Daughter of the Loom (Bells of Lowell Book #1)

by Tracie Peterson

  Mintie had prided herself on being strong all of her life. She had taken charge of the household upon their mother’s death, not even allowing herself time to mourn. Tears that had never been allowed to fall then now gathered in her weary eyes.

  “You would not be so proud if you saw me now, Mother,” she whispered. She pulled her spectacles from her face and wiped her tears with her gloved fingers. “I am harsh and unfeeling. In my attempt to help direct Adelaide, I have hurt her with my envy and fears.”

  Lilly Armbruster had spoken of soul-searching, and the words had hit Mintie harder than she wanted to admit, for that had been her very intent upon taking her walk this morning. She needed wisdom and a renewal of strength in order to deal with what most certainly would come. Adelaide would have no reason to put aside this suitor. The Judge would not be around to send this beau away as he had the others.

  “And when she marries, I shall be alone,” Mintie mourned softly.

  You are never alone, my child. I am with you always.

  Mintie startled. The words sounded almost audible. Replacing her spectacles, she looked behind her and then across the small cemetery. There was no one. The words had come from no human source.

  Then without concern for how it might look or what others might say about her, Mintie very slowly raised her face to the sky. The brilliance of the day hurt her eyes, yet she refused to look away. “Perhaps there’s something to this,” she murmured. “Perhaps I’ve not taken the trouble to listen for the truth. Maybe I’ve sought the wrong companion all along.”

  ****

  Lilly knew the Cheevers would call for her at exactly noon. It gave her time to enjoy the festivities of the boardinghouse and still be able to stand ready when the carriage arrived.

  To her surprise, Matthew was the one who called for her. He smiled and greeted them all with great holiday spirit. “Merry Christmas!” he declared as he stomped his boots at the door.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Cheever,” Addie said, coming forward. “Won’t you join us for some wassail?”

  “I’m afraid not. My mother is expecting us.” He turned to Lilly. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, feeling rather weak in the knees. He was so handsome in his long black coat and top hat. “I just need to get my cloak.”

  He took the piece from her as she pulled it from the peg. “Is this all you have?”

  Lilly stiffened. In anger she snapped, “I know it’s not very fashionable, but—”

  He put his finger to her lips. “Shhh. Remember the day. I wasn’t disdaining the fashion but rather the thinness of the material. You’ll freeze out there in this.”

  She calmed her spirit. “I’ll be just fine. I walked out to the cemetery this morning and hardly felt the chill.” It was a stretch of the truth, but in all honesty her feet suffered more than her body on that walk.

  Shrugging, Matthew put the cloak around her shoulders and waited until she’d retrieved her bonnet and secured it atop her head. “Come along. Mother has a feast fit for a king—or in this case, a queen.” He smiled in his charming way, and Lilly found her voice completely gone—along with her breath.

  He handed her up into the carriage, then climbed aboard and pulled heavy blankets around them both. “Don’t scoot clear across to the other side. It’s too cold, and your cloak is much too light. We will share our warmth together, and that way you won’t catch your death.”

  “I hadn’t planned to catch my death,” Lilly said rather snidely. She truly relished the warmth Matthew offered her, but she hesitated to say so for fear of what he might think. Nevertheless, she did as he suggested and moved closer.

  The day had gotten much colder than it had been that morning, and now the skies were overcast and threatened snow again. As the wind shifted, Lilly couldn’t help but snuggle even closer to Matthew.

  “You’d do well to buy yourself a new coat,” Matthew said as he snapped the reins. The matched bays strained against their harness and easily pulled the carriage on its way.

  Lilly felt a flare of temper but held it in check and decided to tease Matthew instead. “But then I’d have no excuse to sit close to you on carriage rides.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze warming her to the bone. His voice came out low and husky. “You never need an excuse to sit close to me, Lilly.”

  ****

  That night as Lilly settled into her bed, a hundred memories from the day danced through her head. But none came so easily as her time with Matthew in the carriage. Her heart stirred, and the ache that radiated from that stirring robbed her of any real comfort. She had hoped to remain disentangled—keeping her heart completely safe from harm. But that wasn’t the case. And for the life of her, Lilly had no idea how to make it all right again.

  “I can’t love you, Matthew,” she whispered into her pillow. “I simply can’t.”

  Chapter 28

  Matthew didn’t report back to Thurston as arranged. Instead, heeding Boott’s advice, he had waited for the man to reemerge. Surprisingly, it had taken a week for Thurston to appear at the Appleton. He’d pushed his way past Mr. Gault and walked into Matthew’s office unannounced, his fury evident.

  “I specifically remember you saying you would get back with me after you talked to Kirk,” William snarled.

  Matthew looked up from his paper work. “Good morning, Mr. Thurston. Care to have a seat? I assumed you had returned to Boston for Christmas with your family. I trust you had a joyous holiday.”

  Thurston crossed the office in two long strides and fell into one of the chairs while maintaining a glowering scowl upon his face. “I didn’t come here to discuss Christmas, I came for a reply from Boott.”

  Matthew looked up from his ledger. “He isn’t interested,” he said simply.

  “What do you mean Boott isn’t interested?” Thurston yelled. “I’ve given him the name of the man who shot him, along with tangible proof to substantiate Mr. O’Malley’s guilt, and you tell me Kirk Boot isn’t interested? I should have gotten the reward money before I gave you the name. That’s it, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to pay for the information,” Thurston growled.

  Matthew folded his arms and met Thurston’s glare. “You know better than that, Mr. Thurston. That’s not Mr. Boott’s style. He doesn’t plan to use the information. If he intended to make use of it, he would reward your informant.”

  “This makes no sense,” Thurston retorted through clenched teeth.

  Matthew shrugged. “I suggest you let it go, Mr. Thurston.”

  ****

  Lewis pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat several times as he paced back and forth in the foyer of the Wareham House. Thurston was not in his room, nor was there any evidence of him in the restaurant. He was sure Thurston had said to meet him at nine-thirty. He sat down at a table near the window and facing the door—he preferred a good vantage point. The image of a ragged-looking Irish boy, his coal black hair bobbing up and down, reflected on the sun-streaked window of the hotel before the child actually entered the establishment.

  A startled look crossed the manager’s face before he moved into action, loping around the desk and meeting the child midlobby. He was obviously unsettled by the child’s appearance. Rightfully so, Lewis thought. The last thing patrons wanted to encounter at the finest hotel and eating establishment in town was a reminder of the Irish clans.

  The manager grasped the child by his ear, practically lifting him out of his rundown, shabby boots. “What are you doing in here?” he fumed at the boy.

  He held up a dingy-appearing missive. “I’ve a message for Mr. William Thurston.”

  The manager glanced toward the child’s hand. “He’s already checked out of the hotel, but that man in there is waiting on him,” he said as he waved in Lewis’s direction.

  “May I help?” Lewis inquired as he approached the man and boy.

  The manager gave Lewis a beseeching look. “This lad has a message for Mr. Thurston. May he leave it with you?�
��

  Lewis extended his hand. “You may feel confident that I will deliver your message to Mr. Thurston. You may tell the writer that you delivered the dispatch to Lewis Armbruster on Mr. Thurston’s behalf.”

  The child handed over the letter and waited, his dark pleading eyes and tattered clothes providing evidence of what was expected. Lewis handed the child a coin, then watched as the boy raced out of the hotel and back toward the Paddy camp.

  “Ragged little beggars,” the manager snarled under his breath. “Thank you for your assistance,” he hastily added, giving Lewis a weary smile.

  Lewis returned to his table and placed the correspondence beside his cup of coffee. The writing was crude, apparently scrawled in haste. He wondered who would be delivering mail to Thurston at the hotel. The thought of opening the seal crossed his mind. That idea was quickly followed by the thought of Thurston’s possible retribution should he discover such an indiscretion.

  Lewis was holding the missive between two fingers, snapping it up and down on the table, when Thurston entered the restaurant and seated himself. Annoyance was etched on the man’s face, and Lewis issued a sigh of relief, thankful he hadn’t opened the letter.

  “Stop that incessant clicking,” he ordered.

  The letter dropped from between Lewis’s fingers and floated onto the table. With his index finger, he pushed the missive toward Thurston. “This was delivered shortly before your arrival.”

  William eyed the letter and then shoved it into his pocket. Lewis hoped his disappointment wasn’t evident. “An Irish lad brought it,” he added, hoping to pique his interest.

  Thurston showed little curiosity in the added information or the letter. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared out the restaurant window. “I’ve just returned from a meeting with Matthew Cheever—regarding O’Malley’s involvement in the shooting.”

  Lewis straightened in his chair. Perhaps this was going to be a profitable day after all. “I hope the reward was generous.”

  William slammed his fist on the table. The surrounding patrons glanced in their direction but quickly averted their attention when met by William’s glowering stare. “He had the audacity to report that Boott was not interested in any of the evidence I presented—not my willingness to testify that it was O’Malley, not the piece of fabric that proves he was in the grove of pines, none of it. I even told him I could produce the weapon, but he said Boott didn’t want to hear any more allegations against O’Malley.”

  Lewis was dumbfounded by the revelation. “Why? I can’t imagine that Kirk Boott doesn’t want to avenge the person who harmed him.”

  “Cheever wouldn’t give me a direct answer. He merely said to ‘let it go.’ I attempted to discover whether they had received any other reliable information regarding the shooting, but Cheever said he wasn’t free to discuss the matter. It’s another example of Boott pandering to the Irish. Even if he knows it was O’Malley, he doesn’t want to risk admitting he’s wrong about those papists. The man’s a fool! There’s a meeting of the Associates at the end of the week. I doubt whether Kirk will be able to attend, but I will certainly be present.” William stood, shoved a hand in his pocket, and pulled out the crumpled letter. His eyes now focused on the scrawled writing, and recognition registered in his face. Dropping back into his chair, he ripped open the message.

  Lewis watched intently as Thurston read the letter. His jaw appeared to lock, and a slight tic developed in his right eye, culminating in an uncontrollable wink. Thurston rubbed the eye. It continued to flutter. “Do you have any idea what this is?” he asked from between clenched teeth.

  “No,” Lewis replied. He certainly wanted to know. He also knew better than to put voice to his desire.

  “Kathryn,” he said, brandishing the letter through the air as though it were a double-edged sword. “She’s making threats.”

  Lewis sat silently waiting, hoping for more.

  Thurston didn’t fail him. “Kathryn has written that if I don’t support her on a regular basis, she’s going to tell my wife about the child.”

  Lewis restrained the gasp rising in his throat. Instead, he took a gulp of air and gave William his undivided attention.

  Thurston’s eyes narrowed as he met Lewis’s gaze. “This is going to require your assistance, Lewis. As always, you’ll be well paid.”

  There was an ominous tone to Thurston’s voice that commanded Lewis’s attention. “I’ll do what I can to help. Within reason, of course.”

  Thurston emitted a dark laugh. “You have no choice, Lewis. You’ll do whatever I require—within reason or not.” He hesitated, staring out the window at some indeterminate object. “Kathryn and the child are of no consequence to me—they’re disposable. My wife, on the other hand, is not. I was accepted into Boston society through my marriage to Margaret. It was her family name that garnered the attention of the Boston Associates and their invitation to join with them and invest in Lowell. I’ve invested too much time and effort into my success. I’ll not permit that Irish tramp to threaten me for the rest of my life. And that’s what she would do, continue to make more and more demands upon me until eventually I refused to pay. Then what? After years of handing her money, she’d still go to my wife and ruin my life.” He shook his head. “No. I’ll not have it. She and the child must both be done away with.”

  This time it was impossible for Lewis to restrain a gasp. Undeniable horror washed over him. For all his lack of morals and disregard for other people, he’d never had to resort to killing. The very thought made him positively ill.

  He didn’t want to kill a woman. He couldn’t! “You would have me kill the mother of your child?”

  “And the child,” William hastened to add.

  Lewis attempted to hide his revulsion. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thurston, but I can’t do what you’re asking—not a woman and child. I’ve been responsible for my share of underhandedness, but this goes beyond that. This is well beyond what I’m willing to do for money.”

  Thurston reached across the table and grabbed Lewis by the wrist. “Don’t you tell me what you can’t do, Lewis,” he hissed. “You will kill them. Both of them. And it will be done when and how I tell you. Do you understand me? I have too much information on you, Armbruster. You have no choice in this matter.”

  Lewis jerked his arm out of William’s grasp. “There must be some other way to handle the situation besides killing them,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  William’s eyes clouded as he spoke, his mind obviously racing to develop some sinister strategy. “It won’t be difficult. I’ll formulate a plan that can’t go awry. Something simple yet effective.”

  Lewis stood. “I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to like it. And don’t attempt to leave town without my permission, Lewis. I wouldn’t want to reveal to Kirk Boott that I was mistaken and that you are truly the person who shot him.”

  Lewis leaned down across the table and stared into Thurston’s eyes. “There’s no one who will believe you. You’ve already pointed the finger at O’Malley.”

  “You really don’t know me very well, do you, Lewis? Do you think me so foolish that I wouldn’t have a plan if you decided to betray me? I told you before that I have other contacts who perform assignments for me. One of them was at the scene of the shooting, Lewis. He watched you shoot Kirk Boott; he’s willing to testify whenever I say the word. The horse you rode that day? It belonged to another contact. He’ll testify to the fact that you borrowed his horse, rode out of town in time to accomplish the deed, and returned his horse in a lather shortly after the shooting was reported. Why, he can even state with authority that you came from the direction of Pawtucket Falls. Combine that testimony with the fact that Boott doesn’t believe O’Malley shot him, and any judge would convict you.”

  Lewis winced. “I’ll tell that you were the one who plotted and hired me,” Lewis feebly countered.

  “You have no one who can tie me to the incident, Lewis, nor do you ha
ve the funds to buy testimony or silence. In other words, you have no reliable contacts. Now sit down. I believe I’ve already developed a simple plan.”

  William wet his lips and leaned across the table, speaking in hushed tones. Lewis listened, his stomach churning as he stared at the puffy lips spewing forth his ruthless plot. “If you follow my instructions, you’ll have no difficulty,” Thurston said as he finished speaking and leaned back in the chair.

  Lewis lowered his head, his chin nearly resting upon his chest. “Is there nothing I can say that would cause you to reconsider?”

  “Nothing.” William said, pressing payment into Lewis’s hand. “Half now and half when the deed is accomplished.”

  Lewis hated himself for accepting the money. He walked down the street with his mind reeling. Shooting Boott had been one thing—he had shot merely to injure. Killing an innocent woman, not to mention the child, was an entirely different matter. He needed time to think. More than that, he needed something to drink. Bowing his head against the cold, Lewis turned and set off toward Nichol’s Tavern, anxious for a tankard of ale.

  The remainder of the afternoon was a blur. People came and went while Lewis remained at a corner table attempting to blot out the memory of a dark-haired toddler and his strong-willed Irish mother. By nightfall the ale had done its work—the faces of Kathryn and the little boy were but a fuzzy blur. What he must do, however, had not completely vanished from his mind.

  Lewis glanced toward the doorway. A boisterous group of Englishmen entered and seated themselves at a nearby table. Their camaraderie captured his attention as they joked and laughed together. He watched as they were served bowls of steaming fish chowder and hunks of hearty rye bread, and in his inebriated state, he found himself longing for friendship. Only one of the men looked familiar. Lewis recognized John Farnsworth, who was now pushing aside his bowl and unfurling papers on the table.