‘You’re a young woman now, Emma Forrest,’ he said softly. ‘No longer a child.’
Under his intense gaze, Emma felt a moment’s confusion and when his glance dropped away from her face to her ample bosom, down to her slim waist and generous hips, she felt a warm blush creeping up her face.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you have the most perfect Edwardian woman’s shape I think I’ve ever seen.’
Emma stared at him, and forgetting her politeness said bluntly, ‘Eh?’
He laughed. ‘An hourglass figure. Do you wear one of those tightly laced corset things to get that shape?’
‘Well, really!’
‘Oh, come on, Emma. Don’t play the coy, naive girl with me. You’re a country lass – a buxom wench with plenty to offer a virile man. A man like me. We could do very nicely together. What do you say?’
A shocked gasp escaped her lips, but whatever she might have said was stilled as she heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs and a moment later the door opened and he entered the room.
Emma jumped to her feet but Leonard, completely at ease rose, almost languidly, from the chair and held out his hand towards Harry Forrest. Emma found she was holding her breath, waiting for her father’s swift temper to erupt, but although for a moment he seemed rather surprised to see them there, he grasped Leonard’s outstretched hand and said, ‘Sit down, sit down, lad.’ Then he glanced towards her and said, ‘Well, girl, you had a good day with this young feller, then?’
Amazed, Emma sank back into her chair and stammered, ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Father.’
‘Good, good.’ Harry Forrest rubbed his hands together and, his glance now taking in the glass of wine that Leonard still held, said, ‘I think I’ll join you.’
Having poured a glass for himself, her father came and sat on the sofa. Turning to Leonard, he said, ‘Your mother tells me you have to go back to Lincoln tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. Matters of business.’ There was an expectant silence, but Leonard made no offer to explain what his ‘business’ in the city was exactly. ‘But I’ll be home again by the weekend,’ he added.
Emma stood up again. ‘If you’ll excuse me. I – I have to be up early in the morning.’
‘I’ll see to the bakehouse in the morning,’ Harry Forrest offered.
Emma gaped at him in astonishment. Allowing her a day out in the company of Bridget Smith’s son was one thing, but agreeing that she could lie abed the following morning, when there was work to be done, was quite another.
Leonard set down his empty glass and got up too. ‘It’s all right, sir. I must be off home now, anyway. I’ve an early start as well.’
Harry grunted and then said, ‘Well, see the young man down the stairs, Emma girl.’
‘Yes, Father,’ was the only reply she could muster.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said to Sarah the next morning as they stood side by side in the bakehouse, plunging their hands into the soft dough, kneading, pounding, rolling and patting it into shape. ‘Father is quite obviously encouraging him. I suppose . . .’ she sighed wistfully, ‘it’s as much to keep me from seeing Jamie as to keep himself in Leonard’s mother’s good books.’
Emma had lain awake half the night, though whether through excitement after her trip to the fair, or because a handsome young man seemed to be paying court to her, she could not herself be sure. She had to admit, though, that after the hurt of Jamie’s surly and cruel rejection of her, Leonard’s easy charm was a balm to her wounded pride.
‘He seems a very nice young man, but – ’ Sarah began and then stopped. Emma glanced at her.
‘But what?’
‘Oh, I’m being silly.’
Emma hid her smile. ‘The bees? You’ve been talking to the bees.’
Sarah looked sheepish. ‘Mm.’
‘And?’
The older woman lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Nothing. No response at all.’
Emma’s smile broadened. ‘Oh dear,’ she said teasingly.
Sarah laughed. ‘Now then, Miss, none of your sarcasm.’
‘As if I would, Sarah. As if I’d dare.’
Their laughter rang through the bakehouse, but never once did their busy hands slow in their work.
‘You must be hard up for a feller if you have to take up with the likes of him. I thought better of you, Emma.’
‘And what has it got to do with you, Jamie Metcalfe?’ she retorted hotly, and added pointedly, ‘Now?’
They were standing in the middle of the busy cattle market, the noise of the animals and the murmur of voices all around them, punctuated now and again by the auctioneer as he moved from pen to pen.
Jamie’s only reply was a scowl and a grunt as he turned away.
She knew he always came to the cattle market. It was an opportunity for him to meet and talk to the local farmers which was not to be missed. ‘Someone’s got to build the business back up again, now William’s let it go to wrack and ruin,’ he had said more than once in Emma’s hearing, so how often poor William had it flung at him in bitter resentment, she did not like to imagine.
This morning, from the mill yard opposite, she had seen him moving amongst the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, stopping to talk to people he knew well. Before she had stopped to think, she had crossed the road and slipped amongst the pens to reach him. Her heart raced at the sight of his dark head and broad shoulders above all the rest. As she weaved her way through the throng, she still expected him to turn and see her moving towards him, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her and the old smile she remembered curving his mouth. But he did not see her approach and when she touched his arm and he turned his head around to look at her, his mouth twisted in a sneer and his first words were, ‘Where’s ya fancy man this morning then?’
‘If you mean Leonard,’ Emma retorted, ‘he’s in Lincoln. He had business to attend to yesterday.’
Jamie’s mouth twisted even more. ‘Huh! That’s what they’re calling it these days, a’ they?’
‘Calling what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, if you don’t know what he gets up to on his visits to the big city, I aren’t going to be the one to tell you.’ It was then that he had added the final insult and now, having delivered her own parting shot, she whirled away and pushed her way back through the crowd, tears smarting her eyes and blurring her vision, so that she blundered through cattle droppings and stumbled against a pen, bruising her hip. As she grasped the rail and leant against it for a moment, Emma heard a voice calling her name. ‘Em. Emma!’
It was a familiar voice, but it was not Jamie’s and she did not look back. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this. She could face no more insults, no more rejection from the man who had held her heart since childhood, the man for whom she had waited through girlhood and into womanhood, wanting no other, saving herself for her returning war hero. It was over, she knew it now. Jamie had changed. Maybe the war had altered him, or maybe the different circumstances of his home life had embittered him. Whatever it was, over these weeks and months since his homecoming, his resentment had grown deeper. He did not love her and the reality of the man with his dark moods obliterated her fond memory of the boy with the laughing eyes. His words ‘you’re my girl’ were now only a mocking, hollow memory.
She pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders, wrapped her arms around herself and, bending her head, hurried out of the cattle market and ran across the road straight into the waiting, outstretched arms of Leonard Smith.
Thirteen
They were married in the September of 1919 and Emma could not remember having seen such a grin stretched across her father’s face. She had hoped to keep the ceremony quiet with only her father, Leonard’s mother, and of course, Luke and Sarah Robson, present. But the villagers of Marsh Thorpe were not to be cheated of a pretty wedding, the first with proper wedding finery since before the terrible war.
Emma had dared to argue wit
h her father. ‘We don’t want a lot of fuss. I don’t need fancy clothes that I can never wear again.’
Harry wagged his finger at her. ‘I’ll not have folks say I can’t give my daughter a proper wedding. You’ll only get married once, girl.’ He coughed awkwardly and then added quickly, ‘Bridget will see to everything.’
Emma sighed with resignation. ‘Do you mind very much?’ she asked Leonard worriedly. ‘I can’t understand it. I’ve never known my father to be like this. Wanting to make a fuss over me.’
Leonard laughed and put his arms about her, kissing her forehead. ‘My dear girl, your father and I understand each other. Of course I don’t mind. You’ll make a beautiful bride.’
Emma eyed him doubtfully. Was he teasing her? As for the remark about her father, that at least was undoubtedly true. During the past week since Leonard had proposed to her and then gone dutifully to ask Harry Forrest for his permission, she had seen her father and Leonard deep in conversation on more than one occasion, but as soon as she approached them, their earnest discussions ceased. Once or twice she had felt a little uneasy as if there were secrets between the two men, but because they both seemed so happy, she pushed any doubts to the back of her mind.
‘Besides,’ Leonard was saying, laughter in his voice, ‘think of my mother. She’s going to have the time of her life helping you plan everything.’ And then he echoed the words her father had used. ‘She’ll see to it all.’
Bridget had certainly ‘seen to everything’, and, after her initial reluctance, Emma had to admit that she found herself swept along by Bridget’s obvious enjoyment and infectious enthusiasm.
‘My dear girl, why ever do you want a quiet wedding? It’s the most important day in any girl’s life. The day when every girl makes a beautiful bride.’ Bridget clasped her hands together, more like an excited schoolgirl than the mother of the bridegroom.
Emma smiled faintly, but said nothing. How could she tell Leonard’s mother, of all people – indeed, how could she tell anyone – that although for years she had secretly planned her wedding, had trembled with hope and longing at the mere thought of that day, in those dreams her bridegroom had not been Leonard, but Jamie?
‘I just thought that father . . .’ she began hesitantly, scrabbling around in her mind for any excuse.
‘Oh, your father,’ Bridget flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Just you leave your father to me. In fact,’ she added, linking her arm through Emma’s, ‘we’ll go and speak to him right this minute.’
Moments later, Bridget was standing before Harry Forrest, placing her hand on his dust-covered arm and gazing up at him, whilst Emma watched in astonishment and not without a little admiration.
‘Now, Harry,’ Bridget said, fluttering her eyelashes beguilingly, ‘I’m going to take Emma to this wonderful little dressmaker I’ve found. She makes all my clothes and she only lives in the next village, Thirsby. And together, she and I will help Emma choose all her wedding finery.’
‘Oh, Mrs Smith, really, I—’ Emma began, but the woman flashed her a winning smile and wagged her forefinger in playful admonishment, ‘Now, Emma, I’ve told you, it’s “Bridget” from now on. All this “Mrs Smith” indeed. You’re about to become my daughter-in-law.’ She came to Emma’s side and slipped her arm through hers, hugging the young woman to her. ‘Oh, Emma, I always wanted a daughter. My dear, dear girl, we’ll have such fun.’
Emma glanced at her father but his besotted gaze was on the pretty, vivacious woman at her side.
Miss Jefferson knelt on the floor surrounded by paper patterns, scraps of fabric and, with her mouth full of pins, tried valiantly to raise the hem of the dress to the middle of Emma’s shapely calf. Bridget stood watching, tapping her forefinger against her lips thoughtfully. ‘You know, Miss Jefferson,’ she said slowly, ‘I’m sorry to say it, but that dress really doesn’t suit Emma. What do you think?’ The little dressmaker stood up and took a step back to survey her customer. Her lips pursed, her head on one side, she ran her gaze over Emma, who felt like curling up with embarrassment under their scrutiny.
‘Now be honest, Miss Jefferson,’ Bridget said, as if Emma had no say in the matter at all.
‘We-ell,’ the middle-aged spinster glanced apologetically at Emma, ‘if I’m really honest, no, it doesn’t.’
‘I’m not built for pretty clothes, Mrs Sm – Bridget,’ Emma sighed, but the dressmaker put up her hands to contradict.
‘My dear, you have a magnificent figure. So – so . . .’ she stumbled as if struggling for an adjective to describe Emma’s build in the kindest way possible.
‘Huge,’ Emma murmured wryly.
‘Majestic,’ Bridget suggested triumphantly.
‘Yes, yes, that’s it exactly. So tall and such a shapely figure, just like the perfect Edwardian figure . . . Oh!’ Miss Jefferson cried, and at the same moment Bridget clapped her hands and the two women looked at each other.
‘That’s it, Miss Jefferson. An Edwardian wedding dress. Oh, how clever of you. Emma, you will look magnificent in an Edwardian dress.’
‘But won’t it be dreadfully expensive?’ Emma began, only to have her doubts waved aside by Bridget whilst already Miss Jefferson was scrabbling amongst drawings and patterns. Triumphantly she held one up. ‘Here it is. The dress I made for Lady Stoneham’s daughter.’
Three heads bent over the picture of a dress of rich, white satin extravagantly trimmed with lace around the neckline, the close-fitting bodice curved over a full bosom and hugged the tiny waist. The straight skirt had a long brocade train falling from the waist and a long, tulle veil was held in place by a coronet of orange blossom. Miss Jefferson pointed with her long, clever fingers to the picture. ‘We use whatever flowers are in season, of course,’ she explained.
‘And I’ll do your hair for you on the day, Emma, all piled up on top of your head. Oh, you’ll look a picture, my dear.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Emma murmured wistfully, ‘but – but it’s not exactly me, is it?’
‘Of course it is, Emma.’ Bridget was adamant. ‘You have just the figure for it.’
That’s what Leonard had said, Emma thought and wondered if, for once, she dare let herself believe their compliments. Later, when she told Leonard of their visit to the dressmaker, though without revealing the secret of her wedding dress, she said, ‘Your mother has been so sweet.’
Leonard laughed, ‘I don’t know when she last enjoyed herself so much. I think she’s really looking forward to having a daughter to spoil.’
Emma gazed at him. He was a handsome man and she was very lucky, she told herself, that someone like Leonard Smith should want to marry her, and that, already, she liked her future mother-in-law.
If only . . . Resolutely she pushed the thoughts away even before they could enter her mind. Forget him, she told herself sharply. Forget Jamie Metcalfe. He doesn’t love you.
She forced a bright smile to her face and brought her wayward thoughts back to the man in front of her, the man who was soon to be her husband. ‘I bet your mother looked lovely at her own wedding. What did she wear?’
Leonard shot her a strange look and then said airily, ‘I really couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t there.’
Emma laughed. ‘No, of course you weren’t, but I thought you might have seen photographs.’
‘No, no photographs,’ he said shortly. ‘Look, I really must go. I’ll see you next week when I’m home again.’ Swiftly he planted a kiss on her forehead and was gone.
The choice of bridesmaids seemed to be the only thing which caused Bridget consternation. ‘Emma, you really can’t have Sarah Robson as Matron of Honour. She’s too old and besides . . .’ she seemed about to say more, but then decided against it and finished lamely, ‘Well, she is too old. Have you no little girl relatives, or friends with little girls?’
Emma shook her head. ‘There’s no one.’
‘Well, then, we’ll just have to do without. It’s a little unusual, but if there’s really no one yo
u can ask. Come along, my dear, Miss Jefferson needs you today for a fitting. Do come along.’
Half an hour later Emma was standing once more in the little dressmaker’s workroom.
‘Oh, Emma,’ Bridget breathed. ‘You look absolutely splendid. Don’t you think so, Miss Jefferson?’
The dressmaker stood back, beamed and nodded. ‘Yes, she does. Even if I say it myself. My, my, it’s taken me back making one of these beautiful gowns again. The fashions today are so plain.’ She waved her hand dismissively in disgust and then the little spinster’s eyes blinked more rapidly than usual. ‘A proper village wedding, even if it is to an outsider. Oh!’ Her eyes widened and she cast an apologetic glance towards her valued customer, fearful of offending. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you know what villages are like.’
Bridget only laughed her tinkling, merry laugh, flapped her hand and said gaily, ‘Of course I understand. We are outsiders, we’re “furriners”. Of course we are. But I must say the village folk have been most kind to us since we came to live here, especially to me when my dear boy came back from the war. And even now, when he’s away so often on – er – business. And I do get so lonely. Why, Emma, I don’t know what I’d have done without your father and his little visits.’ She glanced coyly at Emma, then laughed again and came back to the business in hand, the fitting of her future daughter-in-law’s wedding gown.
Bridget clasped her hands together. ‘It’s beautiful, my dear. You look beautiful. Your father will be so proud of you.’
A small smile lightened Emma’s thoughtful expression. It was strange, but apart from Bridget, her father seemed to be the only other person who was pleased about her forthcoming marriage to Leonard. Whilst she had not expected the Metcalfes to wish her well, she had been totally unprepared for William’s reaction. The gentle friend whom she had always looked upon as the brother she had never had and whom she had hoped would one day be her brother-in-law, had burst into the bakehouse early one morning. He looked as if he had thrown on his clothes and rushed to see her as soon as daybreak arrived. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed as if he had hardly slept the previous night and his hair was wild and unbrushed. He was breathing hard, panting almost, as he stood in the doorway leading into the bakehouse from the yard. That he – a Metcalfe – should even venture into the yard of Forrest’s Mill proved the urgency of his mission.
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