The Miller's Daughter (13 page)

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.

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 with 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 you 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.

‘Is it true? Oh, Em, say it isn’t true.’

Emma closed the heavy metal door on the batch of dough she had just put into the oven. She adjusted the damper slightly at the side of the oven and then turned slowly to face him. She stared at
him for a moment and then nodded, saying quietly, ‘It’s true.’

William ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end even more. He looked like a startled scarecrow. If the atmosphere had not been so charged, his appearance would have amused Emma. As
it was, the frantic look in his eyes killed any merriment.

‘Why? In Heaven’s name,
why
?’

‘Because he asked me to marry him,’ she said simply.

‘But, Emma, are you sure about it – about him? I mean – well – do you know what he does for a living?’

With a start, she became painfully aware that William had called her ‘Emma’. He really was angry with her. Immediately defensive, she retorted hotly, ‘Of course I
know.’

But then Emma bit her lip. But did she? she asked herself. Did she really know how her future husband earned his living?

‘Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, you know,’ Leonard had said airily when she had asked him what his business was and why he went to Lincoln so often.

‘What? Do you mean a sort of dealer? Someone who buys and sells?’

Leonard laughed and tweaked her nose playfully. ‘What a clever girl you are, Emma. That’s it exactly. I’m a dealer.’ And he had laughed again.

‘What in?’ she had persisted.

‘Ooh, now let’s think.’ His blue-grey eyes were sparkling with mischief. ‘All sorts of things. Anything from a spade to a diamond. Would you like to be dripping in
diamonds, Emma darling? Maybe one day I’ll make my fortune and dress you in diamonds.’

Then Emma had joined in his teasing. ‘Hardly suitable for working in the mill or the bakehouse.’

Then Leonard had lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each finger, like a gentleman courting a fine lady. ‘But it’s hearts I’m dealing in at this moment. Your heart. Have I
beaten all the other bidders to win your heart, Emma Forrest?’

‘There are no other bidders, Leonard,’ she had told him truthfully. And silently added to herself, not any more.

‘And you don’t – mind?’ William was saying now. ‘You don’t mind what he does?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can’t blame a man for the way he earns his living, as long as it’s honest.’

William looked doubtful as he muttered, ‘Exactly. Is it, though?’

She knew that William must be referring to the sort of dealer who dealt on the fringes of the law, his way of trading not strictly honest, the kind who would pass off a fake antique as the
genuine article or maybe ask far too high a price for something, taking advantage of folk’s ignorance or simplicity. She hoped her future husband was not one of those.

‘Ya pays ya money and ya teks ya chance,’ she said mockingly, deliberately lapsing into broad dialect.