The Miller's Daughter (38 page)

‘Oh, William,’ Emma laid her face against his shoulder and sobbed, her arms going about him, clinging to him. ‘I’m so frightened. I’m losing everyone –
everyone I loved. What if I lose you, what if . . .?’

He stroked her hair. ‘Oh, you’re not going to lose me, Emma Forrest.’ He said her maiden name without thinking. To him she was always Forrest, never Smith. ‘Not when
I’ve waited all these years to have you for my own.’

She raised her head and looked into his eyes and saw the undying love there that was her salvation.

The two women stared at each other.

‘Thank you for – your letter. Thank you for letting me know about Charlie.’

Bridget – and Billy – were the only ones who had ever called Charles, Charlie. Emma watched the older woman, standing in the middle of the yard, dressed as always in up to the minute
fashion. However did she manage it in wartime? Emma wondered irrationally at such a moment. Then she saw Bridget’s chin tremble suddenly. She moved swiftly across the space between them and
put her strong arm around the woman’s slim shoulders that looked suddenly too fragile to bear the burden of grief. Bridget sagged against her, resting her head against Emma’s
shoulder.

‘Oh, Emma, first Leonard and now young Charlie. I’ve lost them both. My boys, I’ve lost my darling boys.’

‘Come along in and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

In the warm kitchen, Emma pressed Bridget into a chair by the table and then busied herself making a pot of tea.

‘I had a letter the other day,’ she told Bridget, ‘saying they’re awarding Charles a medal for bravery.’ She stumbled over the word, ‘Posthumously.’

She glanced at Bridget and saw the surprise in her eyes before she smiled tremulously and murmured, ‘It’s a small compensation for the greatest sacrifice of all.’

‘I suppose so,’ Emma said quietly and sighed, ‘But that’s war, isn’t it?’ The medal for her quiet, studious son was no surprise to Emma but she could
understand that others would not have recognized his underlying strengths. Oh, how she was going to miss her firstborn.

Bridget from her chair said, ‘But we still have Billy. Where is he? Where’s my Billy?’

Not looking directly at the older woman. Emma said, ‘There’s something else I have to tell you.’

Even in her sadness, a little smile touched Bridget’s mouth. ‘If it’s about you and William, then I know,’ she began, but Emma interrupted. ‘No, no. There is that
of course, but – no, it’s about Billy.’ She met Bridget’s eyes. ‘He’s run away to sea.’

Even beneath the make-up, Emma could see that Bridget turned pale, the only colour in her cheeks being the carefully applied rouge. ‘Oh no! Not him too.’ She paused and then said,
‘But he’s not old enough, is he?’

Emma shrugged and sighed. ‘You know Billy. He’d lie his way in.’

A small, fond smile trembled on Bridget’s mouth. ‘Oh, Emma,’ was all she could say.

As Emma placed the tea before her and sat down herself on the opposite side of the table, Bridget took a deep breath, dabbed at her watery eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief and smiled with
a determination that surprised Emma.

‘Well, now. I see you’re – er – in a delicate condition.’

Emma felt the colour suffuse her cheeks and she glanced down in embarrassment, but then she felt Bridget’s slim fingers reach out and touch her hand.

‘My dear,’ the woman said softly, ‘who am I to judge you, or anyone else for that matter?’ and Emma looked up into the blue eyes to see not a trace of censure in them.
‘I don’t blame you, not for one minute. You have to take your happiness where you can find it in this life and especially in these dreadful times we’re living in. I hope
you’ll be happy, you and William. Really I do. Leonard’s been away, what is it now, three years?’

Emma nodded.

‘And if the War Office is to be believed,’ Bridget said softly, ‘he’s not coming back.’ She paused and then, bravely putting her own sadness aside, added firmly,
‘No, you carry on with your life and good luck to you I say.’ She flapped her elegant hand. ‘And never you mind all the gossips. You and William and your little one,’ she
nodded her head towards Emma’s stomach, ‘you just be happy together.’

‘Oh, Bridget,’ Emma found there were tears in her eyes. ‘You really are a lovely person.’

As Bridget took her leave, the two women hugged each other.

‘Be happy, Emma dear,’ were Bridget’s parting words. ‘This sadness will ease, given time. Then, be happy, my dear girl.’

Emma gave birth to William’s daughter on the very day that the last sail was hoisted into position on the mill and the following day as she lay in bed, watching out of
her bedroom window, the sails began to turn again. Beside her in the cradle the baby lay sleeping, blissfully unaware of the tumult of emotions her mother was experiencing.

When William came to her in the late afternoon, smelling of sweat, his eyes shining with exultation, she put up her arms to him, ‘Oh, William, thank you, thank you for
everything.’

As they held each other, they both looked towards the cradle. ‘I suppose,’ William said softly, ‘there’s only one name we can call her really.’

Her eyes shining, Emma chuckled. ‘I’m afraid so. You don’t mind, do you?’

William’s face, full of happiness, told her the answer, but he said gently, ‘Of course not. Charlotte Forrest Metcalfe, it is.’

Emma leant her head against his shoulder. ‘It’s what I wanted. For – for Charles, as well as for the obvious reason.’

The question that had been worrying her had been answered without her even having to ask it aloud. Even though they were not legally married – how could they be until the law decreed that
she was free to remarry – William wanted his daughter to bear his name.

A small smile played at the corner of her mouth but for once she did not share the reason for her amusement with William. She was imagining how his father would be dancing with glee to think
that at last there was a Metcalfe at Forrest’s Mill. And how angry her own father would be!

‘You know, we ought to have a party now the war’s over,’ Emma threw her arms wide. ‘For the whole village.’

‘Eh?’ Sarah gaped at her and then clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Never do things by half, do you? And where might I ask are we to hold this big party?’ She tossed
her head towards the window. ‘In the yard here?’

‘No,’ Emma grinned. ‘In the market place. Where else?’

‘And what if it rains? Everyone’s best hat gets drenched and we end up eating soggy sandwiches.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a killjoy, Sarah. We ought to do something to welcome the boys back.’ She paused as unwelcome memories of the last time invaded her happy plans. Resolutely
she pushed them away and went on, ‘Everyone’s so happy that it’s all over.’

‘What about those who’ve lost their menfolk?’ Sarah said quietly.

‘There’s a lot of us lost someone,’ Emma said soberly. ‘But it would be a tribute to those that have sacrificed so much as well as a thanksgiving for those who have come
back, wouldn’t it?’

The plump shoulders wriggled. ‘I don’t know. I’d see what William ses, if I was you.’

Sarah trusted William and his opinion on anything and everything implicitly. From the moment he had moved into the millhouse, Sarah had been his staunch supporter fending off all the village
tittle-tattle with such vehemence that very soon it had ceased. Emma knew she had Sarah to thank for the fact that the villagers now accepted them.

Emma stifled a laugh. ‘Oh, I will, don’t worry.’

But William was all in favour of the idea and once Sarah knew that, she soon became the instigator of the whole affair, adopting the idea as having been her own.

‘I vill bake the biggest cake you haf ever seen.’ Mr Rabinski, too, was soon caught up in the excitement. He could not do enough to thank, not only Emma and her family, but the whole
village who had welcomed him into their midst without question.

‘I had some bad moments, ven the var started, you know, dear lady.’ Since the day they had brought him to Marsh Thorpe and he had realized what the situation was between Emma and
William, Mr Rabinski had always called Emma ‘dear lady’, neatly avoiding ever calling her ‘Mrs Smith’ again. ‘Someone started a rumour that I vas a spy. Me? A
spy!’ He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘Ven I haf lived here for over twenty-fife years.’

‘Well, nobody round here thinks you’re a spy, Mr Rabinski. They’d better not,’ Sarah bristled with indignation, ‘else they’ll have me to answer to.’

Mr Rabinski beamed.

On the morning of VE Day, Emma watched as William climbed on to the roof of the engine shed, where the sails missed the roof by only a foot or two as they turned. As a sail drew close William
yelled down, ‘Right, Em,’ and she opened the shades so that they slowed.

‘Do be careful, William,’ she called up, craning her neck backwards to watch him as he leaned out to tie a union jack on the tip of the sail.

‘Right,’ he called down. ‘Same again.’

They repeated the operation until a flag fluttered at the end of each of the five sails.

‘Leave it running now,’ William said as he climbed down the ladder and stood beside her in the yard. ‘Now that’s a fine sight for you, ain’t it, Em?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, linking her arm through his. ‘We’re lucky the wind’s in the right direction so you could reach the sails from the roof.’

William grinned. ‘I ordered it specially.’

Emma threw back her head and laughed. ‘I don’t doubt it, William Metcalfe. Come on, we’d best be getting to the market place, else we’ll miss all the fun.’

At that moment the church bells began to ring and the party began.

In the market place long trestle tables had been carried into the square, covered with tablecloths and spread with all manner of food. Bunting was festooned between lampposts and flags fluttered
from chimneys and roof tops. Near Metcalfe’s brick archway, the band sat on stools and played all the songs that had blared from the wireless throughout the war, lifting spirits and giving
hope. Children ran around, shouting and laughing, heady with a freedom that some of them, too young to remember pre-war days, had never known before.

‘Oh, William, no more bombing, no more blackouts, no more rationing . . .’

‘Well, I think we’ll have that with us for a while yet,’ he remarked. ‘But I know what you mean, love.’

She gave a huge sigh, ‘And Billy’s safe too.’

A letter had come two days earlier telling them he was staying in the Merchant Navy, but promising them that he would be home to spend Christmas with them. ‘Must meet this new little
sister of mine. . . .’

‘Oh look! Look at Lottie.’ The fond parents laughed as their young daughter toddled towards them, holding a sticky jam bun in each hand. ‘She’s like a little doll,
isn’t she?’ Emma said. ‘She reminds me so much of my mother, sometimes. The way she smiles, the way her cheeks dimple.’

William chuckled as he bent to lift Lottie into his arms. ‘Oh, she’s going to be a heartbreaker one day, and no mistake. And just where, young lady, did you get
two
sticky
buns from?’

‘Mister Rab,’ Lottie said and smiled, her blue eyes sparkling and her blonde curls dancing. Unable to get her child’s tongue round his unusual name, Lottie always called him
‘Mister Rab’.

‘I thought as much and, talk of the devil,’ William said, ‘just look at this pair, Em. They look like a couple of cats that’s been at the cream.’

Coming towards them, weaving their way through the happy throng and arm in arm, were Mr Rabinski and Sarah. They stopped in front of Emma and William, glancing and smiling at each other.
Sarah’s cheeks were pink as Mr Rabinski removed his hat and began, ‘Mr William, dear lady, I have the honour to inform you that this wonderful lady at my side had consented to be my
vife.’

Emma clapped her hands together and threw her arms about Sarah. ‘Oh, how wonderful. That makes today absolutely perfect.’

When all the congratulations had been said, Sarah, glancing impishly at her husband-to-be said, ‘There’s only one thing, Ezra, you will just
have
to make friends with the
bees.’

As Mr Rabinski threw his hands in the air in horror, Emma and William leant against each other, weak with laughter.

A man was standing before her. A tall man who stooped slightly now from his years spent over the anvil. His skin was leather brown and the once black hair was now speckled with
grey.

‘Hello, Jamie,’ Emma said, surprised at how calm and level her voice was. ‘How are you?’

They had not met – not face to face – for many years. Even since her return to Marsh Thorpe with William, Jamie had never once visited them at the mill. For all she knew, the
brothers had never even spoken to each other for William had never mentioned Jamie’s name. It was strange, she thought, that even in a small village community, people could live only a few
yards from each other and yet never speak. She found the realization very sad. She had seen Jamie, of course, in the market place or in the chapel, but never had they exchanged more than a brief,
awkward nod.

‘Well enough,’ he said, and then fell silent, his brown eyes were upon her face, holding her from turning away. He twisted his cap round and round in his hands with a strange
nervousness. ‘Emma,’ he began, his words coming haltingly, ‘I’ve wanted to say something to you for a long time, but I haven’t known quite how.’

She waited, watching him, unable to help because she wasn’t really sure what it was he was trying to say.

‘I was a fool,’ he blurted out and her eyes widened. ‘A blind, stupid, damned proud fool. And I’ve spent a lifetime regretting it.’

‘Oh, Jamie,’ Emma said and there was a wealth of sadness in her tone. For the first time in years she looked at the man she had once loved so desperately with all the passion of her
youth. Through the years, she had carried the heartache of his cruel rejection that had thrust her into a most unsuitable marriage. Because of him, she had thought herself unloved and unworthy of
being loved. But now, for the first time, she realized that at last she could let him go, bury all the bitterness, the age-old longing. Jamie had been her first love and there would always be a
special place in her heart for him, but William was her last love, her greatest love. It was William who had healed her wounded heart and given her back her own pride; William who staunched her
grief over the death of her eldest son; William who had given her a new beginning with the birth of their daughter. And it had been William who had brought her home to Grandpa Charlie’s mill
and his love that had rebuilt it for her.