The Miller's Daughter (17 page)

‘We can’t manage to run things without Luke and Sarah, Father, and you know it.’ Emma faced up to him. ‘I can’t possibly manage the bakehouse and the bakery on my
own, nor can you manage that mill single-handed.’

‘Bridget will help you in the bakery,’ Harry Forrest decided. ‘And I’ll get a lad from the village to help me in the mill.’

‘Why don’t you ask Leonard—’

Almost before the words had left her mouth, her father snapped a reply. ‘Yon lad’s got his own affairs to attend to. He dun’t want nowt to do wi’ the mill. He told me
that ’afore you was wed.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Emma said quietly and her eyes narrowed as she regarded her father thoughtfully. ‘Why was that then?’

‘Eh?’ he grunted. ‘Why? Obvious, ain’t it? He dun’t know owt about milling. You know he dun’t.’

‘But a young man like him can always learn, if he’d a mind.’

‘Well, he hasn’t,’ Harry said shortly.

‘But you were ready to ask him to help the other night,’ she put in slyly. ‘When you had to work all night on your own.’

‘That was different. That was an emergency. If the lad ’ad been here, I’m sure he’d have given me a hand. Just the once.’

‘Perhaps Leonard wouldn’t mind helping you now and then. I’ll ask him, if you like.’

‘I’ve told you “no” and you’ll do as I say.’ He turned away. ‘I ain’t time to be standing here arguing with you, girl.’

Emma stood a moment longer watching him cross the yard, her troubled eyes watching him thoughtfully. Why, she wondered, was her father so adamant that Leonard was not to be involved in the mill
now, even though in the quarrel with Luke he had said that the mill would be Leonard’s one day? She had imagined that the deal must have been that if he agreed to marry her, Leonard would
inherit the mill when her father died. She frowned. But that was what her father had always scathingly predicted would be the demand of any young man who could be persuaded to marry her. Why, then,
had he agreed to that very thing? Was it just because Leonard was Bridget’s son and Harry Forrest, being besotted by the mother, was prepared to promise the son anything, even his
family’s mill? And why then, did Leonard want nothing to do with the mill? If he had no interest in the mill, what then had been in the ‘deal’ for him?

Emma gave a slight shake of her head, more confused than ever, sighed and went into the bakehouse to light the ovens.

‘Luke won’t let me come back to work,’ Sarah stood awkwardly outside the back door three days after the quarrel had occurred, as if she dare not even cross
the threshold. She shifted her weight uneasily from one foot to the other, her normally smiling face sober and her eyes troubled. ‘I’ve tried reasoning with him – pleading. I even
turned on the water taps, but he won’t budge.’ The woman bit her lip. ‘How are you going to manage, Emma lass?’

Emma was surprised. Usually Sarah could win Luke round about most things in the end. This time, it seemed, was different.

‘Goodness knows . . .’ she began.

From the bakery at the front, came the sound of tinkling laughter and, hearing it, Sarah’s eyes widened.

Emma nodded towards the shop. ‘Bridget – Mrs Smith. Father has asked her to come and help out in the mornings.’

Sarah’s mouth formed a rounded, silent ‘oh’ and she shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Oh, well then,’ she said aloud, ‘if you’ve got some help, then
it’s not so bad.’ But there was a hurt deep in her eyes and her round face sagged into lines of sadness.

Emma gave a snort of wry amusement. ‘She didn’t get here until ten o’clock. Day’s half gone then – at least a baker’s day.’

At that Sarah pulled a face in an expression of sympathy and said again, ‘Oh.’ And added, ‘Like that, is it?’

‘Yes. It is “like that”.’

‘Emma dear,’ came Bridget’s high-pitched voice. ‘How much are these little bread bun things?’

Emma sighed. ‘I’ll have to go, Sarah, but I’ll come over this evening to see you both.’

‘I won’t go back. He can throw us out on the street, if he likes. I don’t care. I’m in the right – and he knows it.’

‘What started it all anyway?’ she asked, still pretending that she knew nothing.

Luke’s frown deepened. ‘Never you mind.’

Emma could not remember ever having seen Luke so incensed. The quarrel between her father and his lifelong friend and employee went deep, much deeper, Emma felt, than she or Sarah could
understand.

She sighed. ‘He’ll not throw you out. He’d not do that.’

Luke grunted. ‘Mebbe not. But I’m not sure I want to live in a place belonging to Harry Forrest any longer.’

‘Oh, Luke, no!’ Sarah’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘We can’t uproot. This is our home. What about me bees?’ Then as a fresh thought came to her, Sarah turned
her worried eyes on Emma. ‘Oh, Emma – I can still look after the bees, can’t I? I – I mean by rights, they’re yours, but . . .’

For the first time since the dreadful quarrel that was causing all this disruption in their lives, Emma smiled and gave Sarah a swift hug, ‘Of
course
you can still look after the
bees. We certainly don’t want them deserting us just now.’

‘Oh, thank you. I couldn’t bear it, especially as they’re a bit unsettled now—’ Sarah broke off and looked towards Luke who gave a slight shake of his head.

Emma glanced from one to the other and then back again. ‘Unsettled? The bees? How do you mean?’

Sarah fingered the edge of her apron, running it between her fingers. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing really.’

‘No, it isn’t “nothing” to you, Sarah. Is it because of this quarrel? Please tell me.’

The two women looked towards Luke, but he was silent, refusing to look at either of them. He sat in his chair at the side of the range and packed his clay pipe with tobacco, his mouth a tight,
unyielding line.

Suddenly he said, ‘Mebbe, mebbe not.’ Slowly he turned his head to look at Emma. ‘The bees have deserted one of the hives. The one she put a piece of your wedding cake
in.’

Emma stared at him, mystified. This was one custom she had not heard of before. ‘Cake?’ she asked. ‘My wedding cake? Why?’ She turned to Sarah. ‘Why,
Sarah?’

‘We allus put a piece of funeral cake and a drop of wine in the hives when someone in the family dies. We did it when ya grandpa was killed and when ya mam died. It’s a
custom.’

Emma nodded. That much she did know. ‘But I’ve never heard about doing it with wedding cake.’

‘No more had I,’ Luke stabbed the air with his pipe. ‘That’s ’er own daft idea and look where it’s got her. All worried and upset now ’cos she thinks
the bees don’t approve of your marriage.’ He sniffed. ‘Mind you, mebbe them bees have got more sense than I’ve given ’em credit for, ’cos I don’t approve
of it either. But,’ he added swiftly, ‘if you’re happy, Emma lass, then I’ll say no more about it, ’cos you’re the only person I’m bothered about
now.’

‘Oh, Luke,’ Emma said sadly. ‘Don’t say that. Not after all the years you and my father have been friends.’

But the old man sat in his chair gazing into the fire, his teeth clamped stubbornly on his pipe, refusing to say any more.

Emma sighed and glanced at Sarah, who shrugged helplessly. Wearily, knowing there was nothing else she could do, Emma got to her feet. Suddenly, such a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over
her, that she sat down again, holding her head in her hands.

‘What is it, Emma? What’s the matter?’ Sarah was instantly at her side.

‘I don’t know. I just felt so dizzy. All the upset, I suppose. And I haven’t eaten since dinner time.’ She made as if to rise again but Sarah pressed her back into the
chair.

‘Sit there, love, and I’ll get you a bite to eat.’

Emma did as she was told. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead and the room seemed to swim. She bent forward, her head was resting on her knees until the dizziness subsided. When she raised
her head again carefully and opened her eyes, it was to see Luke watching her with troubled, guilty eyes.

‘So, old Luke’s not working for you any more then?’

Emma, bending over one of the market stalls to examine the fruit, felt the breath leave her body. Slowly she straightened up and turned to face the man standing behind her.

Outwardly calm, she said, ‘Good morning, Jamie. How are you?’ How she managed to keep her voice steady, she could not imagine, when her heart was fluttering inside her chest and her
knees were trembling just at the sight of him.

Before her stood the scowling, bitter man that Jamie Metcalfe had become, and yet at the mere sound of his voice, Emma could not forget the laughing young fellow he had once been. Still, deep in
her heart, she held the memory of the Jamie she had loved. Even she dare not question what her feelings for him were now. Without being able to prevent it, bright colour suffused her pale face. She
tried to smile, and, deliberately avoiding his question, said, ‘You look much better than when you first came home. More – more like your old self,’ she could not help adding,
though the catch in her voice threatened to give her away.

But Jamie was not about to allow her to avoid his probing. ‘Your fancy new husband taken over then, has he, and pushed poor old Luke on to the scrap heap?’

‘No,’ she retorted hotly. ‘Leonard is not involved with the mill at all.’

At this, Jamie’s dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Really?’ he said and there was no hiding the surprise, nor the disbelief, in his voice. ‘Can’t give up the bright lights of
the city so easily, eh, to bury himself in the country?’

‘Oh,
you
,’ she began. ‘Whatever he did, it wouldn’t suit you, would it?’

With one stride he came close to her, his dark eyes looking down into her upturned face. Irrationally, she was reminded once again that he had always been, and still was, the only man she knew
who was physically taller than she was; the only man whose very presence made her feel small and feminine. His frame had filled out again and the pallor of the trenches, though perhaps not the
memory, was gone. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his waist slim and his legs long and straight and sturdy.

‘I hate the very sight of him,’ Jamie said through clenched teeth.

‘Why?’ Emma gasped. ‘What harm has he ever done to you?’

His face was even closer to her, so close she could feel his breath warm on her cheek. ‘He married my girl.’

Her eyes widened. ‘But – but you . . .’

‘Em – Emma!’ She heard her name called and Jamie give a sigh of annoyance before he stepped back from her, but he made no attempt to move right away as his brother joined
them.

William was smiling. ‘Em, how lovely to see you. How are you?’

Fighting to gain her composure, Emma stammered, ‘I’m fine – fine. How – how are you?’

Now it was William who leant towards her, his concerned glance raking her face.

‘You don’t
look
fine. You look very tired.’

‘She’s overworked,’ Jamie put in before she could answer William. ‘Her
husband
does little or nothing around the place and Luke’s no longer working at the
mill.’

‘Luke? Why, what’s the matter. Is he ill?’

Emma shook her head. ‘No. He and my father quarrelled. They’ll make it up eventually, but you know how stubborn they can be.’ She glanced at Jamie, thinking fleetingly that it
was not just her father and Luke Robson who could be stupidly bullheaded.

‘And in the meantime,’ William took the words from her mouth. ‘You’re trying to cope with all the work.’

She nodded.

‘Right. I’ll be over in the morning to give you a hand in the bakehouse.’

‘Oh no, you won’t,’ his older brother thundered. ‘You’ve enough work of your own. You let the business go to wrack and ruin once, I’ll not see it happen
again.’

Calmly, William said, ‘I can spare an hour or two first thing in the morning.’

‘No, you can’t. Mester Leighton wants his wagon back by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Well, I’m not seeing Emma killing herself for want of a helping hand.’

She put out her hand and touched William’s arm. ‘It’s all right. I don’t want to be the cause of trouble between the two of you, please.’

William turned to her, his eyes on a level with her brilliant violet gaze. ‘You won’t,’ he said softly. ‘And I’ll be over in the morning.’

Jamie turned on his heel and marched away towards the brick archway leading to the smithy, fury in every stride.

It was the first time, Emma thought as she walked home, that she could remember William standing up to his elder brother.

When Leonard returned home from his three-day trip to the city, he came loaded with presents. Tobacco for his father-in-law, a silk blouse and a soft, midnight blue velvet
skirt for Emma. ‘And chocolates too,’ he teased, his eyes bright with good humour. ‘But don’t eat them all at once and get fat, will you, darling.’ His hands reached
out and his fingers spanned her waist. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ he joked. ‘I think you are putting on a little around here.’

‘Well, it’s surprising if I am,’ Emma replied shortly. ‘With all the trouble. I’m too tired to eat properly and I feel sick all the time.’

‘Trouble, what trouble?’

She told him briefly what had occurred during his absence. ‘Can you help us out a little, Leonard? Your mother’s been – ’ she swallowed on the slight untruth, ‘a
wonderful help.’ At least, Emma thought to herself, Bridget had done her willing best. ‘But Father really can’t manage the mill on his own.’

A frown swept away Leonard’s good mood. ‘Work in the mill? Me? You’ve got to be joking, Emma.’ He spread out his hands in front of her. Large, well-shaped hands though
they were, she could see at once they had never done a day’s manual work in their lives. The palms were smooth and white, the nails perfectly shaped, looking almost as if they had been
professionally manicured.

Emma sighed and touched the soft velvet of the skirt he had brought her. ‘Thank you for the presents, Leonard. They are lovely, but goodness knows when I’ll get the chance to wear
them now.’

‘You can wear them next Friday. I’m taking you and Mother into Lincoln for the day. You two can go shopping and then we can all meet for lunch at . . .’