The Miller's Daughter (41 page)

Emma’s heart sank.

‘Yes,’ the woman was saying. ‘She’s his dad’s mother. Young Micky’s been living with her, oh now, let’s see? Since last September time. His dad visits
from time to time, though.’

Emma felt a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day break out all over her body. Her voice was a croak as she said. ‘His – his father?’ Then she clung to a
vestige of new hope. Perhaps, after all, Micky wasn’t Leonard’s son, perhaps he was nothing to do with Leonard or Bridget or . . . But at the woman’s next words her hopes sank
even further.

‘Oh yes, he comes two or three times a year to see his mother. Lovely lady she is, pretty as a picture even at her age. He’s a nice bloke too, but,’ she leaned over the counter
as if imparting a confidence, ‘a bit on the flash side for us village folk. But he’s a real charmer.’ She winked and nodded, ‘Know what I mean?’

‘Oh yes,’ Emma murmured, ‘I know what you mean,’ and added bitterly in her own mind, only too well!

‘Where do I find Yew Cottage?’

The woman pointed, ‘Carry on up the street, take the first left and it’s the last cottage on the left as you leave the village. You can’t miss it ’cos it’s got a
huge yew tree in the front garden.’

Murmuring her thanks, Emma left the shop and followed the woman’s directions. In a few moments she was drawing up outside the cottage. She pulled on to the grass verge and switched off the
engine. She sat a minute summoning up the courage for what, she was more than ever sure now, she had to face.

It was a pretty little thatched cottage. The neatly-kept borders were edged with white alyssum and purple lobelia in alternating clumps, alongside bright yellow shrubs. But the garden was
dominated, overpowered almost, by the huge yew tree which stood in the centre of the lawn, the ground beneath its thick branches so hidden from the light that the grass no longer grew there.

‘Why, Emma, my dear. How lovely.’ The woman’s delight was genuine, Emma knew. She sighed. This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined. Bridget was so
disarmingly open, so transparently guileless. Surely she could not know about Micky’s friendship with Lottie?

‘Come in, come in.’ The door was pulled open wider and Emma found herself stepping out of the bright sunlight and into the contrast of a shadowy, tiny hallway. Bridget led the way
into a sunny sitting room and towards the French windows thrown open to the sun and leading out on to a paved area.

‘I love to sit here in the summer, as long as I don’t get too much sun,’ Bridget patted her smooth cheek, her laughter tinkling and Emma, despite her errand, found herself
smiling. It had always been difficult, impossible really, to resist this woman’s charms. ‘Sit down, sit down, let me make you a cup of tea. Oh, Emma, it is lovely to see you
again.’

She reached out and clasped Emma’s hands in her own slim fingers. Amazingly, she looked little changed, still slender in her floating chiffon dress and high heeled shoes.

‘No, no, don’t trouble, Bridget. Really. Please – ’ the words came out stiffly, haltingly, ‘please sit down. There’s something I want to talk to you
about.’

Bridget’s mouth made a small, silent ‘oh’ but, obediently, she sat in the chair opposite and folded her hands neatly in her lap, looking like a naughty school girl about to be
scolded.

Emma looked at her properly and saw that beneath the carefully applied make-up the wrinkles were there. The golden hair looked so perfect that Emma wondered if it was a wig. And Bridget’s
hands, still slim and elegant, had the tell-tale purple veins of age on the back. What age must she be now? Emma’s mind clutched at another thought, any other thought, to put off the moment
when she must face the reason that had brought her here. Bridget had to be eighty at least. If so, then the woman was incredible.

She was leaning forward saying gently, ‘What is it, my dear? Not bad news?’ Even her voice was not the quavery tone of an octogenarian. It was still light, almost girlish.

‘Well . . .’ Emma began and then hesitated. No, she told herself sharply, it was not bad news at least not the kind Bridget meant. ‘Not really, I just want to talk to you, to
ask you something. About Micky.’

The woman’s eyes glowed with tenderness and she clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, he’s the joy of my old age, Emma. Such a dear, dear boy. And so clever too. He goes to the
Grammar School in Calceworth, you know?’

‘Yes,’ Emma said slowly and added, with deliberate emphasis, ‘and so does my daughter, Charlotte.’

‘Does she? How nice . . .’ Bridget began and then her eyes widened. ‘Oh, you mean, they know each other?’

Her mouth tight, Emma nodded. ‘They know each other very well. Too well.’

Bridget looked puzzled for a moment. ‘But Micky’s never mentioned anyone called—’ Suddenly she clapped her hand over her mouth in the childish gesture Emma remembered so
well. ‘Of course –
Lottie
. She’s your daughter?’

‘Have you met her? Has he brought her home? Here?’

Bridget shook her head. ‘No,’ she said slowly and added, ‘but he talks of no one else. You’re right Emma. They are close. Very close.’

The two women stared at each other.

‘I presume,’ Emma said carefully and felt her heart thudding painfully, ‘Micky is Leonard’s son.’

Suddenly, Bridget looked a little old woman. She seemed to shrink before Emma’s eyes. The joy seemed to go out of her face and she leant back wearily against the cushions.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He’s Leonard’s boy.’

Emma rose slowly. ‘Let me make you some tea, Bridget. I think we could both do with a cup now.’

The older woman nodded and Emma found her own way into the neat kitchen, finding all she needed readily to hand for an afternoon tray of tea things was already laid out in the kitchen. Minutes
later, when she carried it back outside the French windows, she tried to say lightheartedly. ‘I could almost imagine you were expecting me.’

Bridget, the colour back in her face, smiled though her voice was a little tremulous as she said, ‘I always have a cup of tea and some cake waiting for Micky when he gets home from school.
You know what boys are, always ravenous.’

She made no move to pour out the tea herself but sat back leaving it to Emma.

Handing her a cup, Emma said gently, ‘Bridget, why did you never come and tell me that Leonard was alive?’ She was finding the realization that Bridget had known for years but had
never told her, rather hurtful.

‘Now, how could I, Emma dear? He was a deserter who could have been arrested. Besides, you were – are still, I hope – happy with William and your little girl.’ The
elegant shoulders lifted. ‘Why stir up trouble?’

‘But I would like to have known,’ Emma murmured reproachfully. ‘You could have trusted me, you know.’

The china blue eyes, still remarkably clear, were regarding Emma steadily. ‘Leonard said you were always so honest. He wasn’t sure how you would react.’

Emma gasped and felt the colour flood her face. She could well imagine that such a remark had been made with a sneer.

‘That’s not fair. How could he say that? I never let him down. Not even,’ she added bitterly, remembering the wireless set again, ‘when it was against my own
instincts.’

Sipping the tea, Bridget said, ‘Leonard’s a rogue, Emma. I can’t deny it any longer.’

Startled, Emma’s cup rattled in the saucer and she gave a gasp of surprise. Even from the ingenuous Bridget she had not expected such honesty.

‘Oh, I love him, I always have, I always will. He’s my son. But I’m not as silly and feckless and blind to his faults as people believe.’ Her steady gaze met
Emma’s. ‘I know I’ve been painted a scarlet woman most of my life, Emma, but I’ve never deliberately hurt anyone. I had a lot of fun and I had a lot of love. But
I
gave
a lot of love, yes, and fun, too.’ Her mouth quirked. ‘Even to your poor old dad, eh? And I never went with married men, whatever anyone says. I never took another
woman’s husband away from her. And there were times when I could have done.’ Her eyes were dreamy looking back down the years. ‘There was a Major once. He showered me with flowers
and gifts, but I wouldn’t have any of it. He had a wife and three children.’ She shook her head, ‘Oh no. Whatever else I may have done – may have been – ’ she
shot a mischievous, almost coquettish, glance at Emma, ‘I never took another woman’s man. Actually, that’s how I came to Marsh Thorpe – to escape the Major.’

‘So,’ Emma said gently, trying to pull Bridget’s reminiscing back to the present, ‘Leonard did not die in the war?’

Bridget bit her lip and twisted her hands in her lap. ‘No, no. But – oh, Emma, you won’t give him away, will you, if I tell you? Promise?’

‘Give him away? I don’t understand.’

Bridget was silent a moment as if struggling with her conscience. ‘He – he deserted. Goodness knows how he evaded capture by either the enemy or our side, but he did. So, legally he
is
dead.’

‘Did he change his name?’

Bridget shrugged her shoulders. ‘Didn’t seem a lot of point really. Smith is a name other people use to
become
incognito.’

Emma could see the reasoning in that. ‘Did he remarry?’

‘Oh no. He lives with Helen, Micky’s mother, but they never married. At least as far as I know.’

‘So why is Micky living with you?’

Now there was puzzlement in the clear blue eyes. ‘Leonard said he wanted him to come to live in the country. He told me the lad had asthma in the city. Leicester, they live now. But . .
.’ a small frown appeared on her forehead, ‘I’ve never seen the slightest sign of Micky having asthma. He seems a particularly healthy lad to me.’

‘Mm,’ Emma said and there was a wealth of meaning in the sound.

‘What? What are you thinking, Emma?’

‘And Leonard comes here? To see you?’

‘Well, yes, of course. Two or three times a year. Why?’

‘Then he knows all about me. About me and William Metcalfe and that we have a daughter?’

‘Well, yes. He’s happy for you. Said he never meant you any harm.’

‘Really?’ The word was laced with sarcasm. ‘Then why did he let me think he was dead?’

‘He thought it best . . .’ Bridget’s voice trailed away. ‘By the end of the war he’d got Helen. He met her in France. I think she sort of – hid him, you know.
And they’d got Micky by then too.’ She flapped her hand. ‘But of course you must have realized that, because he’s a similar age to Lottie. When I told him about you and
William and your little girl, then he said things were best left the way they were for all concerned. Those were his very words, Emma.’

In fairness, Emma thought, it would have made things very awkward if her husband had returned from the dead – for all of them.

Emma sighed as she stood up. ‘Well, perhaps for once I am misjudging Leonard. I thought he’d sent young Micky here for a reason.’

‘What? What reason could there be?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sniffed derisively. ‘But I know Leonard of old and I’m going to stop Lottie seeing Micky.’

‘Oh, Emma, Micky’s going to be so upset. He really likes Lottie.’

As she walked back down the path towards the gate, she was acutely aware of Bridget watching her from the doorway, a troubled look on her sweet face.

‘You’re not to see Micky Smith anymore, Lottie.’

The girl’s bright eyes were wide and her generous mouth dropped open. ‘Not – see – Micky? But – but why? He’s nice. I thought you liked him. Dad did. You got
on like a house on fire, didn’t you?’ Her frantic gaze was darting back and forth between her parents.

Emma bit her lip and avoided meeting her daughter’s eyes. Resolutely she kept to her decision, but inside what she was doing was tearing her apart. ‘No. You’re too young to be
having a boyfriend.’ As the words left her mouth, the excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. She went on relentlessly, knowing she was only making matters worse, not better. ‘You
ought to be concentrating on your school work. If your O level results are good, you’ll be staying on into the Sixth Form.’

‘So will Micky. Just because I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I won’t work hard. And I’ll still help you in the shop on a Saturday.’ The girl’s face was
growing pinker by the minute until her cheeks were fiery with anger. ‘Why, Mum, just tell me why?’

When Emma made no answer, the girl turned resentful eyes upon her father. ‘Dad? Do you know what this is all about?’

William ran his hand distractedly through his hair. Of course he knew. There were dark shadows under Emma’s eyes for they had sat up talking half the night and even then sleep had been
impossible. He didn’t agree with the way Emma had decided to deal with the situation. He thought Lottie should be told the truth, the whole truth. There was nothing he could say, nothing he
could do. Emma had been adamant.

When she received no answer from either of her parents, the girl whirled around and headed for the back door. ‘Well, I won’t stop seeing him, so there. And you can’t make me.
And if you do then – then I’ll – I’ll run away.’

The door slammed behind her and they heard her running feet crossing the yard making for the gap in the hedge, through the orchard towards Sarah’s cottage to lay her head against the older
woman’s plump shoulder and sob out her heart. Sarah would be on her side, Lottie would be thinking, Sarah would tell her why her mother was being so unreasonable.

But Sarah already knew what it was all about and Emma had sworn her to secrecy.

‘She’s late home again. The school bus went through half an hour ago and she wasn’t on it. Where is she?’

‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ William said flatly.

Emma twisted her apron through her fingers. ‘You don’t agree with what I’m doing, do you?’ she blurted out.

‘You know I don’t. You should have told her the truth from the start. This way, you’re driving them together even faster. You know what youngsters are these days. The more you
tell them
not
to do something, the more they want to do just that very thing.’

Emma passed the back of her hand wearily across her forehead. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re right.’