The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  Emma gasped. ‘But that’s not why you want to marry me, is it?’

  Her heart began to thud painfully as Jamie spoke again, words that were a death knell to all her hopes, all the girlish dreams she had cherished and nurtured through the long years of waiting.

  ‘I won’t marry you, Emma Forrest. Not now. Not if that’s what people are going to say about me. That I’ve married you to get the mill. The whole village must have known about this feud and that’s what they’ll say. A man’s got his pride. I’ve got my pride. I won’t be a party to my old man’s scheming.’

  She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘But – but I don’t understand.’ Then realization came to her and with it, a great sadness that was a physical pain in her chest. ‘You don’t love me, Jamie. All that’s just an excuse.’ She fought to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes, determined not to let him see how his words were like a knife through her heart. Slowly she shook her head and the lower lip of her generous mouth trembled suddenly. ‘You can’t love me.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he argued angrily, ‘but it wouldn’t work Emma. Not now. Not knowing what people were thinking, saying about us. About me. It would eat away at us. It would destroy us.’

  She shook her head again, this time more vehemently. ‘Only if you let it, Jamie. Don’t include me in that statement because I love you enough to rise above any village tittle-tattle, enough even to go against my own father’s wishes.’ She stopped but her unspoken words hung between them like an accusation. You don’t love me enough, Jamie Metcalfe, her silence said.

  As if unable to defend himself Jamie averted his glance from her steady gaze. ‘It wouldn’t work,’ he muttered again and turned away.

  Emma watched him walk back towards the glowing coals in the fire of his forge. With savage ferocity, he worked the long handle of the bellows until the red glow became white hot. She stepped back, feeling the heat growing too much for her to bear. But Jamie, close to the furnace, seemed oblivious to any discomfort. Emma waited a moment longer, watching him, but when he did not turn round, did not even glance over his shoulder at her, she turned away and left the forge. As she passed beneath the brick archway into the market place, she heard the sound of his hammer striking the anvil as he worked on a horse’s shoe, a slow, rhythmic clang, clang, like the tones of the passing bell.

  It sounded to Emma like the death knell of their love and she covered her ears against it.

  ‘You know, Sarah, I really did think Jamie loved me.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘I’ve no patience with the lad. Y’know, I’ve always liked the Metcalfe boys, ’specially young William. But Jamie, well, I can’t believe how he’s changed.’ She was quiet a moment and then, as if kindly trying to find excuses for him, added, ‘I ’spect it’s the war and coming back and his mam and dad not being here anymore . . .’ Her voice trailed away, but then she wagged her finger in the air and said more strongly, ‘but it dun’t give him the right to treat you like this. Mekin’ promises to a young lass and then not keepin’ them. Oh, dear me, no.’

  Emma was silent, slowly wiping down the counter with a damp cloth, so lost in her own thoughts that when loud knocking sounded suddenly on the shop door, she jumped.

  ‘We’re closed,’ Sarah shouted. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’ But the knocking came again.

  Emma sighed and went round the counter. ‘Evidently they either can’t read or won’t take no for an answer.’

  She unbolted the door and opened it to find herself staring once more at a huge bunch of flowers and behind it was the merry, smiling face of Leonard Smith. Emma stepped back in surprise and, as if taking that for an invitation, Leonard stepped across the threshold. He gave an exaggerated bow and held out the flowers towards her.

  ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady. Would you do me the great honour, Miss Forrest, of allowing me to take you to the fair?’

  For a moment she thought he was teasing her, making sport of her plainness, of her workaday clothes, her rough, work-worn hands. She opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, but when she looked into his handsome face she saw that although he was adopting the pose of a courtly gent, acting a part almost, the question in his blue-grey eyes was genuine.

  ‘I – I – ’ she stammered, ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s been a while,’ he said at once. ‘I’ve been away – er – working, you know.’ His voice dropped. ‘But no, I’d not forgotten.’

  She felt a flush creep up her cheeks and she buried her face in the flowers, hiding her growing confusion from him. When she was once more in control of her senses she said, ‘Won’t you come in, please? We’ve almost finished here. Please go upstairs, I won’t be a moment.’

  ‘You go with the young gentleman, lass,’ Sarah said. ‘I can finish here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Emma asked and then turning back to Leonard she said, suddenly strangely shy, ‘Please, come this way.’

  As she led the way up the dark stairway and into the front parlour above the shop, the windows of which also looked out on to the village street, Emma was conscious of him following her closely. In his fine city clothes, the white shirt and neatly knotted silk tie, a flower in his lapel, the gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat, she was surprised to find he seemed entirely at ease. Placing his black hat and ebony cane on a small table, Leonard strode across the room, nimbly avoiding the conglomeration of old-fashioned furniture that crowded the parlour and held out his hand towards her father, who sat in his easy chair before the fire.

  Harry made as if to rise, but at once Leonard said, ‘Please don’t disturb yourself, sir. I only came to ask you if I may take Emma to the fair tomorrow afternoon?’

  Emma held her breath, knowing what would happen next. There would be grumbles and mutterings about her wanting to go gallivanting when there was work to be done and then her father would shake his head and say she could not be spared. Two farmers were due to bring their grain in tomorrow, she knew. There would be no visits to the fair for her.

  To her amazement, Harry Forrest was smiling, ‘Well, I don’t see why not, young feller. Where is this fair then?’

  ‘On the sea front at Calceworth.’

  Her father grunted. ‘Well, mind she’s back here by ten o’clock.’

  Emma glanced at her father shrewdly. Oh, so that’s your game, is it, Father? Leonard Smith, son of Bridget, is an acceptable escort, is he? But then, she thought grimly, perhaps anyone was acceptable as long as he wasn’t a Metcalfe.

  The young man turned towards her and, with his back to her father and unseen by him, Leonard gave her a deliberately saucy wink. ‘Two o’clock tomorrow. And wear your best bonnet.’

  Emma forced a smile to her mouth. Whatever her father’s schemes were, they were not of Leonard’s making. ‘Oh, I will,’ she said brightly and, with a hint of rebellion, she cast a glance towards her father and added, ‘I have a lovely new straw bonnet I bought on a market stall a little while back.’

  As Leonard said politely, ‘Goodnight, sir, and thank you,’ Harry Forrest nodded and smiled and Emma followed Leonard out of the door to the top of the stairs to see him down once more. Resting his hand lightly on the banister he said, ‘I’ll let myself out, Emma.’ He pointed towards the flowers. ‘You’d better get those in water.’ She glanced down to see that she was still clutching the bouquet in her arms.

  He leant forward suddenly and his lips touched her cheek, ‘See you tomorrow.’ Then he was running lightly down the stairs, leaving her standing at the top staring after him.

  ‘Where are you off to, Em, all dressed up?’

  Emma whirled around. She had not heard him approach and the sound of his voice startled her. She was standing by the gate, her gaze fixed on the curve in the road around which she expected Leonard to appear. Nervously she smoothed her gloved hands down the skirt of her costume. It was her best outfit, indeed her only smart outfit. Royal blue that accentuated the colour of he
r eyes, the jacket fitted snugly to her waist and the skirt fell in straight well-cut lines to her ankles. A white blouse with ruffles at the throat and the straw hat completed her outfit. It was not in the height of fashion, she knew. Indeed, it was the style of dress that had been worn before the war, but it was all she had. Her father allowed her no money to spend on new clothes and these were second-hand, altered to fit Emma by the village dressmaker.

  ‘William! You made me jump.’ Then she smiled at him, knowing full well what effect her next words would have on him. ‘I’m going to the fair in Calceworth.’

  His reaction did not disappoint her. ‘The fair? In Calceworth? And ya dad’s letting ya go?’ His tone was incredulous. ‘Why, I reckon the last time we all went to the fair, your grandpa took us in his pony and trap. The three of us, do you remember? You, Jamie and me.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘Do you know, I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘He was a lovely man with children. By heck, that were a day.’ William shook his head remembering. ‘But d’you mean you’re going on your own, Em? If you’d said, then I . . .’

  At that moment, the rattle of wheels and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves sounded and a smart trap rounded the corner, the pony’s white mane rippling in the breeze. In the back, the reins held lightly in his hands, sat Leonard Smith. He drew the trap to a halt beside Emma and jumped down. Ignoring William as if he wasn’t even there, Leonard gave a low bow and said, ‘Your carriage awaits, m’lady.’

  Emma held out her hand to him, which he took and raised to his lips in a courtly gesture. Then, still holding her hand, he helped her up into the back of the trap.

  He climbed in, sat beside her and took up the reins. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes,’ Emma said, her brilliant eyes shining, ‘I’m ready.’

  Leonard flapped the reins and the trap jerked forward. She turned to look back at William, raising her hand to wave to him but the smile on her mouth faded and her hand fell back into her lap. He was staring up at her with a strange look upon his face. Anger, hurt, even despair – all were mingled in his gentle eyes. As the trap drew away, all Emma could do, was to watch the diminishing figure of William as he stood, motionless, staring after them.

  Twelve

  Resolutely, Emma pushed away the memories of a trip to the fair with her grandpa Charlie and the two Metcalfe brothers. Today, she would not even think about them, she told herself. The carefree days of her girlhood seemed so far behind her now, even though it was less than four years since she had last gone to the beach with Jamie and William. So much had happened since, so much had changed and those idyllic days were now like a long-lost memory. And the sedate walks along the sea front with the Metcalfe brothers, when she had believed herself to be so happy, even they seemed staid beside the fun that Leonard Smith showed her.

  At first, as the trap bowled along the straight road towards the coast, she had felt very far from being able to enjoy the outing. The memory of the reproachful look on William’s face haunted her, but as they approached the town and clip-clopped along the main street, Emma found herself fascinated by the bustle, drawn by the fashionable ladies and the shops. And all the time, Leonard’s cheery conversation gradually made the picture of William’s angry face fade from her mind and Emma began to enjoy herself.

  The fair was a revelation. The hazy childhood memories, which William had evoked, were only of a coconut shy and a big swingboat which had held all three children at once. Now, Leonard took her hand and said, ‘I’ll take you on everything. What do you want to do first? The Great Wheel or the Figure Eight? You choose.’

  Emma looked about her, holding on to her straw hat as the breeze from the sea threatened to whip it from her head and toss it into the air. She was overwhelmed by the crowds and the laughter and the music. She tilted her head back to look at the big wheel turning slowly above them ‘It – it looks awfully high,’ she murmured.

  Leonard squeezed her hand. ‘You’ll be with me. You’ll be quite safe.’

  And she was. With his arms around her in the swinging seat and a bar in front of them, she did feel safe and, as they reached the top of the wheel, Emma gave a cry of delighted surprise. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful. Just look at the sea and all the boats.’ In the distance, tiny white-sailed boats bobbed on the glittering, undulating surface of the water. Then the wheel turned and they went down towards the ground again.

  Emma laughed. ‘It must be like going round on our mill’s sails.’

  Clutching her hat, she waved to the folks below, strangers to her, but holiday-makers and day-trippers, like her, out to enjoy themselves.

  Next, Leonard took her on the Figure Eight where she clung to him as they whizzed up and down and round until she was quite breathless.

  ‘Now I’ll win you a coconut,’ he said confidently and to her surprise with his second shot, he knocked a coconut from its holder and the stallholder handed it to her, teasing, ‘Tek him away, Miss. He’s a mite too good. I’ll not mek a penny profit on the day.’

  Laughing, Leonard guided her towards the helter-skelter and insisted that they ride down on the same mat, his arms tightly around her.

  Emma fanned her hot face. ‘Oh, no more for a minute, Leonard,’ she panted. He put his arm about her shoulders and said, ‘All right, let’s have a go on the ducking pond.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  They stood at the back of a small crowd and watched a man throwing wooden balls at a bullseye beneath which a man sat on a board dressed in a striped bathing suit. ‘What happens?’ Emma asked.

  ‘The man in the bathing suit, he’s part of the show. If a ball hits the centre of the bullseye, the board he’s sitting on will tip up and he’ll get a ducking.’

  The crowd groaned as the man having a try, threw the last ball and missed the bullseye completely.

  Come on, let’s show them how it’s done,’ Leonard said, grabbing her hand and weaving his way through the crowd to hand his money to the stallholder and be given three small wooden balls in return.

  ‘Right, darling, stand back.’ Gently Leonard put her a small distance from him so that he could raise his arm and take aim. The ball flew from his hand, straight and true and hit the bullseye with a crack and the man on board pretended surprise as he felt the wood beneath him tip forward. Throwing his arms in the air, he gave a bloodcurdling yell and fell into the tank of water beneath him. The crowd cheered as the man in the water played up to his audience by pretending to struggle as if he was drowning, floundering and splashing and sending a shower of droplets over those standing too near. Joining in the merriment, the crowd shrieked with laughter. Leonard stood watching, smiling and waiting with two more wooden balls still in his grasp. After a few moments the man climbed out of the water and back on to the board above the tank. Again, Leonard took aim and hit the bullseye smack in the centre. This time, the surprise on the man’s face as he felt himself falling once more, was genuine.

  The crowd were loving the show and were clapping and attracting more to join in. They jeered and whistled as the dripping man climbed wearily back on to his perch. Playfully, he shook his fist at Leonard who just laughed, took aim and let loose the third and final ball. Again the man splashed down into the water and the cheering rang all around them.

  Emma clapped in delight. ‘Oh, Leonard, how clever you are.’

  He took her arm, and as they threaded their way through the throng, several people patted Leonard’s back. ‘Well done, lad. Never seen that done before. Here, come on, Tom, let us have a try.’ Several men were clustering round the stallholder and handing over coins. As they walked away, they heard a shout behind them and the stallholder came running after them. ‘Wait a minute, mate!’ He reached them and pressed some coins into Leonard’s hand. ‘’Ere, mate. ’Ave this one on me. You’ve done me a good turn, you ’ave, attracting a crowd like that. Never ’ad so much interest.’

  Leonard accepted the coins and doffed
his hat to the stallholder who was already hurrying back shouting, ‘Roll up, roll up, you’ve seen how it’s done. Now you have a go.’

  Laughing together, Emma linked her arm through his and said, ‘I think you’ve made that little man’s day.’

  Leonard looked into her eyes and said softly, ‘But it’s your day I wanted to make, Emma Forrest.’

  ‘Oh, you have, indeed you have.’

  It was dark when they drew into the yard. Leonard sprang from the trap and held out his hand to help Emma alight. As she stepped down, she raised her eyes to the black shape of the mill looming out of the night. ‘I wonder why the mill isn’t working,’ she murmured. The sails were motionless and parked despite the fact that a stiff breeze, sufficient to turn them, was blowing.

  Leonard’s deep laughter came out of the blackness. ‘Your father needs some fun too sometimes, you know.’ He paused and then said, ‘He’ll be visiting my mother no doubt.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Again she heard his low chuckle.

  As they moved towards the back door, Emma said, ‘Won’t you come in for a moment?’ She hesitated and then, greatly daring, added, ‘Perhaps you would like a glass of homemade wine?’

  Mentally she crossed her fingers hoping that he would decline, but he did not and she was obliged to lead him up the stairs and into the parlour. She turned up the lamp and went towards the cut glass decanter on the sideboard which she was forbidden to touch.

  Perhaps, she prayed as she poured the clear yellow liquid into a glass, her father would not notice.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she invited as she held out the glass to him but as he made to do so, she added in alarm, ‘Oh, not there. That’s Father’s chair.’ But Leonard’s only reply was to raise his left eyebrow rather sardonically and sit in the very chair that she had asked him not to use. For a moment Emma stood uncertainly, then suddenly she laughed at her own foolishness. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Old habits die hard.’