The Miller's Daughter (12 page)

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.’

‘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.