The Miller's Daughter (23 page)

‘It
is
my fault,’ she countered William’s statement, ranting at herself. ‘I should have had the machinery checked weeks ago. I knew Luke couldn’t get up
there anymore. Oh, the shame of it too. In milling circles, it’s the worst thing, the most disgraceful thing that can happen to a miller, you know it is, to allow his mill to get tail-winded.
It’s neglect, sheer neglect. And I’m to blame.’

William leaned across and took her hands in his own. ‘Emma, listen to me. Try as you might, you cannot carry the whole world on your shoulders, even though . . .’ even amidst the
tragedy of the night, a small smile flickered on his mouth, ‘you have a damned good try most of the time.’

In the flickering firelight, her violet eyes looked into his. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You can’t carry the responsibility, or the blame, for everything that happens. Being a girl, for a start, and your father’s only child. And – and – there was a
catch in his voice as he said, ‘and Jamie. All that was his fault. He’s the biggest fool out and one day, he’ll realize it. I can’t—’ now he seemed to be
struggling to find the words, ‘I can’t even blame you for marrying Leonard Smith,’ his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, ‘though I wish you hadn’t.’

Emma sighed. ‘Oh, he’s not so bad, really. He’s good to the boy and he treats me well enough on the whole. It’s just—’ She stopped, feeling suddenly disloyal,
even though William was her oldest and dearest friend, apart, perhaps, from Luke and Sarah.

‘Well, you deserve better, Emma,’ William muttered, so low that she scarcely caught the words.

Impulsively she leant forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Oh, William, my biggest regret is that I haven’t got you as my brother-in-law.’

As she drew back, Emma caught sight of the fleeting pain in William’s eyes, but he dropped his head quickly, hiding from her gaze, and when he raised it again, he was smiling. His
expression was gentle as he said, ‘Well, I’m still your friend, Em. I’m always your friend.’

‘Sell it. It’s the only answer,’ Leonard stood in the middle of the yard and waved his hand towards the mill in disgust. The wood of the sails, smashed beyond
repair, had been stacked as neatly as possible to one side of the yard by Emma’s willing helpers the morning after the disaster.

In the late afternoon, Leonard had returned home and now in the deepening dusk he stood surveying the ravages of the previous night.

‘I can’t sell it, Leonard. You know I can’t. Under the terms of my father’s will—’

‘Oh aye, the famous will!’ He turned on her, his face thunderous. ‘It’s hardly apt, now, is it? What is there left for the boy to inherit? Sell it I say, and raise what
money you can.’ He turned and his gaze ran over the house and the bakery. He nodded towards it. ‘That, at least, ought to be worth something.’ Then his calculating glance swept
around and encompassed the orchard and, beyond it, the Robsons’ tiny cottage. ‘And you own that, don’t you?’

Emma gasped. ‘I couldn’t sell that! It’s their home!’

Leonard shrugged. ‘They’d have to find somewhere else,’ he said heartlessly.

Shocked Emma stared at him, but his callousness hardened her resolve. Thank God, she thought, for my father’s foresight.

‘Leonard,’ she said slowly, ‘I cannot sell what is Charles’ inheritance. Nor,’ she added deliberately, ‘will I. It is Forrest’s Mill and it will always
be a Forrest’s Mill.’

Leonard stared at her, his face twisted with anger. ‘If you believe that, then you’re a fool, Emma.’ He jabbed his finger at her, only an inch from her face, but resolutely
Emma stood her ground, refusing to be cowed by his rage. The memory of old Charlie was strong within her.

‘Mine,’ he spat the words in her face. ‘It should all have been mine. Your father promised me when I married you and then, because he got a precious grandson, he cheated me.
But one day, Emma, I’ll have what’s rightly mine. You see if I don’t.’

Leonard turned on his heel and marched into the house, slamming the door behind him and leaving Emma standing forlornly amidst the wreckage of her family’s inheritance.

The room in the huge Victorian house on the steep slope of the hill leading up to the cathedral from the sprawling city below was huge, fusty and cold. It was where Leonard
stayed when he was in Lincoln in one large, high-ceilinged room, sharing the use of the bathroom and kitchen with the other tenants in the house. Emma surveyed it in dismay.

‘We can’t bring a family here, Leonard.’ She moved to look out of the long window down into the narrow backyard where washing, grey with smuts, hung limply on a drooping
washing line slung between two posts. Down three flights of dismal stairs every time she wanted to go outside and down one flight even to visit the bathroom or kitchen. She turned to face her
husband who was standing, frowning angrily, in the middle of the room.

‘Well, I didn’t want you to come here. Of course it’s no place for children. You’d have been better staying in Marsh Thorpe.’

‘Oh yes, that would suit you, wouldn’t it? You have a wife and a family now and it’s time you took some responsibility for us.’

The quarrel had wrangled on for weeks and had achieved nothing.

The mill was irreparable. No, that was not quite true, Emma acknowledged. The truth was that she had not the money to pay for such extensive repairs. William had been wonderful, she thought
fondly. He had offered to speak to the Pickerings, to see if they could offer a special rate if he worked for nothing in his spare time. But even the estimated cost of that had been prohibitive. At
first she had thought she might have enough of the money left in the bank after her father’s death to meet at least the major part of the cost and, although it would leave her with no ready
cash, at least her livelihood would be restored. But a shock awaited Emma on her visit to the bank in Calceworth.

‘My dear Mrs Smith,’ the manager explained patiently, as one might to a child, ‘there is less than fifty pounds in your father’s account. We have, of course, been
awaiting your instructions since his death. Did you not receive our letter?’

Emma had stared at him in amazement. ‘No – no, I didn’t.’ She bit her lip. ‘I thought my father’s savings would be much more than that. He was always –
well – frugal.’

The manager eyed her keenly. ‘He was,’ he remarked drily, ‘until about seven years ago. Let me see . . ’ He leant back in his swivel chair and steepled his fingers
together, the roundness of his belly stretching the buttons on his waistcoat almost to bursting point. His eyes looked up at the ceiling as if something there was commanding his attention.
‘It would be about the time of your marriage that it began.’

Emma leaned forward. ‘What “began”?’

‘The depletion of his savings.’ The man brought his gaze down again to her face and he leant forward, almost accusingly, and rested his arms on the desk. ‘At that time your
father had over seven hundred pounds in his account. A considerable sum of money, I’m sure you will agree, dear lady.’

Emma swallowed. Indeed it was, and would, she felt sure, have been enough to repair the mill. Even before the words, edged with a sneer, had left the man’s mouth, Emma knew exactly what he
was going to say. ‘Over the last seven years, your father has withdrawn one hundred pounds a year. I regret, dear lady, that I am not at liberty to disclose—’

‘There’s no need,’ Emma snapped and, in one swift movement, rose and moved towards the door. ‘I know
exactly
where the money went. I bid you good day,
sir.’

She returned home in a temper and went immediately to Leonard’s desk and rifled through his papers to find a recent bank statement. Holding it in her hands, she sank down into a chair
staring at the figures before her. Forty-nine pounds, two shillings and three pence was all the cash that remained in her father’s account at the time of his death. Again she scrabbled
amongst the papers in the drawer and found a letter from the bank addressed to her that she had never seen before. The letter, dated two weeks after her father’s will had been proved,
informed her of the amount in his current account and asked that she ‘acquaint them with her instructions’. They were, the letter said, ‘her obedient servants’.

The following day, Emma returned to the branch in Calceworth and withdrew the money and closed the account.

Ever since their marriage, Leonard had received one hundred pounds a year from Harry Forrest and yet he had still, on occasions, borrowed money from her. She was not only humiliated by the
‘deal’ that had been made between her father and her husband, but angry too. Money that might have repaired the mill had been frittered away by her spendthrift husband.

Facing him now across the dingy room in the city dwelling, her resentment welled again. ‘If you hadn’t spent all my father’s money, we could have repaired the mill.’

‘If you’d insured it properly,’ he began, but Emma cut in again. ‘I thought all that sort of thing was in your hands.’ Sarcasm laced her tone. ‘After all,
you’re the man of the house. How can a woman attend to such matters?’

They were glaring at each other, Emma’s dark eyes flashing, but Leonard was not to be outdone.

‘The running of the mill was left in your hands, and insuring it was
your
responsibility. If you weren’t being so stubborn, we could all live in clover. Sell the damn place,
woman.’

Emma’s chin went a little higher as she said again, ‘Never.’

Angrily he thumped one fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘If it wasn’t all tied up so bloody tightly, I’d sell it myself. Him and his blasted trust for his precious
grandson.’

Emma felt Charles shrink against her skirts.

‘I’ve no doubt you would,’ she said with icy calmness, safe in the knowledge that at least Leonard could never do that. At first she had been hurt that her father had passed
her by in favour of his grandson, but now she was beginning to see the wisdom of his action. ‘But as it is,’ Emma went on, ‘you’d better start being a real husband and
father, instead of a visiting one. And you can begin by finding us a better place to live than this. I don’t intend to have Charles live here for long or the baby to be born here.’

She saw Leonard’s smirk as he glanced down at the swelling mound of her stomach and wondered, not for the first time, if he had impregnated her deliberately as a kind of punishment. She
tried to dismiss the idea as preposterous, yet the uncomfortable thought refused to die completely.

Emma had been dismayed to find herself pregnant. The last thing she needed now was another child. On top of her distress about the mill, her sadness at having to watch her old friend Luke wither
visibly as he saw his life’s work end up in a heap of smashed timber, the discovery of her husband’s deceit and her father’s manipulation even from beyond the grave, the added
burden of another child was too much.

Without the mill, the bakehouse and the bakery began to lose business and Sarah, with an ailing Luke to care for, could not work the hours Emma needed her. Then had come the final blow, and
Jamie had been the one to tell her.

One market day a few weeks after the disastrous storm, he walked across the road from the cattle market and leant on the gate leading into the mill yard. Emma saw him from the kitchen window
and, unable to stop herself, opened the back door and walked slowly towards him, drying her hands on a tea towel as she went.

She saw his gaze roaming over the brick structure of the mill and come slowly round to meet her eyes. ‘William not got it rebuilt for you yet then?’ The sarcasm in his tone was not
lost on her.

Holding her temper in check, Emma said evenly, ‘No, nor can he. I can’t pay for the materials needed, let alone his labour.’

A smirk twisted Jamie’s face. ‘I’m sure William would work for nothing if you asked him nicely.’

Emma remained silent. That was just what his brother had offered, but she was not going to give Jamie the satisfaction of knowing it.

He nodded towards the bakehouse. ‘That’ll not be going long either, if what I’ve heard is true.’

Emma stared at him. ‘What? What have you heard?’

He jerked his head vaguely in the direction of Morgan’s Mill at the other end of the village, the mill that had always occupied the prime site in the locality even from the time when
Charlie Forrest had built his mill on the piece of waste ground he’d bought for a song. It was owned and run by a man called Fothergill now.

‘He’s building on to his engine house. Word has it that it’s a bakehouse.’

Morgan’s Mill had never had a bakehouse or a bakery, but now, Emma guessed without Jamie having to say more, that the present owner, Sam Fothergill, would be taking advantage of her
misfortune. She sighed heavily. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame him. He’s a businessman, when all’s done and said.’

‘So,’ Jamie said, ‘all’s fair in love, war
and
business, is it, Emma?’

Stung to retort, Emma lifted her head high. ‘Oh no, Jamie Metcalfe. All was not fair in love and war for
me
, was it now?’ She turned on her heel and marched back to the house
slamming the door behind her without even staying to see what effect her words had on him.

The very next morning she awoke feeling sick and knew instinctively that she was pregnant. Four months later she climbed into Leonard’s Ford van – the vehicle he had been to
Sheffield to buy on the day her mill had been devastated – and sat stiffly beside him as he drove up the village street, round the left-hand corner, past the church, round the sweeping
right-handed corner, past Morgan’s Mill and out of the village westwards towards Lincoln and a new life.

As they passed the market square, Emma did not even glance to her right towards the brick archway with the name
P HWFDOIH
emblazoned there, though it took every ounce of
her will-power not to do so.

Now, standing in this damp, draughty place with the winter approaching, she felt sick and bone weary. The emotional farewell to old Luke, who she feared she would not see again, and the feeling
that she was deserting Sarah, left alone to care for the sick old man, had drained Emma of her energy. And worst of all, she had turned her back on Grandpa Charlie’s mill. Yet from somewhere
she dredged up her last reserves of energy and squared her shoulders. Her violet eyes shone with the light of battle as she faced Leonard. The marked contrast between his appearance and her own was
not lost on her either and only served to fuel her anger. He was smartly dressed in a check suit with a matching waistcoat, a gleaming white shirt and, as always, a flower in his buttonhole. His
brown hair was expertly cut, parted in the centre and slicked back. His shoes were highly polished and whenever he left the house to go to the city, he wore a Homburg hat and carried a cane. In
contrast, she felt like a tramp. Her workaday clothes were drab and well worn, her long plait was wound around her head, and she felt dishevelled and grubby and tired from the long journey. Beside
her, his eyes wide with tiredness, Charles looked ready to fall asleep on his feet.