve to a point that it could no longer be avoided or ignored.
He pushed himself up from the desk, lifted a lantern, and headed into the night. He could wait no longer.
He had to speak with her again.
Kate sat at the table in her brother’s humble cottage, her elbow resting atop the smooth surface and her chin resting in her hand. She nodded at the game of dominoes filling the space between her and Charles and gave a tsk. “Are you going to play?”
“Give me time.” Charles leaned back in his chair and surveyed the game. Again.
With a sigh Kate pushed herself back and slumped her shoulders. The cottage was small, with only one living space and a bedchamber, but it was large enough for the two siblings. A modest fire flickered in the grate, and two wavering candles provided enough light to see the black-and-white tiles in the darkness.
Kate had to admit it was nice to spend time with her brother. Games like this were never played at Meadowvale. Wool had been the primary focus at any hour of every day. She glanced up at the concentration furrowing Charles’s brow. He seemed more relaxed, happier than she had ever seen him.
At length, Charles placed his tile, and Kate set her domino in place and blew out her breath.
“You used to make that sound every time Mother would tell you to corral the lambs.” Charles lifted a domino and tapped it against the table.
The reminder of Meadowvale—and of family—touched a place in her soul that she was attempting to avoid. “Do you never think of him?”
“Who?” Charles shifted in the wooden chair.
“Papa.” Even the mention of his name exposed a tender wound. “I’ve never gone this long without seeing him.”
Charles drew a deep breath before placing another tile, as if his patience was being tested at the mere mention of the name. “He is a stubborn man, Katie. I know it upsets you, but if he said that he doesn’t want to see you, then you won’t see him. I’m testament to that, am I not? Best forget it and move on. You can have a good life outside of Meadowvale. Can you not just embrace it?”
Kate chewed her lip. “But this is different.”
“How? We both chose a different path than he would have chosen for us. And that he cannot abide.”
She considered his words. “I hope his wound is recovering.”
“I’m sure word would have gotten to us if it isn�
��t. Haven’t you spoken with Jane or any of your other friends?”
The mention of Jane’s name wrapped a cord around her chest. “I have tried to call on her, but her father will not permit her to speak with me. It appears I have been branded the enemy. Again.”
The stark similarity to the way Frederica’s father would not permit her to remain friends with Kate chafed. The situation was repeating itself. When she was a child, she’d stomped her foot and demanded answers, but now the slow burn of rejection cast long shadows to the corners of her heart.
“This will pass.”
“Was it difficult for you when you left Meadowvale?”
Charles set his jaw before drawing a deep breath. “Of course. But I had support. Mr. Stockton and Belsey took great care of me. I, too, at one time was branded the enemy, but they were quick to overlook it. I was given access to this cottage, an income. It was especially hard to leave you, but in my gut I knew it would all come to this—the mill owners versus the weavers—and I knew that the production advances embraced by the mill owners were the future.”
“Did you miss Papa?”
“I did, especially my first year away from Meadowvale. After all, Father taught me everything I know. But when he did not return my letters, when he refused to see me, and when he passed me in public without acknowledging me, I hardened to it.”
Kate looked down at her hands. “The hours just pass by. I am so used to being busy. I miss my work. I suppose it sounds silly, but I miss my sheep. Especially Ivy.”
“If you want a sheep, we can get one,” teased Charles. “With all of our pasture space.”
Kate smiled at his little joke. “You know what I mean.”
“At the risk of sounding like Father, perhaps it is time you turned your attention to something besides weaving and cloth.”
She raised an eyebrow, not sure she liked where this conversation was going. “What did you have in mind?”
Charles shrugged and played a tile. “I always thought you would make a good mother. Perhaps finding yourself a husband and settling down wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” She played a tile of her own.
“Listen, Kate. You have always been independent. Far more independent than any other woman I’ve known. But there is a rhythm to life. Perhaps this is your time to consider a different purpose.”
Charles placed another tile. “In just the week that you have been here, I have already had three men inquire after you. I fully intend to beat them away with a stick if I must, until you tell me you are ready to consider such a future for yourself.”
Silence continued for several minutes. Tile after tile was played in the quiet, but Kate’s mind wasn’t on the game. Not really.
Charles crossed his arms over his chest. “And what of Henry Stockton?”
Kate flicked her eyes up at the mention of his name. “What of him?”
Again, Charles shrugged and stretched his booted foot out before him. “Perhaps I only imagined it, but I thought I noticed a friendship developing.”
Kate sniffed. She’d smack him if he were closer. And yet she could not deny that she was equal parts unwilling and yearning to talk about the man who was never far from her mind. The recollection of his kiss on her lips was also never far from her thoughts, and a strange heat settled over her. And even though he had declared the opposite to be true, she could not help questioning the rumors that he intended to marry Miss Pennington. Knowing Charles would have at least some knowledge on the matter, she stated, “I was under the impression that he and Miss Pennington would marry one day.”
Charles frowned. “Since old man Stockton’s death, things between Stockton and Pennington are tense. I’m not sure what it is about, but something’s not right. None of the Penningtons have been by the mill since the attack. In the past Mr. Pennington would be by the countinghouse every other day at least. No, something has changed.”
Her mind mapped to Henry’s hard censure of Arthur Pennington when he had spoken harshly to her. Could she be part of the reason the relationship between the families was crumbling?
The words were far from definitive, but her heart gave a little leap at the mention of it. Perhaps Henry Stockton would be a part of her life, or perhaps things would continue on and his declaration of affection would be forgotten. But at least for now, a small glimmer of hope fought to be recognized, and she would cling to that.
Henry could no longer handle the unsettling restlessness within him.
A heavy moon cast dark shadows over the haphazard mill courtyard, and he sidestepped a large pile of debris. It had to be nearing midnight. Kate would probably be asleep. He should wait until the morrow to seek her out, though he knew his soul would find little rest until he spoke his piece.
He assessed the row of cottages. Yellow light winked from a handful of them. Maybe, just maybe, the Dearborne cottage would be one bearing a sign of activity.
As he traversed the broad lane to the millworkers’ cottages, a shuffling sound slowed his steps and caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. He patted his hand over his pistol and drew close to the hedgerow along the shadowed lane. He’d not taken a step without it in weeks, and he was glad he hadn’t forgotten it tonight. His muscles tensed and his breath grew shallow. With all the violence brewing the past several weeks, caution was vital.
For a moment all was still, then the scraping sound returned—louder. Stronger. He whirled as the sound of a deep, muted voice fought against the windy sounds of night.
And then a gunshot cracked the night’s cool stillness.
Poised to respond, Henry jerked his pistol free.
A man’s cry rang out, and then more shuffling.
He squinted into the darkness, searching for the source.
The sleeping cottages leapt to life. Light flamed where darkness had once been. Doors flew open. Voices rang out.
Henry gritted his teeth. How would he find who was responsible with the bodies flooding the street?
He raced toward the direction of the scuffle, past cottages and onlookers. At the end of the row, shadowed figures wrestled on the ground, their struggle illuminated by naught but moonlight. He pushed through the other men who had gathered and stopped short.
He put a heavy hand on the figure on top, employing every muscle, and yanked the flailing figure backward.
There on the ground lay Arthur Pennington, eyes wild and mouth agape. Blood and dirt mingled on his face. Profanity spewed from his lips.
Henry swallowed his shock and whirled to identify the man he’d just peeled from on top of Pennington.
Vincent Warren, his old comrade, stood firm, his chest heaving, but the expression on his face was hard and unmoving as the mill itself.
Henry reached to help Pennington sit up, cognizant of the blood trickling down his thick arm and pooling on the ground beneath. Two millworkers now held Warren, each gripping an arm. The cold, hard glint of battle gleamed in his eyes, and the pistol, reeking of discharged gunpowder, lay still at the toe of his boot.
Henry dropped to his knees next to Pennington. “What happened? Have you been shot?”
“It grazed me.” Pennington cut sharp eyes toward Warren. “Fortunately the man you brought to our village is a poor shot.”
Obscenities and threats spewed from Warren, and Henry’s stomach clenched. Yes, he had brought Warren to Amberdale, but he also knew that the ex-soldier’s shots were sure and true. He’d not miss unless he intended to.
Henry helped remove Pennington’s coat, yanked his own cravat from about his neck, and used it to put pressure on the wound.
“Someone go for Tierner. Now,” Henry ordered, shooting a glare over his shoulder at Warren and pinning him with all the condemnation he could. Regardless of what had happened, there could be no excuse for pulling the trigger on an innocent man.
“Don’t you dare look at me as if I’m the one in the wrong,” hurled Warren, perspiration beading on his brow. “I wa
s defending myself.”
Pennington snarled. “You’re a fool. How could I attack you? I’ve no pistol.”
“He’s not who you think he is, Stockton. He’s a murderer.” Warren spat the words, eyes wild, jerking his arms against the restraint of the men holding him. “If you’re looking for the man who killed your grandfather, look no further, because you’ve found him.”
At the words, Henry’s head grew light, but his limbs felt weighted like stone. Surely Warren was mistaken. He snapped his attention back to Pennington, whose ashen face trembled with anger.
“How you lie, you pathetic man.” Pennington turned to Henry, his stare hard and his words full of condemnation and censure. “You fool. Did you not even consider the nature of this man? Why, you gave him the key! He’s a murderer in his own right. You want to know who informed the weavers’ society of your every move?”
Henry pressed his eyes shut for several seconds, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. It was hard to believe either of them when trust was rare and loyalty was scarce. He opened his eyes again to see Warren still struggling against the men binding his arms, the moonlight slicing sharp shadows on his angular face.
He met Henry’s gaze fully, his words tumbling forth. “I’ve nothing to lose, so why would I lie now? Consider, Pennington’s got nothing to lose and everything to gain if Stockton Mill failed. Your grandfather’s business was growing too large, and Pennington feared that your grandfather’s success would impede his own, so he stopped at nothing to make sure your grandfather did not grow too confident. He never saw your grandfather as a friend. He saw him as the competition. All the letters threatening your families and the mill? Those all originated with Pennington—a figment of his imagination to further gain your grandfather’s trust and unite them against the perceived enemy. Pennington was the one responsible for burning the Stockton stable—all to create the illusion that the weavers were more dangerous than they are. But that night of the fire, your grandfather stumbled on Pennington’s role in the blaze. Your grandfather promised to expose and ruin him, and that is why Pennington killed him, in cold blood. You’ve got to believe me. Pennington’s even befriended some of the weaving chaps from Leeds to try to cover his tracks. He’s chipping away at the situation to strengthen his mill and ruin Stockton Mill. Why can you not see what has been right in front of you all along?”
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