The Miller's Daughter (16 page)

‘Watch ya tongue, Luke Robson, else ya’ll find yasen out of a job.’

‘Suits me. I’m damned if I want to work with a man who sells his own daughter.’

Emma made an involuntary movement, opened her mouth to shout down and then clamped it shut again. She could not move, could not make a sound without revealing that she had overheard every word
of their quarrel; a quarrel that had left her feeling more hurt and humiliated than she had ever felt in her life.

Luke didn’t mean it, not about leaving his work, she was sure he didn’t. In the heat of the moment they were both saying things that later they would bitterly regret. But it seemed
that Luke did mean everything he said, for his final words were, ‘Do ya own milling from now on, Harry Forrest.’

‘If you walk out of here, Luke Robson, ya won’t walk back.’

‘Suits me,’ Luke said again.

‘And you’ll be out of ya house an’ all.’

There was a moment’s pause, then a low growl from Luke that Emma could scarcely hear. ‘By heck, Harry, after all these years.’

The hoist chain shivered and clinked and Emma drew back from the hole. For a moment she thought Luke had given in, but then she heard his boots on the stone floor and peeked out of the window to
see him hobbling away across the yard towards the orchard and his cottage. Her father appeared in the yard just below her and stood watching Luke Robson as if seeing him off his premises, before he
too marched across the yard and back into the house.

Wearily she leaned against the wall and then slid down to sit on a pile of sacks as her legs gave way beneath her. She felt sick and, closing her eyes, Emma dropped her head forward into her
hands. The words she had overheard hammered round her brain. Her marriage was nothing but a bargain stuck between two men. And what exactly, Emma wanted to know, had that bargain been?

A few moments later she heard shouting below in the yard and pulled herself up to look out of the window again. Hurrying across the yard towards the gap in the hedge leading to her own cottage,
her face flushed with anger and outrage in every bustling step of her round little body, was Sarah.

‘No. Oh no,’ Emma groaned aloud and sank back onto the sacks.

The mill was silent, the only sound the gentle clink of the hoist chain as it quivered. Outside the breeze stayed defiantly calm and the sails stood idle. With Luke storming off in a temper, her
father’s stubbornness, and Leonard half way to Lincoln, there was no one who could start the engine.

Farmer Popple would not get his grain ground this day.

She stayed in the mill for a long time, stunned by what she had overheard, what the few moments of anger between her father and Luke had wrought, though she had no doubt that
once they all calmed down, Luke would return to his work and Sarah would go back into the shop.

At last she heard the back door of the house open once more and saw her father leaving the yard, crashing the gate shut behind him and setting off up the village street. Cold anger spread
through her and hardened her resolve. She was glad now that she had not revealed herself and let them know she had overheard every word. Calculatingly, she decided, quite rationally and coldly,
that she would keep her counsel. She would act as if she had heard nothing and she would express surprise to find Luke and Sarah missing. She would demand to be told what had happened. And then she
would see what explanation her father gave.

Stiffly, her legs trembling with emotion even though her resolve was now quite firm, Emma climbed down the ladders and came out of the mill into the yard. As she reached the door into the house,
she hesitated. There was no one about, no one in the yard and, thinking quickly, she realized that if she were to make her ignorance of the quarrel plausible, she would have to have a believable
story. It would be easier to keep to if it was also the truth. If she could say that she had not even been there, that she had been to the market place, to the butcher’s maybe . . . Come to
think of it, she tried to gather her scattered thoughts, I do need to order a joint for the weekend.

She turned, left the yard and went out of the gate and up the road to the market place. It was market day and she would soon lose herself amongst the throng, would perhaps even talk to a few
folk she knew, so that on her return she could chatter brightly about village news rather than what she had really overheard. A small, wry smile quirked her mouth. I’m becoming as devious as
my father and Leonard, she thought, and unbidden, the saying, ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ slipped into her mind.

She wandered amongst the stalls until she found herself near the archway leading to the smithy. Even from here, with the bustling chatter of the market behind her, she could hear the heavy
clang, clang of Jamie’s hammer.

Oh, Jamie, Jamie, her heart yearned, if only . . .

‘Em?’

She heard her name spoken and turned to find herself looking straight into William’s concerned gaze. He was standing a few feet away from her at the entrance into the yard of his
wheelwright’s workshop on the other side of the archway. Her smile was swift and genuine and she saw immediately the worry in his eyes lighten as he smiled in return.

‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Fine.’

Was her tone a little too bright, perhaps a little too brittle, to be convincing, for there was a sudden fleeting shadow in William’s eyes again.

‘Really?’ he persisted. ‘Are you really – happy?’

She put her hand on his arm. She could hear the concern for her in his voice, knew in that moment that in all of this, here was one person who was genuinely concerned for
her
. She was on
the point of telling him about the conversation between her father and Luke but suddenly pride stilled her tongue. Had she not been humiliated long enough knowing that all the village men laughed
about her; how they had mocked Jamie Metcalfe in his tentative courtship. ‘She’ll mek a fine wife for a Metcalfe,’ she knew they had said. ‘Young Emma Forrest – and
her mill! It’s what old Josiah always wanted.’ The village gossip had added fuel to his father’s final letter and made the proud Jamie Metcalfe turn his back on her and any chance
of happiness they might have had, even though she was convinced he still loved her if only he would let himself.

She wanted no one to know that those taunts had come true. Although it was not Jamie who had married her, her father had still struck some kind of bargain with her prospective husband, even
though she did not know at this moment what exactly that bargain had been.

So, she smiled brightly, concealing the hurt and, neatly avoiding a direct answer to his question, for even now Emma found she could not lie, said, ‘I’m fine. And you? Are you well?
And Jamie? How – ’ her voice faltered ever so slightly, ‘is Jamie?’

William’s eyes darkened. ‘Well enough,’ he said brusquely in tones that were quite unlike his usual self.

She stared at him. ‘William? What is it? Is something wrong? Is – is he ill? Tell me.’

William shook his head. ‘No, oh no,’ he said harshly, his expression grim. ‘He’s not ill, unless he’s sick in his head.’

Emma gasped. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

He sighed and the anger seemed to drain from him leaving only a great sadness. ‘We do nothing but quarrel. All the time. I’m not sure just how much more I can take. If it
doesn’t stop soon, I – I think I shall leave.’

‘Leave? Oh no, William. You can’t leave. I – I . . .’

As she hesitated, she saw a spark in William’s eyes and his hand suddenly covered hers that still lay on his arm. ‘What, Em?’ he prompted ever so softly.

She swallowed and said, ‘What about Jamie? You can’t leave him to cope alone. Not after he’s been through so much in the war. You know how hard it was for you. Things will get
better. You’ll see. He’ll come around.’

The light died in the young man’s eyes. ‘Will he, Emma?’ His voice was heavy with sadness and a kind of defeat. ‘He didn’t for you, did he?’ For a long
moment, amidst the bustle and jostling of the crowded market place, they stood and stared at each other. ‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘if my brother will ever realize what an utter
fool he’s been.’

Then, pulling away from her he turned suddenly, and was gone and, though she stood and watched him, he did not look back.

‘Where’s my tea? Where’ve you been gallivanting off to now, girl?’

‘I’ve been to the butcher’s, that’s all,’ Emma said, outwardly calm though her heart was pounding with anger she knew she must hold in check. She wanted to shout
and scream and demand to be told what deal had been struck between Harry Forrest and Leonard, a deal in which she was the pawn.

‘Well, I’ve work to do and I need me tea ’afore I start. The wind’s getting up now. I’ll be working all night.’

She turned away and busied herself at the kitchen range. Trying to keep her voice level, she remarked with apparent innocence, ‘Luke will have started Ben Popple’s grain.’

She bit her lip and held her breath. Had she given herself away already, revealing that she knew it was Farmer Popple’s grain that was waiting to be ground? Emma chided herself. She really
was no good at trying to be devious and was too honest for her own good sometimes. But her father, caught up in his own thoughts, did not appear to notice. His reply was a grunt and a doubtful,
‘Mebbe so.’

He ate the meal she placed before him, rose from the table and, without a word of thanks, moved to the door. His hand on the latch, he glanced back at her. ‘When will that husband of yours
be home? I might need his help tonight.’

She shrugged. ‘He went to Lincoln this morning but couldn’t tell me how long he would be away. He took a suitcase with him, so I suppose he’ll stay overnight at
least.’

Harry Forrest frowned, grunted with irritation and left the kitchen.

Emma completed her household chores and turned down the lamp. She hesitated, pondering whether she should go across the yard to the mill to help her father, knowing that he was completely alone
there. But for once, she remained coldly resolute and readied herself for bed, only to lie awake far into the night, listening to the rhythmic sound of the mills sails, turning, turning in the
darkness.

What time she fell asleep she did not know, but she awoke with a start in the half light of early morning. Emma swung her legs out of bed and stood up to be overcome at once by
a feeling of dizziness and nausea. It must be reaction from a restless night and yesterday’s upset. She had scarcely reached the washstand before beginning to retch, leaning over the bowl
until she felt pale and exhausted. She wanted to do nothing more than to creep back into bed until someone brought her a cup of tea.

But there was little chance of that. This morning there was not only no Leonard – as usual – she thought bitterly, but it was more than likely that there would be no Sarah or Luke
either. She dressed hurriedly. Shivering and still feeling queasy, she went downstairs to a cold kitchen and a silent and deserted bakehouse.

Opening the back door she could see the sails still turning against the pale light of dawn. Her father had worked all night. She knew he must be exhausted, and felt a moment’s guilt. But
it was only for a moment when she remembered again the quarrel which had caused all this. Sighing, she bent to pick up the bellows to blow the embers in the range into life and set the kettle on
the hob. At least she would make them both a cup of tea before she tackled the work in the bakehouse. Freshly baked bread would most definitely be late this morning and she well knew the grumbling
that would cause amongst their customers.

As she carried a mug of tea across the yard, her mouth was pursed with disapproval at yesterday’s quarrel, never mind the inner anguish it was causing her.

‘Oh, you’ve decided to stir yourself, have you?’ was the only greeting her father gave her. In silence she handed him the mug and turned to leave.

‘I could use some help here. I’ve been up all night.’

‘Have you really?’ she said carefully. ‘Well, Luke should be here any moment and then you can come across for your breakfast. He’s late though. He hasn’t even lit
the fires in the bakehouse. Perhaps I ought to go and see if anything’s wrong.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ her father barked. ‘Leave ’im be. We had words yesterday and I ’spect he’s doing it to pay me back.’

‘Oh well, it’s not the first time,’ Emma said airily, though she lowered her gaze lest he should notice the glint in her eyes. ‘And with you two, I don’t expect
it’ll be the last.’

His only reply was a grunt.

‘I’d better go and get things started, but I shall be behind all day if I’ve everything to do.’

He blinked and stared at her. ‘Eh?’

‘Sarah’s not come into work either. We’re on our own. Father.’

‘It was ’im I sacked, not her.’

Emma forced surprise on to her face as she said, ‘Sacked him? You
sacked
Luke?’

‘He were getting far too uppity. He had no right to say what he did.’

Keeping her voice level, Emma asked, ‘And what was that, Father?’

‘Never you mind, girl,’ he growled. ‘Ya’d best get into yon bakehouse if we’re to have any bread to sell today. Go and fetch Sarah.’

‘I doubt she’ll come. If that’s what’s happened, she’s going to take his side, isn’t she?’

‘Huh, so that’s how it is, is it? And after all I’ve done for him over the years. I’ve a good mind to turn ’em out of the cottage an’ all. But I tell you one
thing, girl, I’ll not tek him back, not now, not if he were to beg me on bended knees, I won’t. And I’ll mek sure he’ll have to go cap in hand if he wants to work anywhere
in this village again.’

‘It’ll likely you’ll be the one going cap in hand, Father,’ she flung back over her shoulder as she left the mill and went back towards the house.

‘Never!’ Harry Forrest roared into the sharp morning air. ‘Never in a million years.’

‘We don’t need that nosey old beggar any longer,’ Harry Forrest decided the following morning when once more neither Luke nor Sarah appeared. ‘Just
’cos we grew up together he reckons he can let his mouth say what it likes and get away with it. Well, he’s gone too far this time.’