The Miller's Daughter (19 page)

The weeks and months passed and they all settled back into the routine, though because of Emma’s condition, there were changes for her. She was no longer allowed to do
any heavy lifting and Sarah made sure she rested every afternoon. ‘If you still insist on getting up so early, Emma, to start in the bakehouse, you must have a rest later in the day. Think of
the bairn, lass, even if not yourself.’

Emma sighed. ‘You’re right, I know. I do seem to get dreadfully tired now.’ And with every passing week, as she grew larger, she found her work more exhausting.

‘Get a bit of fresh air, lass,’ Sarah persuaded her. ‘Go for a walk up to the market place. You’re looking so pale. The heat in this bakery’s too much for
you.’

It was late September, just over a year now since they had been married and the last few days had been surprisingly hot and sultry. ‘Do you know, I think I will,’ Emma said and
straightened up, pressing her hand into her aching back. She had only a week or so to go before her time and she was so big now that she could scarcely bend forward to knead the dough.

The previous evening there had been a thunderstorm that had cleared the air and today, though it was still warm, there was a hint of a breeze that was cooling and refreshing as she walked up the
gentle rise of the street and turned into the market place.

‘Em.’ She heard her name being called and knew, even before she turned and saw him standing there, who it would be. Only one person ever called her ‘Em’.

He was standing beneath the archway between the two workshops, but to her surprise he was not dressed in his working clothes on this weekday morning, but in his Sunday best.

‘Hello, William. You’re all dressed up. Are you off to town?’ As she waddled towards him, she saw him glance down at the bulge she carried in front of her and then his
embarrassed gaze flickered away.

He seemed ill at ease and, when he did not answer at once, she prompted. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

Now he looked at her fully, returning her gaze steadily, but in his eyes was an expression of deep sorrow. Her heart missed a beat. She caught her breath as she asked unsteadily, ‘Is it
– Jamie?’

His mouth twisted wryly. ‘No,’ he said harshly and then added, ‘well, yes, in a way I suppose it is. I . . .’ He hesitated, glanced away awkwardly and then met her gaze
again.

‘William, what
is
it?’

‘I was coming to see you this very morning.’ His glance dropped away again and his head drooped. ‘I’m – leaving.’

‘Leaving?’ she gasped, her mouth falling open in shock. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I’ve got a job away from here.’

Her violet eyes were wide, staring at him. ‘Oh no, William, you can’t go away. What shall I . . .?’ she began. His head jerked up and there was a flash of hope in his eyes. But
already the next words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. ‘What about Jamie? You’re really going to leave him?’

‘I am,’ he said, adding, with a hardness so unlike the gentle William, ‘We’ll see how he likes being left alone to run two businesses. Let’s see if the marvellous
Jamie Metcalfe can manage single-handed.’

‘Oh, William,’ she said gently, saddened by the bitterness she heard in her friend’s voice. There was silence between them, then she asked, ‘Where are you
going?’

‘I’m going to work for the millwrights in Bilsford. John Pickering. His son’s about my age. I reckon I can make a go of it.’

Impulsively she reached out and touched his arm. ‘Of course you will. But I – I’ll miss you dreadfully.’

Now his intense gaze was upon her. ‘Will you?’ He took her hand in his and gently kissed the roughened fingers. ‘I’ll miss you, Em, more than you’ll ever
know.’

‘Let me have your address and maybe after the baby’s born I can get over to see you. Bilsford’s not that far away.’ But even as she spoke, she knew it would not be
possible. With all the work there was to do and with the added responsibility of a child, there would be little time for Emma to go ‘gallivanting’.

William knew it too but he smiled and said dutifully, ‘That would be nice.’ He nodded towards her bulging stomach. ‘I hope all goes well with—’

Emma laughed. ‘I can’t wait for the day now. It feels heavier than a sack of wheat,’ she pulled a face, ‘but I can’t put
this
down for a rest!’

He smiled, but the laughter did not reach his eyes. ‘Take care of yourself, Em,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘You know where I am if – if ever you need me.’

She nodded as the lump in her throat robbed her suddenly of her voice. She watched in silence as he turned and walked away from her up the village street, around the corner and out of her
sight.

Bilsford might only be ten miles away from Marsh Thorpe, but at that moment, as she watched her childhood friend walk away from her, to Emma it felt like a million miles.

‘Oh, Sarah! It hurts!’ She clung to the bed post, her knuckles white, sweat beading her forehead.

‘Of course it does, lass,’ said Sarah in a matter-of-fact manner.

Emma opened her mouth, then bit back the remark just in time. She had been about to say ‘And how would you know?’ But it would have been a cruel remark to the childless Sarah, and
not quite true anyway. Sarah might not have suffered the pain of childbirth herself, but she had helped many a baby into the world and had seen the mothers suffer each in their individual way.

‘’Sides,’ the older woman continued, knowing nothing of Emma’s moment of inner conflict. ‘Soon as you hold your babby in your arms, the pain goes,’ she paused
a moment and then added wistfully, ‘so they say.’

Emma was even more grateful that she had managed to bite back the words from escaping her rash tongue.

‘Have you sent for the doctor?’

‘Aye, ya dad’s seen to that.’ Sarah smiled. ‘Pacing up and down the bakehouse, he is. Left Luke to cope alone across at the mill. Anyone’d think he was the
father.’ She paused and wagged her finger in the air at no one in particular. ‘Aye, an’ that’s another thing. The father
ought
to be here, and ain’t!’

As the pains subsided, Emma allowed herself a wry smile. It was ironic. All her life, she had suffered her father’s taunts for daring to be a girl. She had never felt herself loved, nor
even wanted, by him. Yet now, it was him pacing the floor beneath, he who waited to see if at last she could give him what he most wanted.

And her husband? Well, to be fair, Leonard hadn’t known the child would come a week earlier than anticipated. He’d promised to be back by the weekend and then to stay at home until
the child was born.

‘I’m going up, Harry. Emma could do with another woman with her. One who’s had a child.’

As she heard Bridget’s high-pitched voice on the stairs, Emma cast a glance at Sarah’s face. She must have heard the thoughtless remark, but the kindly Sarah’s face remained
placid. The bedroom door was flung wide and Bridget made her entrance just as another contraction gripped Emma, who screwed up her face in agony. With her long black hair flowing freely to her
waist, her hands gripping the bedpost, her white nightdress stained with sweat and the groaning that escaped her dry lips, she must have presented the spectacle of a mad woman.

Bridget let out a small, ladylike scream and clapped her mauve gloved hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my dear, shouldn’t you be on the bed – or – or something?’ she
finished weakly.

The pain receded and Emma gave a short laugh of amusement. She could imagine that Bridget had mounted the stairs with the thought of sitting at her bedside, soothing her brow, holding her hand.
Perhaps Sarah was right. Perhaps you did forget the whole undignified business once it was all over. Certainly, the elegant, fussily-dressed Bridget standing wide-eyed in the doorway didn’t
look at that moment as if she had ever given birth in her life.

‘Oh!’ Emma’s eyes widened. ‘Sarah, what’s happening? I’m all wet.’

Sarah beamed. ‘Good girl. That’s ya waters broken. Right, on to the bed with ya.’

Heaving and grunting and with Sarah’s help, Emma got herself on to the high bed.

‘Right, let’s have a look at ya. Bend ya knees – legs apart . . .’

She flung back Emma’s nightdress and bent over her.

‘I think . . .’ Emma heard Bridget say weakly, ‘I’ll just go back downstairs.’

As the bedroom door closed, Sarah muttered, ‘Good riddance. We dun’t want her flappin’ about when there’s work to be done.’

Emma lay back, propped up against the pillows, and closed her eyes. Aye, there was work to be done all right. It seemed as if the whole of her life she’d heard the words,
‘There’s work to be done’.

‘Come on, lass. One more push and you’ll do it.’

She was exhausted, drowning in her own sweat. Her whole body was shaking with the effort and pain engulfed her now without respite. It felt as if she’d been pushing and panting for hours.
Emma summoned every ounce of energy left in her body and gave one great, last push.

‘Aaaah . . .’

‘There! That’s it! Here it comes.’ Sarah’s jubilant voice penetrated the mists of pain. ‘It’s a boy. By, an’ he’s a big lad, an’ all. Oh,
Emma, lass, it
is
a boy.’

Emma lay completely spent of all energy, all emotion. She closed her eyes and allowed Sarah to bustle about and do whatever was necessary. She lay perfectly still, holding her breath and
listening for the sound of her baby’s first cry, but there was silence in the room.

The bedroom door opened and Emma heard her father’s voice. ‘What is it? Is it a boy? Is it all right?’

Then came Sarah’s worried tone. ‘Yes! Yes, it’s a boy. But, oh Mester, he’s not breathing!’

‘What? ’Ere. Give him here to me.’

‘But . . .’

‘Don’t argue, woman.’

Weakly, Emma raised her head from the pillow and watched as her father took the slippery, unwashed infant into his hands. Then she saw him tip the baby upside down, holding the child by its
heels. ‘Now, come on,’ Harry said. ‘This is ya Grandpa.’ He raised his hand and dealt the still and silent infant a sharp smack on its tiny buttocks.

‘Oh, Mester . . .’ Sarah began, but whatever she had been going to say was drowned by the wonderful, beautiful, miraculous sound of a disgruntled wail.

Emma let out her breath in a sigh of relief and then smiled weakly. Even her newborn child already knew who it had to obey.

By the time the doctor arrived, Emma was washed and dressed in clean linen with her baby in the cradle at the side of her bed. She was very sleepy.

‘You’ve done very well, Emma. You have a fine, healthy son and, for a first, you’ve given birth relatively quickly and easily.’

Emma managed a weak smile. It hadn’t felt quick or easy, but now it was over, just as Sarah had promised, the memory of the pain was, even now, receding. Against some of the horror stories
she had heard whispered amongst the village women, she had undoubtedly been fortunate.

‘And of course,’ the doctor was saying, ‘it will be even easier next time.’

At that moment there came a knock at the bedroom door and as the doctor made his farewells, Leonard stepped into the room. He came at once to the head of the bed, bent and kissed Emma’s
forehead and laid a huge bunch of flowers by her side. ‘My dear, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. You’ve taken us all by surprise, I really had meant to be here . . .’

She reached up her hand and he grasped it. ‘I know, Leonard. It’s all right, really it is. You couldn’t help it. He came early.’ She twisted her head and glanced towards
the cradle. ‘Say “hello” to your son, Leonard.’

He turned and bent over the cradle and, smiling, touched the baby’s little cheek with his forefinger. ‘He’s a bit red. Is he all right?’

‘He’s only just been in the world about two hours and it was hard work,’ Emma reassured him. ‘He’ll be all right.’

‘Was it very bad? For you, I mean.’

Touched by his concern, Emma said, ‘No. Not too bad, but I’m very tired.’

‘Of course you are.’ He straightened up and came back to the bedside. He patted her hand and was about to turn to leave, when she caught hold of his hand again. ‘What do you
want to call him? Leonard? After you?’

Her husband stared down at her for a moment before he said, with surprise in his tone, ‘Oh no, Emma. There’s only one name we can call him. Hasn’t your father told you?
It’s all been agreed. His name is
Charles Forrest Smith
.’

‘Where’s she taking him?’ Harry Forrest appeared in the doorway of the mill and pointed towards Sarah carrying the baby in her arms. The child was scarcely
visible, buried deep in a woollen shawl which Sarah had knitted. ‘Where you takin’ my grandson, Sarah Robson?’

But Sarah hurried on towards the orchard and Harry started across the yard after her.

‘It’s all right, Father,’ Emma called, stepping out into the slanting sunshine of the warm autumn day, still bright enough for the mill to cast a deep shadow across the yard,
the whirling sails making moving patterns on the ground. ‘She’s only showing him to the bees.’

‘The bees?’ Harry was scandalized. ‘Has the woman no sense? If that little mite gets stung . . .’

Luke, coming up behind them, said, ‘Now Harry, you know Sarah wouldn’t harm a hair of the bairn’s head. Besides, the bees won’t sting a Forrest.’

‘Well, I dunno about that,’ the worried grandfather sniffed. ‘I know that’s what
she
thinks, but I don’t like to risk it. Not with my grandson.’

The three of them moved towards the edge of the yard to watch through the wide gap in the hedge as Sarah moved beneath the trees, her head bent low towards the child in her arms as if she were
talking to him.

‘Tell me, Harry,’ Luke said softly. ‘Have you ever, in the whole of your life, been stung by the bees in yon orchard? By
Forrest
bees?’

‘Lot of old wives’ tales,’ Harry muttered, avoiding giving a direct answer. ‘If owt happens to my little lad . . .’ He moved forward, away from Emma and Luke, to
hover protectively at the edge of the trees.

Emma watched her father, a pensive smile on her lips. Already, she felt as if possession of her baby had been taken over by him. She sighed inwardly, yet with the birth of her child had come a
new understanding.