Suddenly, she wondered if he thought, mistakenly, that she was involved with Leonard Smith? No doubt the whole village knew about the dinner party. Maybe . . . She opened her mouth but before she could speak she heard an angry shout from behind her and they both turned to see her father hurrying towards them, shaking his fist in the air.
‘You leave ’er be, James Metcalfe. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after. My mill, that’s what. That’s all your family’s ever wanted. To get their thieving hands on Forrest’s Mill.’
At once Jamie wrenched his hand from Emma’s grasp, twisting her wrist painfully.
She gave a little cry, more from shock and bewilderment than from the pain. ‘Father, what are you saying?’
He had reached them and was standing before them, breathing hard, his face glowering and red with rage. Stepping between them, he took hold of her arm and pushed her along the road, away from Jamie. Emma struggled, but although she was stronger than most women, even she was helpless against the strong grip of the miller.
‘Father, please—’
‘You’re going home with me, girl. This minute.’
Emma twisted around, looking back over her shoulder at Jamie but she was being forced to walk forward. ‘Jamie . . .?’ she cried, appealing to him to help her, but he merely stood in the road and watched her being dragged away from him.
Once in the house, Emma’s anger at being so humiliated exploded and she rounded on her father and faced up to him in a way she never had before in her young life. ‘How could you do that in front of everyone?’
‘You were mekin’ a fool of yasen.’
Anger made her reckless. ‘It’s not me they’re saying that about in the village – it’s you.’
‘What are you talking about, girl?’ he thundered.
Rashly she blurted it out, ‘They’re all saying you’re making a fool of yourself over Mrs Smith. That she’s nothing but a – a . . .’ She hesitated, but only momentarily. She had gone too far already to hold back now. ‘A gold-digger.’
She saw his fist clench, saw his arm come up and thought for a moment that he was going to strike her. Quick tempered though her father was, he had never hit her. His word had always been enough to chastise her. But now, she was defying him in a way she had never done before. He held his arm rigidly half-raised, as if he were fighting the urge within himself. ‘Is that what he told you? Young Metcalfe?’
She hesitated a fraction too long. She was tempted to lie, wanted to, but she had always been a truthful girl and lying did not come glibly. Before she could say anything, her father said, ‘Aye, you’ve no need to answer. I can see by ya face that he did.’
He stepped close to her and Emma pulled in a deep breath, every muscle in her body tensed waiting for the blow. He did not strike her. Instead he thrust his face close to hers and said slowly, with deliberate emphasis on every word, ‘I forbid you to see young Metcalfe again. Do you hear me, girl?’
She stared into his face. Inside she was quaking but she faced him with an outward boldness. ‘We are going to be married. I’m his girl—’
Now, with unexpected suddenness, his arm came up and his hand struck the side of her face with such force that she stumbled sideways and caught the edge of the table to steady herself. She gave a cry and put her hand to her cheek, the skin stinging from the blow.
‘Father!’
Now he was wagging his forefinger in her face. ‘Over my dead body, girl.’ It was a clichéd phrase, but Harry Forrest was not using it as such; he meant every word. ‘Ya’ll do as I tell you, else I’ll – I’ll throw you out!’
He turned away with a jerky, angry movement, pulled open the back door and slammed it behind him, leaving Emma standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the closed door, her hand still to her cheek.
‘Luke,’ she called up the winding steps of the mill. ‘Luke, you up there?’
Her father was out. He had gone to visit a farmer to haggle over the price of his grain and Emma needed to talk to Luke.
There was no answer and she guessed that he was on the bin floor emptying another sack of grain into one of the bins and above the noise of the huge millstones grinding, he could not hear her. She climbed up to the meal floor and then up again to the stone floor where the hopper chattered, feeding the grain down the chute to the stones.
He was coming down the ladder from the floor above. ‘Hello, Emma lass. D’ya want me?’
She moved towards him and as she did so Luke, his face streaked with the pale creamy dust, squinted at her. ‘What’s up with ya face, lass. You fell and bumped yasen?’
‘Oh no, it’s . . .’ She hesitated, reluctant to tell the truth even to Luke, especially to Luke. ‘It’s nothing really. Luke, I need to talk to you. Privately. There’s – there’s something, well, odd, that I don’t understand.’
‘Oh aye.’ He paused a moment and then said, ‘Well, we’d best go down below. We can talk whilst I work.’ He smiled at her then nodded towards the busy machinery.
Back on the meal floor, Luke took up the miller’s position between the spout from the stones above and the tentering gear. He opened the flap of the spout and the flour flooded into the sack below. Though one pair of stones still rumbled above them, they could talk to each other without raising their voices.
‘That’s about fine enough,’ Luke murmured, letting the flour run over his hand. Then his attention came back to Emma. ‘Out with it then, lass.’
‘You know that Jamie Metcalfe and me – well, what I mean is – I thought that when he came back from the war, we’d be planning to get married.’
She saw Luke’s keen glance at her, but he said nothing. ‘But my father is against it.’ That was an understatement if ever there was one, she thought wryly, but went on aloud, ‘And now he’s forbidden me to see Jamie but he won’t tell me why.’ Her eyes were dark with anxiety. ‘Luke, do – do you know why? I know about their stupid feud, but . . .’ She spread her hands in a despairing gesture and fell silent.
The older man gave a sigh and looked at her for a long moment. Then he gestured towards the bruise on the side of her face. ‘Did he do that? Ya dad? Tell me the truth now, ’cos I need to know.’
When she nodded, he muttered a low oath and then said brusquely, ‘Is he out?’
‘Yes. He’s gone to Farmer Popple’s.’ She pulled a face. She was very much afraid her father did not view Ben Popple’s flirting with her as merely fun.
A smile twitched the corner of Luke’s mouth but the anger never left his eyes. ‘Oh, he’ll be a while then, argy-bargying with that a’kward owd cuss.’ He stood listening for a moment to the sound of the stones, then he glanced across at the bulbous orbs of the governor which protected the mill from tearing itself to pieces if a sudden gust of wind sent the sails spinning faster than was safe.
Emma waited patiently. While the mill sails whirled, the stones grated and the flour poured out in a steady creamy-white stream, Luke began to talk.
‘It all started years ago, in old Charlie’s day when he first built this mill, but then it was just a joke between him and the Metcalfe brothers. They say old Nathaniel and his brother George used to come and stand watching Charlie when he was building this mill. “Fine mill you’re building for us, Charlie Forrest,” they’d shout up. “That’s what you think,” Charlie would shout back. “This is a Forrest mill and it always will be”. The old Metcalfe brothers would laugh and say, “Ya’ll have to get yasen wed then and sire a son or two.” George weren’t married but Nathaniel was and he’d already got a son, Josiah, your boy’s father, him that died not long back.’
Emma nodded, saying nothing that might stop Luke in his storytelling, even though at the moment he was telling her things she already knew.
‘It was a standing joke between ’em in them days,’ Luke went on. ‘Y’know how it is in a village, lass? There was nothing nasty in it.’ He paused a moment and Emma bit her lip to prevent herself urging him on.
�
��So Charlie got married and had a son, ya uncle Charles, and then of course, ya dad came along.’
‘Uncle Charles ran away to sea, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right, when he was about thirteen.’ There was a wry note in Luke’s tone. ‘He was the black sheep of the family. Didn’t want owt to do with the mill. Nearly broke old Charlie’s heart at first, he was so set on their always being a Charles Forrest at the mill, y’see.’
‘What happened to my uncle Charles then? I can’t ever remember anyone talking about him.’
‘No, ya wouldn’t, nor will ya, not now. Yar Grandpa got over his disappointment and after a while, he’d just shrug his shoulders, laugh and say, “Oh well, there’s always young Harry to give me a – a—”’ Luke paused and glanced at her but there was no turning back from what he had been going to say.
Emma finished the sentence for him, ‘A grandson.’
‘Aye, lass, a grandson. That was what old Charlie had set his heart on. A grandson called Charles Forrest. But funnily enough it’s ya dad who’s always been so very bitter about the fact that he only inherited the mill by – by – now what’s the word . . .’ Luke wrinkled his forehead. ‘Oh aye – by default. That’s it – by default. I could never understand why he felt that way mesen.’
‘I suppose,’ Emma murmured slowly, ‘when he didn’t get a son, he felt he’d failed in giving Grandpa Charlie what he wanted most.’
‘That’s about the size of it, lass.’
She was quiet for a moment and then said haltingly, ‘But I still don’t understand what all this has to do with the Metcalfes.’ She knew she was treading on dangerous ground now. Sarah had warned her not to question Luke too closely, yet she felt that right at this moment, old Luke just might be persuaded to give away a little more than he normally would do. Right now, he was angry with Harry and that wrath might very well loosen his tongue. Emma held her breath.
Luke sighed and shifted himself a little. ‘After the two old fellers. Nathaniel and George, died the rivalry ceased to be a joke. It got more serious. Josiah Metcalfe was a greedy, grasping old beggar. He would have given anything to have got his hands on this mill. You know all the stories about him being the so-called Mayor of Marsh Thorpe, well, it weren’t a joke to him. That’s just what he did imagine himself to be. He wanted to rule the village and get his hands on whatever business he could in the district. And then, of course . . .’ Luke stopped and glanced at her. ‘There was all the rumpus over ya mam.’
Here it came; this was what she wanted to know. Deliberately keeping a note of innocence in her tone, Emma said, ‘My mother?’
Luke nodded. ‘Aye, that’s when the trouble really started. She first came to Marsh Thorpe to keep house for her uncle after his wife died. He had the saddler’s shop in the market place.’
‘The saddler’s?’ Emma was puzzled.
‘Oh aye, of course, you won’t remember it. It’s gone now. It was where the cobbler’s is now. When her uncle died it was left to his son, ya mam’s cousin, but he lived in a city somewhere. I don’t think I ever knew where exactly, but that dun’t matter. Anyway, he sold it.’
This was all new to Emma; she couldn’t remember ever having been told much about her mother’s family.
Luke went on. ‘Anyway, I’m over-running me tale. Where was I?’
‘When my mother first came here,’ she prompted. ‘And about some trouble?’
‘Oh aye.’ He paused a moment and his eyes misted over as if he were seeing pictures from the past. ‘She were a pretty little thing, flirting with all the young fellers. Oh, no offence, Emma,’ he said swiftly, ‘She was only young and just out for a bit of fun. There was nothing wrong in her. She was a lovely-looking lass and all the young fellers were round her like bees round a honey-pot.’
Emma was silent. Her own memories of her mother were of a beautiful, sweet face always laughing, always full of fun, despite the devastating disappointments of her frequent miscarriages and she knew Luke was speaking the truth.
‘Ya dad started courting ya mam. He really fell hard for her and her for him even though he was about twelve years older than her. Josiah Metcalfe . . .’ He paused a moment as if still reluctant to speak of it, but he took another breath and continued. ‘Josiah was already married, but the family hadn’t come along then.’
Again he paused and sighed heavily. ‘Josiah became besotted by Frances. It was the scandal of the village at the time. If ever a man made a fool of hissen over a woman, then it were Josiah Metcalfe. He used to stand under her window – she lived above the shop with her uncle – and shout up to her. Ya dad and Josiah had a fight one night about it, right there in the middle of the market place. There was doors opening and curtains twitching, I can tell you. And everyone in the pub turned out to cheer ’em on.’
She was trying to imagine her father being so passionate about anything that he would get into a brawl like that. ‘What about Josiah’s wife. Did she know?’
Luke gave a snort of wry laughter. ‘Oh aye, she knew all right. Ya can’t keep that sort of thing quiet in a village. Besides, Josiah made no secret of it. Rumour had it, but I don’t know if it was true, that he wanted her to divorce him so he would be free to marry Frances. But his wife said she’d never divorce him nor give him the grounds to divorce her. And of course, she blamed ya mam. Said she’d led Josiah on.’
Divorce! Even the mention of it was a big scandal.
‘But – but did my mother want to marry Josiah then? I mean, he must have been even older than my father.’
Through the floating dust of the meal floor she saw Luke shake his head. ‘That’s the daft part about it all. She loved ya father. She wouldn’t have nowt to do with Josiah. It was all in his mind. He was always such a self-opinionated old beggar he thought that whatever he wanted, he could get. Even after ya mam and dad got married, he used to taunt your father. “I’ll get her one day, Harry Forrest,” he used to say. “Her and ya mill.” Then when Jamie and William Metcalfe were born and ya poor mam kept losing her boys, the taunts became even crueller. “Ya can’t sire sons, can ye, Harry Forrest? There’ll be a Metcalfe at your mill one day. You just wait and see.” I’ve seen Josiah stand at that gate out there,’ Luke jerked his thumb towards the gate leading from the yard into the road, ‘and heard him say it mesen. Ya dad would shake his fist at him, but old Josiah would just stand there laughing. By, he were a vicious old beggar.’
No wonder, Emma thought, her father had refused to attend the funerals of both Josiah and his wife. Now she understood why.
There was silence between them now, the only sound the throbbing heart of the working mill. Forrest’s Mill. Emma was thoughtful. What had started as friendly banter between her grandfather and the old Metcalfe brothers had become a bitter feud between her father and Josiah. But it was no longer about a man’s desire for another man’s wife; not now, not in this generation.
Now it was all about Forrest’s Mill.
Eleven
‘Jamie, did you know about this feud between our families?’
Her eyes, soft and dark as the midnight sky, tried to hold his gaze, but Jamie Metcalfe refused to look at her and turned away, muttering something that even Emma’s sharp ears could not quite catch.
‘What? What did you say?’ She caught hold of his arm, feeling his firm muscles beneath her fingers. During the weeks since his return from the war, his body had filled out and his superb strength was returning as he daily wielded the hammer, working long hours from early morning into the night to rebuild the blacksmith’s, the business that was now his. As she had stepped into the smithy, she had seen the improvement at once. Now all the tools hung in neat rows. Tongs, pincers, pliers, the hammers with their differently shaped heads, from a small leaf hammer right up to the heavy sledge hammer, all were cleaned and oiled. The floor was no longer littered with scraps of discarded metal and in the yard two ploughs she had not seen on earlier visits stood waiting to be repaired. So, she thought briefly, new wor
k was coming in now. The fire blazed so that even standing in the doorway, Emma could feel its heat and Jamie’s bare arms glistened with sweat.
But Emma noticed all this with only half a mind, for today there was something far more important she wanted to talk to Jamie about. Under her hand she felt his muscles tense and he snatched his arm away as if her touch offended him. She gasped and her eyes widened. Maybe his outward appearance was returning to normal, but his attitude, his treatment of her, was nothing like it had been before he went away.
He turned to face her, the angry frown, which seemed to be permanently on his forehead, a deepening crease. ‘I’ve always known there’s been a bit of rivalry between your father and mine, but I never realized, never knew, it went so deep. Not until a few months ago.’
Once more, Emma was surprised. ‘But you weren’t here a few months ago.’
Jamie nodded. Now his dark gaze met hers. ‘Me father wrote me a letter. A long one. He knew then just how ill he was and he wanted me to know a few things before – ’ Jamie’s voice sank deeper, ‘before he died.’
‘What things?’
‘He wanted me to promise to marry you when I came back from the war. If I came back.’
There was a strange note of bitter reluctance in Jamie’s tone that frightened Emma. She ran her tongue over her lips that were suddenly dry. In a voice that was little more than a husky whisper, she said, ‘But that’s what we’d planned, wasn’t it? I’ve waited for you, Jamie. I’ve thought of nothing else but the time you would come back and – and . . .’ Her voice trailed away in uncertainty.
Harshly, Jamie said, ‘He wanted me to marry you to unite our two families. It was only so that eventually our family would own Forrest’s Mill. Even from beyond the grave, he wanted to carry on the feud. He wanted to die thinking that at least his son would one day own your father’s mill. Oh, he really spelt it all out to me. He put it in his letter. “I want the whole village to know that at long last a Metcalfe will be the owner of Harry Forrest’s mill.”’
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