At the baby’s christening, Harry insisted on carrying the child himself even though Emma argued, ‘It should be the godmother who carries him, or even one of the godfathers, not you, Father.’ But her protestations fell on deaf ears. Even the choice of godparents had almost precipitated a quarrel, not between husband and wife, but between Emma and her father.
‘It’s bad enough you wanting Luke and Sarah Robson, but to want William Metcalfe as the second godfather, now that I can’t abide. What does your husband say to it?’
‘Leonard doesn’t mind,’ Emma said evenly. In fact, Leonard couldn’t have cared less. She did not add that, because her husband was not much of a chapelgoer, he viewed the whole proceeding as a waste of time.
‘What does my son need godparents for when he’s got me for his father?’ Leonard had said. ‘I’ll teach him all he needs to know.’ His sudden wide grin seemed to say, and a good bit more besides, but Emma was beyond arguing; there had been enough with her father.
William, however, was godfather by proxy. To Emma’s intense disappointment, he had written to say he could not come for the ceremony, though he sent a silver christening mug that must have cost far more than the young man could afford on an apprentice millwright’s wage. Emma set it in the glazed corner cupboard in the best parlour and during the following weeks, her eyes often strayed towards it when she thought of her friend and how much she missed him. As for Jamie Metcalfe, she saw little of him now, for her days were filled with caring for her child and, as her strength and vigour returned, with her work in the bakehouse and bakery.
They settled into a routine, Harry and Luke working the mill, Sarah and Emma in the bakehouse and shop, and between them they all cared for the child. Only Leonard, who spent long stretches away from home on business in the city, had little time for his son. ‘I can’t abide babies, Emma. He’ll be more interesting to me when he’s grown a bit.’
But as the child grew and became a sturdy, solemn-faced little boy, Leonard still seemed to have no time to spend with his son. ‘When he’s older . . .’ was all Leonard would say. So it was his Grandpa Harry who took Charles for walks, who held out his arms when the boy took his first, faltering steps. It was Harry who bought him his first toy engine and taught him to ride their docile pony. It was his grandfather who took the boy’s hand and led him to school on his first day there.
And it was Harry who took Charles Forrest Smith all over the mill, telling him day after day, ‘One day, lad, all this will be yours.’
Twenty-One
‘The miserable, conniving, cheating old beggar!’
‘Leonard! Not in front of the boy and at a time like this,’ Emma stormed. ‘Have you no respect for my father when we’ve only just buried him?’
The five-year-old Charles, dressed in sombre clothes as befitting the day, watched the quarrel between his parents raging above his head. His eyes followed their movements that were quick and full of anger and he cringed under the raised voices.
‘Respect? Respect, you say? For that old—’
‘Leonard,’ Emma said again warningly and cast a meaningful glance towards their son.
The child was perhaps the one person in the room, Emma thought, who would genuinely miss Harry Forrest. From the moment of his birth, Harry had idolized his grandson. The boy was the culmination of all the old man’s dreams, the answer to a prayer, after the long years of waiting for the birth of a male heir for old Charlie Forrest’s mill; a boy who must, and did, bear the name of the founder of the mill.
‘Everything – every bloody thing – ’ Leonard spat, ‘in trust for him.’ As Leonard thrust an accusing finger towards the boy, Emma saw her son wince and blink and knew that although he did not fully understand the furious words flying above his head, Charles knew instinctively that in some way he was the centre of his father’s wrath.
Emma saw that the child’s hands were trembling. He was a gentle little boy, quiet and reserved. His large, dark eyes were soulful and his face, even though he played outside for much of the time, was always pale. He was rarely in trouble. Indeed, he seemed to have little daring, no spark of devilment and perhaps this, Emma thought, was what made Leonard so irritable with his son. Overshadowed by his flamboyant father, in his presence Charles seemed to fade into the background, perhaps, Emma thought shrewdly, deliberately. The five-year-old had yet to learn how to deal with the man whose fleeting visits home were sometimes a whirlwind of fun and laughter with lavish gifts and outings to the fair or the beach, while at other times, Leonard ignored the boy or shouted at him for some insignificant misdemeanour that sent Charles, whimpering, to hide his face against Emma’s skirts
‘He’s a mother’s boy,’ Leonard had said scathingly more than once. ‘I can see I’ll have to take him in hand.’
At this moment, seeing him standing there so wide-eyed and solemn, Emma felt compassion for her son. He had still not recovered from the awful shock of seeing his grandfather fall down one of the ladders in the mill. Emma could still hear the child’s terrified screams, ‘Mammy, Mammy, Grandpa’s hurt!’ If anyone knew how such a trauma left scars on a child down the years, then Emma did. She had witnessed her own grandfather, Charlie, falling to his death from the sails of the mill and to this day, there was something she could still not remember about it; something that her mind had shut out. Sometimes in the early morning hours she would awake from a nightmare, sweating and trembling, on the brink of remembering and yet still the memory eluded her. She had been twelve at that time and had known what death meant, but young Charles did not seem to understand and was still asking, ‘Where is Grandpa?’
Now, standing in the room listening to the heated words between his parents, his young, confused mind, would be wondering what he had done wrong to make his father so angry. Had he done something bad in the church, he would be thinking, or when they were lowering that long box into the ground? He couldn’t remember saying or doing anything that could have been wrong. He had stood quietly by his mother’s side, holding her hand, not saying anything in his piping little voice, just silently watching the other people, all of them dressed in black from head to foot. And his mother had been very proud of him; she had told him so as they walked back to the mill. When all the visitors had come back to the house to eat sandwiches and cake he had sat quietly in the corner by old Luke’s side and the only thing Emma had heard him say in all that time had been a whispered ‘Where’s Grandpa?’
Luke had looked at him with watery eyes and said, ‘He’s gone, lad.’
‘Gone where, Mester Robson?’
‘On – on a long journey.’
‘When will he come back?’
The white head had shaken, ‘He won’t be coming back, Charles.’
The child’s lips had quivered then. ‘Not ever?’ Luke had not spoken then, but had only shaken his head again.
All the other mourners had gone; Luke and Sarah back to their cottage and the strange man in the long black coat, who had sat at the table and read from a piece of paper, had climbed into his noisy motor car and chugged his way out of the yard. Now only his mother and father and the boy were left in the best parlour above the shop. Emma saw Charles bite his lip, his eyes blinking rapidly as if he were trying to hold back threatening tears. She saw his glance take in the sheaf of papers lying on the table. That was what was to blame for the quarrel between his parents. Emma could read the thought on his face.
As the lawyer had been reading, they had all witnessed, the child too, the change that had come across Leonard’s face. His lips had tightened, his eyes had become a steely, cold grey. His face had been pink at first, then red, and finally, his skin had turned a blotchy, furious purple. But it wasn’t until everyone had gone – even Bridget, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy, perfumed handkerchief – that Leonard’s anger had exploded.
As he continued to pace the floor, shaking his fist in the air and ranting, Emma was aware that the boy had crept from the room. She heard him tiptoe down the stairs an
d the click of the latch on the back door as he reached up to let himself out into the yard.
‘Your father’s cheated me, that’s what,’ Leonard was saying. He prodded his finger towards his wife. ‘And he’s cheated you too, if you only realize it. To pass over his own daughter in favour of a child. I ask you? Had he lost his mind, d’ya reckon? Do you think we’ve grounds to contest the will?’
‘Hardly,’ Emma said drily, watching him. ‘It was drawn up and witnessed five years ago, the day after Charles’s birth.’ She paused and regarded her husband steadily, her head on one side. ‘What exactly is it that has upset you? We still have a home and the mill for our lifetime. It was too much to hope that my father would ever leave the mill to me. After all,’ there was a wry twist to her lips and she gave a small sigh, ‘I’m only a woman.’ Then she shook her head, mystified by her husband’s reaction, and added, ‘You must have guessed he would leave it to Charles. It was what he always wanted. A male heir for the mill.’
‘That wasn’t what he promised me when I married you,’ Leonard muttered, still pacing, so incensed that he forgot to guard his tongue.
In the five years since the birth of her child, Emma had given little thought – and then only fleetingly – to the overheard conversation about the ‘deal’ regarding her marriage. Her life had been filled with the work of the mill and the bakery, the birth and care of her son, until that awful day – was it really only five days ago – that her son’s screams had rent the peace of a lazy summer afternoon. Luke had come hobbling across the yard.
‘Emma, come quick! Ya dad . . .’
She had run across the yard and into the mill, pausing in the doorway as she saw immediately her father lying at the bottom of the ladder, his neck at an awkward, unnatural angle.
‘He fell,’ Luke wheezed behind her. ‘I were on the bin floor. I heard him slip, cry out once and then the bumping and thumping. Oh, lass, I couldn’t do anything.’
‘No, Luke, I know . . .’ she said, putting her hand out to him. ‘But please, can you fetch the doctor?’ Even as she said it, she knew it was pointless. And all the time, little Charles was screaming.
Now, facing her angry husband she remembered the quarrel she had overheard in the mill between her father and Luke years before, she said quietly, ‘And what did my father promise you, Leonard? What was the “deal” if you married me?’
Leonard glared at her and then, as if unable to contain his rage any longer, he spat out the words, ‘A hundred pounds a year and, when he died, the whole lot, the whole lot, would come to me for my lifetime as long as I – we – produced an heir. A male heir. The only thing I had to do was, in my turn, leave it all to the boy.’
Emma gasped. Despite the years of humiliation under her father’s taunts, she had not thought that even he would stoop so low, would be so vitriolic in his resentment against her for being a girl. Her legs felt weak and she reached out for the corner of the table and sat down on the nearest chair. Her gaze was fixed, mesmerized, on her husband; the man who had been bought for her. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘How could he? And how – how could you?’ Anger spurted again, giving her strength.
Leonard stopped his restless pacing and turned to face her. ‘How could I what?’
‘Be – be bought. He bought you, didn’t he? For a hundred pounds a year and the promise of an inheritance. It was all just another deal to you, wasn’t it?’
‘It wasn’t like that, Emma. Not like you’re making it sound.’ He spread his hands. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of a dowry? Well, it was like that. I needed a home. I could hardly live with my mother forever, now could I? Her with all her fancy men—’
‘Oh aye. And one of ’em was my father, wasn’t he?’
Leonard shot her a look. But for all the gossip that surrounded Bridget, Emma could not find it in her to dislike the charming, frivolous woman who had shown her nothing but kindness, even if in a rather offhand way. It was the same kind of attitude which Leonard displayed towards her when he came home from his trips to the city which, over the years, had become longer and longer, and his visits home so infrequent and fleeting that she wondered if little Charles really knew who this dashing, well-dressed man was.
Quietly, she asked. ‘Did you ever love me, Leonard?’
‘Of course I did – do,’ he corrected himself impatiently. ‘Don’t get all sentimental. It’s not like you. It’s one of the things I liked about you. You’re not a simpering, silly female. You’re tough and determined and – and dependable.’
‘And,’ she murmured flatly, ‘I had a mill.’
‘Oh, well, if you’re going to fling that at me . . .’
‘I’m not Leonard. I don’t blame you as much as I blame my father.’
‘Oh, very generous of you,’ he said sarcastically. Then he sighed and added, ‘But you’re right, the old beggar’s done it across both of us.’
Anger in every movement, he snatched up the copy of the will which the solicitor had left lying on the table. His mouth tight, his eyes glittering with resentment, Leonard scanned the pages, his fingers turning the sheets over one after the other. As Emma watched, she saw a sudden stillness come over him, saw him pause longer on one particular page as if reading and re-reading one section. Before her eyes, Leonard’s manner changed. With deliberate casualness he tossed the will on to the table and said, ‘Well, there it is then. Let’s not quarrel any more, my dear.’ He came towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘We’ll make the best of a bad job, eh? You run the mill until Charles is old enough to take over and I’ll continue with my – er – business interests.’
She stared at him, confused by his sudden change of attitude.
He kissed her forehead, turned and left the room. She heard him go into the bedroom, undoubtedly, she thought, to pack his suitcase once more.
Slowly Emma reached across the table and picked up the sheaf of papers. Her eyes scanned the stilted legal jargon, trying to make sense of it all. Then the words leapt off the page at her.
And I appoint my daughter, Emma Smith, to be Executrix of this my Will and Trustee for my estate until my grandson, Charles Forrest Smith, shall attain the age of one and twenty, with full Powers of Attorney . . .
She wasn’t quite sure what the legal wording meant, but she had a shrewd idea. Until her son reached twenty-one, she, Emma, had full power over all the estate, including the handling of the money. With the will still in her hands she moved slowly towards the window overlooking the yard. Below, she saw her five-year-old son standing rigidly still, his gaze fixed upon the mill, its sails still and silent today. Faintly, through the open window and coming from the direction of the mill, she heard a low, continuous buzzing. A black cloud seemed to be clinging to the side of the mill about half way up; a heaving, moving, humming black cloud. Fascinated, the boy and his mother watched as the bees from the orchard swarmed on the side of the mill.
‘The death of a Forrest,’ Emma murmured.
Twenty-Two
‘Leonard, I really need your help.’
Above the morning paper Leonard raised his eyebrows. Already he was dressed for the city in his smart check suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. As always, when there were any available, there was a fresh flower in his buttonhole. In contrast, Emma felt weary and dishevelled. As usual she had been up since the early hours that morning and now, at seven thirty, it was the first time she had stopped to grab a slice of toast and a mouthful of tea and to call Charles for school.
‘My help?’ her husband asked. ‘Whatever do you need my help for? Besides,’ he added, his eyes going back to the Sales and Wanted column in the newspaper, ‘I must be on my way.’ He crumpled the paper and said, ‘And that reminds me, it’s high time I invested in a car. The times I travel on Tom Robinson’s bus, I must have nearly bought the darn thing by now.’
‘Never mind that just now, Leonard. Will you listen? I need your help with the mill.’
‘The mill? Now look here, yo
u know I don’t—’
‘Listen!’ she snapped, worry shortening her patience. ‘It’s the machinery. It needs keeping in good order.’
‘What about Luke? I thought he saw to all that.’
Emma bit her lip. ‘Luke isn’t well. He’s getting dizzy spells. He’s not worked for a couple of weeks.’
‘Hasn’t he? Can’t say I’d noticed.’ Emma glared at him and bit back the sharp retort that sprang to her lips as Leonard added, disinterestedly, ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘After Father died, he seemed – well – he seemed to give up somehow. I don’t think he’ll ever be well enough to work again, not even if he improves a bit. Me and the lad from the village have been managing the mill between use but we’re not getting through the work. Sarah’s kept the bakehouse going, but we’ll be losing business soon, if . . .’
‘Get someone else, then.’
‘But why can’t you . . .?’ she began, but her words were cut short by Leonard holding out his hand towards her, palm outwards, as if fending her off.
‘You know I don’t want to have anything to do with the mill. I know nothing about it, so it would be pointless me even trying.’
‘You like the money it earns well enough, though, don’t you?’ she retorted.
‘Well, if you’re going to start that again, I’m going. I’ll be back on Saturday.’
‘Saturday?’ Her eyes widened. ‘But – but you usually come home midweek.’
‘I’ve business in Sheffield on Wednesday and Thursday, so I shan’t be home until the weekend.’
Emma’s eyes narrowed and before she had stopped to think, the thought that had troubled her for several months now, formed itself into words and came out of her mouth. ‘Leonard, have you got someone else? Another woman in Lincoln?’
‘Eh?’ He spun round and she had to admit that the surprise on his face was genuine. He stared at her for a moment and then let out a huge guffaw of laughter and came back towards her, his arms outstretched, to take her by the shoulders and give her a gentle shake. ‘Heavens, no! I’ve got enough to handle with the one I’ve got.’
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