The Miller's Daughter (6 page)

‘Aye, you’re right, of course, Em. But I don’t know, well, if it would be quite the right thing to do. Not now. You know what I mean. We’re not really out of mourning for
me mam and dad.’

Emma’s violet eyes softened. ‘I know how you feel.’ Then she brightened and turned to Sarah. ‘But let’s ask around the rest of the village. See what everyone else
feels. What do you think, Sarah?’

The older woman’s face was unusually serious as she flicked her duster absentmindedly at nothing in particular on the already spotless counter top. ‘Mm, well, I suppose we could.
I’ll have to think about it.’ She seemed ill at ease, and Emma, guessing what was coming next, fought valiantly to keep the smile from her face and waited for Sarah’s next words.
‘Er, would it be all right if I just nip home for a moment, Emma?’

Airily, Emma said, ‘Of course. We’re not exactly rushed off our feet just now.’

Sarah untied her apron and bustled through to the kitchen to fetch her hat and coat from the peg behind the door. Jamming her hat on her thick hair, she popped her head back round the door and
said, ‘I won’t be long, I promise, only I must go . . .’ As she turned away again to leave by the back door to hurry across the yard towards the orchard, they heard her mutter.
‘I must tell the bees about this.’

Emma clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes brimming with laughter and as soon as Sarah’s bustling little body was well away from the shop, her merriment bubbled over and she leant weakly
against the counter. She looked up at William and was relieved to see that he was grinning, the anxiety for the moment wiped from his young face. He shook his head and said fondly, without a trace
of ridicule in his tone. ‘Oh dear, Sarah and her bees.’

To Sarah Robson, the old superstition of ‘telling the bees’ of important events in the lives of the family who owned them must never be ignored, but she seemed to carry it further
than that. Everything that happened in the village of Marsh Thorpe, good or bad, was faithfully reported to the hives in the orchard which lay between the mill yard and the cottage where she and
Luke lived.

‘I reckon,’ Emma told William, ‘she doesn’t just tell them things, she actually asks their advice, you know.’

Far from mocking the ways and beliefs of the woman, William asked, in all seriousness, ‘How does she know what they say?’

‘By their buzzing, I think. Whether they approve or disapprove.’

William shrugged and grinned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t like to argue. I don’t fancy a swarm of ’em after me ’cos I’d upset them. Won’t they be asleep, though,
as it’s winter?’

Emma shrugged. ‘Bees don’t hibernate as such, just sort of – ’ she searched for an appropriate word and then laughed, ‘doze.’

‘What does she do, then? Wake them up?’

Her chuckle was deep, infectious. ‘I really don’t know. I know she taps the hives though. And if it’s about our family – the Forrest family – she takes the back
door key and taps the hives with that.’

‘Really?’ He paused and then added, ‘You’ve always had bees in the orchard, haven’t you?’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes. Grandpa Charlie brought them the same time he built the mill. The tale goes that he baited a skep and a swarm just arrived. He always said that as long as there was a
Forrest at the mill, the bees would stay and the mill would prosper. If the Forrest family always had bread and honey, he said, then they’d never go hungry. Luke says the bees swarmed on the
side of the mill the day Grandpa was killed.’ Emma shook herself as vague, disturbing memories flickered somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, memories she did not want to think about
today. ‘But I don’t remember that.’ More briskly, she said, ‘Never mind Sarah and her bees just now, you still haven’t told me exactly when Jamie will be
home.’

‘Saturday afternoon. On the train that gets in about three o’clock.’

‘That doesn’t give us much time to get the bunting out,’ Emma laughed.

‘Aye, an’ it dun’t give me much time to get the workshops straightened up a bit before he gets here.’ The anxious look was back in William’s face. ‘By the
way, thanks for coming last Sunday. The house looks great now. I only wish the rest was as tidy.’

Emma touched his arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said confidently. ‘Once he’s home, everything will be all right.’ Her own heart lifted with the thought.

Jamie, her beloved Jamie, was coming home. In three days’ time, he would be here. She could picture him now, striding along the platform towards her, his kitbag resting lightly on his
broad, strong shoulders, a warm smile lighting up his dark brown eyes. His curly black hair might have been cut short by army regulations, she pondered, but it would soon grow again. And there he
would be, putting his arms about her, swinging her round as if she were as light as a feather. A small smile played on her lips. Oh, Jamie, she murmured inside her mind, you’re the only man
who makes me feel small and feminine and not like some great carthorse.

Jamie was a big man, like his father had been before his illness, taller, broader and stronger than his younger brother, even though during the past three years the heavy work of the smithy had
made the boy fill out. But, at this moment, with anxiety clouding his eyes, William looked very young and vulnerable.

‘I just hope you’re right, Em,’ he was saying, the worried frown creasing his forehead. ‘I just hope everything
is
going to be all right.’

‘Such a lot of fuss and carry on,’ Harry muttered morosely. ‘I suppose you reckon you’re going to tek the afternoon off and go gallivanting off to the
station to meet young Metcalfe?’

‘The whole village will be there, Father. We can’t possibly not go.’

He sniffed. ‘Oh yes, we can.’

Emma was silent for a moment watching her father as he carved the joint of beef. If Harry Forrest could stay away from a funeral, then he could certainly stay away from Jamie’s homecoming.
For once, Emma thought, she would have to be a little devious. As he passed each plate to her, she added mashed potatoes and salted green beans and poured gravy over it all. Placing one plate in
front of her father, she took her own seat on the opposite side of the table, the spread of the snow-white tablecloth between them. Without a word of thanks, Harry picked up his knife and fork and
began to eat.

With deliberate casualness, Emma said, ‘Mrs Smith is hoping her son will be on the same train.’ She paused, letting the piece of information sink in and take root. Slyly, she added,
‘It would be a nice welcome to his new home if Leonard Smith was included in the celebrations for Jamie.’ Again she waited just a moment. ‘Don’t you think,
Father?’

Keeping her eyes lowered, she concentrated deliberately on shaking salt and pepper on to her dinner and then picked up her knife and fork. Risking a glance, she found her father’s eyes
upon her, boring into her. ‘Ya scheming little baggage!’ he said, but to her surprise there was a hint of admiration in his tone. ‘Think I won’t refuse to go if Bridget
Smith’s going to be there, eh?’

He paused a moment as if thinking, then to her amazement Harry gave a bark of wry laughter. ‘Well, ya right. I wouldn’t miss that. We will be there, but mark me, me girl,’ he
pointed his fork at her, stabbing the air and showering droplets of gravy on to the clean tablecloth. ‘It’ll be Bridget’s lad ya’ll be welcoming home, alongside o’ me.
Not
young Metcalfe.’

Emma’s eyes widened as she stared at him. ‘But Father, Jamie and me—’

‘I know all about James Metcalfe making a play for you, girl. It was always Josiah’s scheme to wed his son to you so that he could get his greedy hands on Forrest’s
Mill.’

Tears of humiliation stung her eyelids. She blinked rapidly, determined that he should not see how much his accusation hurt her.

‘And it’ll not mek any difference even though the old man’s gone. Young Jamie is just as grasping.’ At his next words she knew that his bitterness had clouded his
judgement. ‘I’d sooner see the mill flattened to the ground when I go,’ he thundered, ‘than see anyone other than a Forrest own it. You hear me –
girl
?’

Every moment of his years of bitter disappointment was in that final insult, yet her father’s deep hatred of the Metcalfe family only served to strengthen Emma’s resolve to marry
Jamie. For what was Forrest’s Mill to her without the love of the man she adored?

It seemed as if the whole village turned out to greet Jamie Metcalfe and to give him a true hero’s welcome. Five soldiers had already returned to the village and eight
more would never come home, leaving their saddened families without even a grave to mourn over. Jamie was the last to come back and the kindly villagers wanted to help ease the sadness he must feel
knowing his parents were no longer there to greet him. They wanted to let him know they sympathized and yet were proud of him and overjoyed to see him safely returned. They wanted to give him the
welcome his mother and father would have done.

Only Sarah Robson was uneasy. She joined the throng, but there was a worried look in her eyes and she bit her lip in a tense, nervous manner.

Emma, wearing the new bonnet she had bought from the market stall as a deliberate gesture of defiance towards her father, linked her arm through Sarah’s. ‘What is it, Sarah? Are you
worried about William? He seems happier today.’ She laughed. ‘I think he’s been giving the workshops a regular spring clean.’

Absently, Sarah nodded. ‘I know. And you’ve been up to give the lad a hand, ain’t you?’

Emma squeezed the plump arm. ‘Shh, don’t let Father hear you. He thought I was cleaning the chapel.’

Still, the worried expression did not leave the woman’s face. Emma watched her for a moment and then asked again, ‘So, what is bothering you? ’Cos there’s
something.’

Sarah glanced at her and tried to smile, though the anxiety never left her eyes. ‘You’re a mite too sharp, Emma Forrest, at times.’ She bit her lip again and then said slowly,
‘I know you’ll mebbe laugh, but – but it’s the bees.’ She shook her head. ‘They’re – they’re not happy about . . .’ she waved her hand
towards the gathering of people waving homemade paper flags, at the village’s silver band lining up along the edge of the platform and waiting for the signal that the train was approaching.
The conductor was standing on the very edge of the platform leaning precariously out over the tracks, craning his neck to look down the line. Then suddenly he gave a shout and hurried back to stand
in front of the four neat rows of bandsmen. ‘She’s coming. Train’s coming,’ he said and raised his hands in the air. Trumpets, bugles, euphonium; all were raised to
moustached lips and at the very back the man with the huge drum resting on his stomach twirled his sticks in readiness.

Emma saw Sarah open her mouth but her words were drowned in the sudden blast of noise. Putting her mouth close to Sarah’s ear, Emma said, ‘What did you say?’

The woman’s gaze was fastened on the approaching train. ‘They don’t like it,’ she mouthed and Emma bending nearer caught the words. ‘The bees, they don’t
think all this fuss is the right thing to do. Something’s going to go wrong I know it is.’

Emma squeezed her arm and began to say, ‘Oh, Sarah . . ’ but her attention was caught by the huge bulk of the engine drawing into the tiny station, its smoke drifting over the
waiting crowd. With a great deal of hissing and puffing the train came to a halt. ‘He’s here. He’s really home. Whatever can go wrong now?’

She let go of Sarah’s arm and, drawn towards the edge of the platform, her gaze scanned the carriages, watching for Jamie to appear. The crowds surged forward and Emma was carried along
until she felt a firm grasp on her arm and heard her father’s gruff voice ‘And where do you think you’re going, girl? I told you to stay by me.’

‘Oh, Father, please—’

‘Do as I tell you,’ he snapped and his fingers tightened on her arm. He pulled her away from the crowd and along the platform to where the diminutive figure of Bridget Smith stood on
tiptoe, stretching her neck to see above the heads of the throng, a small paper flag clasped in her gloved hands. As they reached her, Emma, casting anxious glances back towards the front of the
train, so afraid of missing the moment when Jamie appeared, heard Bridget say, ‘Oh, Harry, I can’t see him. You don’t suppose . . .? Oh Harry, what if . . .?’ She clung to
Harry Forrest’s free arm, looking up into his face, her blue eyes brimming with sudden tears.

Emma felt her father release her arm and listened as, in a surprisingly gentle voice, Harry said, ‘Now, now Bridget, my dear. He’ll be here, I’m sure. Just wait a
moment.’

His back was half-turned away from Emma as he bent over Bridget, trying to console her. Emma inched away from his side and at the split second he turned back to her, she picked up her long skirt
and skipped out of his reach.

‘Emma!’ he bellowed, but, although she knew she would be in dreadful trouble later, she pretended not to hear above the clamour and dodged in amongst the crowd, ducking low so that
he could not see her tall figure above the other heads. Relying on Bridget’s need of her father, Emma searched amongst the crowd for William. Surely, he must be here.

Then she saw him, standing disconsolately at the back of the crowd, looking very agitated and unsure. She pushed her way through to him and said, ‘Come on, William. You must be the first
to meet him.’ She linked her arm through his and tried to urge him forward.

Uncomfortable in his Sunday suit with its starched collar, William stood twisting his cap round and round between his fingers.

There was a sudden burst of noise, of shouting and cheering. Turning, Emma saw a man standing in the doorway of a carriage. He was tall, but thin and gaunt, and on his forehead was a deep frown.
Her glance flickered away from him, searching down the length of the train but then her gaze came back to him. The crowd were surging forward, reaching up towards him with outstretched arms. The
band struck up a rousing march.

‘Jamie. Jamie Metcalfe,’ the cry went up.

Emma gasped and her fingers fastened on William’s arm. ‘Oh no, that’s not – it can’t be –
Jamie
?’