The Weaver's Daughter

by Sarah E. Ladd

Papa cast a hard glare at Henry. “You’ve done it. Your grandfather would be proud. The weaving industry is all but destroyed in Amberdale. Besides John, four other of our men now sit in prisons.”

  “I cannot be happy about that, sir.” Believable sincerity rang in Henry’s tone.

  Papa huffed. “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “Please, listen.” Kate reached forward and clutched her father’s large hand in both of her own. “It isn’t what you think. Things are improving at the mills. They aren’t like you believe them to be. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Henry is changing things. The children are not permitted to work such long hours. A tutor has even been hired. After work the children go to classes and are being taught reading and sums.”

  Henry leaned forward. “My grandfather and you did not see eye to eye, but I hope for a different outcome. Obviously, Pennington no longer runs Pennington Mill. He’s been bought out, and Charles will be overseeing operations there.”

  Kate looked at her brother. She thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but then he looked up. “I’ll need help, Father.”

  Papa laughed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you suggesting that I work in a mill?”

  Charles shrugged. “The cloth halls are closing. Where are you going to sell your goods? It could be worse. We could start over.”

  She knew what Papa was thinking. Too much time had passed. Too many words had been exchanged. Too many stones had been cast.

  He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Well, if you can’t do that . . . perhaps you can accept my apology.”

  Her father’s face fell as he stared at his son. “Your apology? For what?”

  “When I left Meadowvale, I did so because I believed it the right thing to do. And I still do. But I disrespected you. And for that I’m sorry. I was headstrong, and our relationship crumbled to this enmity we have today. I’d like to think that it could be repaired. I’m not sure how to start that process, but I’m willing to try if you are.”

  Their father continued to stare at him but said nothing. Kate could stand it no more. “Papa, please. This has gone on long enough. I don’t want to start the next stage of my life without you in it. I’d like to think that you could also forgive me for alerting the mill to the attack, but I hope you can see now that it was the best way to proceed. If not, you could be in prison. Or hung. Many more lives could have been lost. And for what? Pride? Is it really that important?”

  Papa shifted toward Henry, his gaze frustratingly cool. “I have heard word that you are to be married.”

  Henry leaned forward. “Yes, sir. Your daughter is an incredible woman. You should be very proud of her.”

  Kate gripped her father’s hand tighter to recapture his attention. She had to make him understand. “At least listen to me. We are making changes at the mill. It is not such the vile place you assume it to be. Henry is raising wages, not cutting them. Now that Charles will be in charge of Pennington Mill, we can make the work environment better. Can we not resolve this?”

  Papa reached for his cane and stood. Kate held her breath and looked at Charles. But instead of accepting their apology, Papa’s face darkened. “I think it is time for you to leave. I cannot forget—or forgive—what you have done.”

  EPILOGUE

  Kate bit her lips and smiled as she assessed her reflection in the looking glass. A new gown of cream silk hugged her frame. Her hair was curled and pinned atop her head, and summer’s last dainty flowers of pink and violet were tucked amid the pins. A flush graced her cheeks, and her eyes shone brightly.

  She felt beautiful. She felt complete. She felt happy and needed.

  To her left Mollie fidgeted with her bouquet, and across the room, Mrs. Figgs retrieved a necklace from the chest.

  “Here.” Mrs. Figgs motioned for Kate to turn so she could fasten the necklace. “Who would have thought, all those months ago when you were injured the night of the fire, that you would be the one to capture Henry’s heart.”

  Kate smiled. It was true. She never would have dreamed during that time of uncertainty that her future could be so full. She looked out her brother’s cottage window to the church’s spire. It would be her last day as a guest before she would move to Stockton House. She had been a woman without a true home since her father threw her out of Meadowvale, but tonight she would have a home of her own. A husband who loved her. And the promise of a future that set her imagination on fire.

  When the time came, the women made the short walk to the churchyard. Henry was inside those walls. So were Charles and all the people who had welcomed her into their way of life.

  Not even a year ago, many of those attending her wedding would have been considered her enemies. But times were changing, and the hope of a new future spread before her—before them all. Even some of the weavers had come around. While she had not yet spoken with Jane, her heart was hopeful than one day her dear friend would consent to visit her.

  Adelaide and several of the other girls from the mill were waiting outside the church, excited and eager to catch a glimpse of the bride. Kate smiled and waved at them.

  As she paused at the church door, waiting to go in, one shadow fell over her. A few weeks had passed since Henry, Charles, and she had visited Meadowvale. She had not heard from her father since. She’d even written a letter to him but received no response.

  She pushed it to the back of her mind. She’d allow nothing to dampen the happiness in her heart and the optimism within her soul. With a deep breath, she stepped into the reverent, cool church.

  She’d barely entered the church when someone caught her eye. She looked to her left. There, in the back row, sat Papa. Her hand flew to her mouth, and tears rushed to her eyes. The day was already ripe with emotion, and the sight of him cut to the core of her very existence.

  He’d shaved. Trimmed his hair. He was dressed in his tailcoat of dark-blue broadcloth—the same coat he used to wear when he attended church, before Charles left Meadowvale. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile, and he nodded at her.

  Happiness flooded her, and she turned her gaze toward Henry.

  She floated past her father. Past the millworkers who had welcomed her into their family.

  Past the Figgs who now treated her with parental affection. Past her new sister and the dark-haired baby who would be her nephew by the time she left this church.

  She was grateful to have these people in her life, but it was the man who was waiting for her at the altar who set her soul ablaze. With the glimmer of hope for a reunion with her father and the promise of a new life as Mrs. Stockton, her heart brimmed full.

  Henry stood before her, as handsome as the day she had met him. His blue eyes gleamed brighter and his smile flashed broader.

  Kate breathed a prayer of gratitude. If her life had gone as she had hoped all those months ago, she would have missed the gifts God had given her.

  She looked to the man who would be her husband in a few short minutes. Her soul felt at rest, for now she knew the true power of love, the unbending strength of loyalty, and the eternal beauty of forgiveness.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing The Weaver’s Daughter was such a joy, and there are several people I would like to thank for their support along the way.

  First and foremost, to my family: It is because of your endless encouragement that I am able to follow my love for storytelling. I am so grateful for you.

  To my incredible and insightful editor, Becky Monds: Thank you for guidance. And to the rest of the team at HarperCollins Christian Publishing—from marketing to design, from production to sales, you are all spectacular!

  To my writer friends Kristy and Katherine: I am blessed to share this journey with you and call you both friends.

  To my first readers: Thank you for reading the early manuscripts and helping me get the story just right.

  To Tamela Hancock Murray, the agent who helped make this book possible: Thanks for believin
g in this story!

  To my author pals, “the Grove Girls”—Cara, Katie, Melissa, Courtney, Katherine, Kristy, and Beth: Thank you for the brainstorming sessions and encouragement!

  Last but not least, a huge thank-you to my readers. I am so grateful for each and every one of you!

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1.Which character did you identify with the most? Why?

  2.How do you think Henry’s experiences in the war shaped his life after he returned to Amberdale?

  3.Let’s talk about Frederica. Her behavior had a huge impact on both Kate and Henry. Do you think she was a happy person? Do you think she influenced Kate or Henry in any way?

  4.If you could give Kate one piece of advice at any point in the story, what would you tell her? What advice would you give Henry?

  5.In the prologue, Kate’s mother says, “We cannot control what others do. We can only control how we react to it. Being angry will only hurt you, not them.” Based on your experience, have you found this statement to be true? Can you think of an example in your own life that demonstrates this?

  6.How do Kate and Henry change over the course of the story?

  7.Both Kate and Henry are very loyal to their families, but there comes a point for each of them when they must consider if remaining loyal is the best course or if they must follow their own consciences. Do you think Kate and Henry were justified in defying family expectations?

  8.Mollie had difficulty forgiving herself for her past actions and decisions. What advice would you give her?

  9.What comes next for Kate and Henry? If you were to write a sequel, what would happen?

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  THE CURIOSITY KEEPER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Iverness Curiosity Shop,

  London, England, 1812

  Camille Iverness met the big man’s gaze. Bravely.

  Boldly.

  She would not be bullied or manipulated. Not in her own shop.

  Camille recognized the expression in the man’s eye. He did not want to speak with her, a mere woman. Not when the owner of the shop was James Iverness.

  But James Iverness—her father—was not present.

  She was.

  She jutted her chin out in a show of confidence, refusing to even blink as he pinned her with a steely stare.

  “As I already told you, Mr. Turner, I have no money to give you,” she repeated, louder this time. “Any dealings you made with my father you will need to take up with him. I’ve no knowledge of the transaction you described. You had best return at another time.”

  “I’ve seen you here, day in, day out.” His voice rose in both volume and gruffness. “How do you expect me to believe you know nothing about it?” The wooden planks beneath his feet groaned as he shifted his considerable weight, making little attempt to mask his effort to look around her into the store’s back room. “Is he in there? So help me, if he is and—”

  “Sir, no one besides myself is present, with the exception of my father’s dog.”

  It was in moments like this that she wished she were taller, for even as she stood on the platform behind the counter, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. “If you would like, I will wake the animal, but if you have seen me here often, as you claim, then no doubt you have also seen Tevy and know he does not take kindly to strangers. You decide. Shall I go fetch him?”

  Mr. Turner’s gaze snapped back to her. No doubt he knew of the dog. Everyone on Blinkett Street knew about James Iverness’s dog.

  His whiskered lip twitched.

  A warm sense of satisfaction spread through her, for finally she had said something to sway the determined man.

  Mr. Turner’s face deepened to crimson, and he pointed a thick finger in Camille’s direction, his voice matching the intensity of his eyes. “Tell your father I’ve a mind to speak with him. And tell him I want my money and won’t take kindly to his antics. Next time I am here I will not be so willing to leave.”

  He muttered beneath his breath and stomped from the store, slamming the door behind him with such force that the glass canisters on the near shelf trembled.

  A shudder rushed through her as she watched him lumber away, and she did not let her posture relax until the back flap of his gray coat passed the window and was out of sight. How she despised such interactions. As of late, Papa seemed to be angering more patrons than he obliged, and he always managed to be conveniently absent when they came to confront him.

  She needed to speak with Papa, and soon. Awkward conversations like the one with Mr. Turner needed to stop.

  Camille tucked a long, wayward lock of hair behind her ear and drew a deep breath. Once again her father’s dog had come to her rescue, and he was not even in the room.

  “Come, Tevy,” she called. In a matter of moments the massive brown animal was through the door and at her side, tail wagging enthusiastically.

  “Pay heed!” she laughed as he nudged her hand, forcing her to pet him. “That tail of yours is likely to knock every vase off that shelf if you’re not careful, and then Papa will blame—”

  The door to the shop pushed open, jingling the bell hung just above it. She drew a sharp breath, preparing to deal with yet another customer, but it was her father who appeared in the doorway.

  He was a short man, not much taller than she herself, but that was where their physical similarities ended. His green eyes made up in intensity what he lacked in stature. His hair, which in her youth had been the color of sand, was now the color of stone, and years spent on a ship’s deck had left his complexion ruddy. His threadbare frock coat, dingy neckcloth, and whiskered cheeks made him appear more like a vagabond than a shopkeeper, and despite his privileged upbringing, he often acted and spoke like an inhabitant of the docks where he did much of his trading.

  “Good day, Papa.”

  He ignored her welcome and bent to scratch Tevy’s ears. After pulling out a bit of dried meat and handing it to the dog, he reached back into his coat. “This came for you.”

  He stretched out his hand, rough and worn. Between his thick fingers he pinched a letter.

  Camille stared at it for several moments, shocked. Clearly she could make out her name—in her mother’s handwriting. The edge of the paper was torn. She could not recall the last letter she had received from Mama.

  He thrust the letter toward her. “Don’t just stand there gawking, girl. Take it.”

  Camille fumbled with the missive to keep it from falling to the planked floor below, but for once, she found herself unable to find words. Unprepared—and unwilling—to deal with the onset of emotions incited by the letter, she blinked back moisture and shoved it into the front pocket of her work apron.

  “Are you not going to read it?” Her father nodded toward her apron.

  Of course he expected her to read it, for he himself devoured every one of his wife’s scarce communications the moment they arrived. Though they both felt her absence keenly, they reacted to it very differently—and they never, ever discussed it. Over time, Camille had made the topic off-limits in her own mind, and a letter crafted by the very person who was the source of the pain was unwelcome.

  “I’ll read it later. There is far too much to do at the moment.” She sniffed and gestured toward the curtain that separated the shop from the back room. “There was a crate delivered to you by cart in the alley, but it was too heavy for me to lift.”

  She was a little surprised at the quickness with which her father let the topic of the letter drop. “Why did you not have the men delivering it bring it in?”

  “I tried, but they refused—said it was not their duty. They left it in the courtyard out back.”

  “When are you going to learn that such things are your responsibility? You should have persuaded them to bring it in.” Her father shifted through the papers on the counter, not pausing to look up. “Had you been a boy, this would not be an issue.”

  Camille folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I was not born a b
oy, and there is precious little I can do about that. So if you will fetch the delivery in for me, I shall tend to it. Or it can spend the night hours where it sits. But the sky looks like it holds rain, so whatever is inside that box will just sit there and soak.”

  The story continues in The Curiosity Keeper by Sarah E. Ladd.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Forever Smiling Photography

  Sarah E. Ladd received the 2011 Genesis Award in historical romance for The Heiress of Winterwood. She is a graduate of Ball State University and has more than ten years of marketing experience. Sarah lives in Indiana with her amazing family and spunky golden retriever.

  Visit Sarah online at SarahLadd.com

  Facebook: SarahLaddAuthor

  Twitter: @SarahLaddAuthor