The Miller's Daughter (21 page)

‘Of course I did – do,’ he corrected himself impatiently. ‘Don’t get all sentimental. It’s not like you. It’s one of the things I liked about you.
You’re not a simpering, silly female. You’re tough and determined and – and dependable.’

‘And,’ she murmured flatly, ‘I had a mill.’

‘Oh, well, if you’re going to fling that at me . . .’

‘I’m not Leonard. I don’t blame you as much as I blame my father.’

‘Oh, very generous of you,’ he said sarcastically. Then he sighed and added, ‘But you’re right, the old beggar’s done it across both of us.’

Anger in every movement, he snatched up the copy of the will which the solicitor had left lying on the table. His mouth tight, his eyes glittering with resentment, Leonard scanned the pages, his
fingers turning the sheets over one after the other. As Emma watched, she saw a sudden stillness come over him, saw him pause longer on one particular page as if reading and re-reading one section.
Before her eyes, Leonard’s manner changed. With deliberate casualness he tossed the will on to the table and said, ‘Well, there it is then. Let’s not quarrel any more, my
dear.’ He came towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘We’ll make the best of a bad job, eh? You run the mill until Charles is old enough to take over and I’ll
continue with my – er – business interests.’

She stared at him, confused by his sudden change of attitude.

He kissed her forehead, turned and left the room. She heard him go into the bedroom, undoubtedly, she thought, to pack his suitcase once more.

Slowly Emma reached across the table and picked up the sheaf of papers. Her eyes scanned the stilted legal jargon, trying to make sense of it all. Then the words leapt off the page at her.

And I appoint my daughter, Emma Smith, to be Executrix of this my Will and Trustee for my estate until my grandson, Charles Forrest Smith, shall attain the age of one and twenty, with full
Powers of Attorney . . .

She wasn’t quite sure what the legal wording meant, but she had a shrewd idea. Until her son reached twenty-one, she, Emma, had full power over all the estate, including the handling of
the money. With the will still in her hands she moved slowly towards the window overlooking the yard. Below, she saw her five-year-old son standing rigidly still, his gaze fixed upon the mill, its
sails still and silent today. Faintly, through the open window and coming from the direction of the mill, she heard a low, continuous buzzing. A black cloud seemed to be clinging to the side of the
mill about half way up; a heaving, moving, humming black cloud. Fascinated, the boy and his mother watched as the bees from the orchard swarmed on the side of the mill.

‘The death of a Forrest,’ Emma murmured.

‘Leonard, I really need your help.’

Above the morning paper Leonard raised his eyebrows. Already he was dressed for the city in his smart check suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. As always, when there were any available,
there was a fresh flower in his buttonhole. In contrast, Emma felt weary and dishevelled. As usual she had been up since the early hours that morning and now, at seven thirty, it was the first time
she had stopped to grab a slice of toast and a mouthful of tea and to call Charles for school.

‘My help?’ her husband asked. ‘Whatever do you need my help for? Besides,’ he added, his eyes going back to the Sales and Wanted column in the newspaper, ‘I must be
on my way.’ He crumpled the paper and said, ‘And that reminds me, it’s high time I invested in a car. The times I travel on Tom Robinson’s bus, I must have nearly bought the
darn thing by now.’

‘Never mind that just now, Leonard. Will you listen? I need your help with the mill.’

‘The mill? Now look here, you know I don’t—’

‘Listen!’ she snapped, worry shortening her patience. ‘It’s the machinery. It needs keeping in good order.’

‘What about Luke? I thought he saw to all that.’

Emma bit her lip. ‘Luke isn’t well. He’s getting dizzy spells. He’s not worked for a couple of weeks.’

‘Hasn’t he? Can’t say I’d noticed.’ Emma glared at him and bit back the sharp retort that sprang to her lips as Leonard added, disinterestedly, ‘What’s
the matter with him?’

‘After Father died, he seemed – well – he seemed to give up somehow. I don’t think he’ll ever be well enough to work again, not even if he improves a bit. Me and
the lad from the village have been managing the mill between use but we’re not getting through the work. Sarah’s kept the bakehouse going, but we’ll be losing business soon, if .
. .’

‘Get someone else, then.’

‘But why can’t you . . .?’ she began, but her words were cut short by Leonard holding out his hand towards her, palm outwards, as if fending her off.

‘You know I don’t want to have anything to do with the mill. I know nothing about it, so it would be pointless me even trying.’

‘You like the money it earns well enough, though, don’t you?’ she retorted.

‘Well, if you’re going to start that again, I’m going. I’ll be back on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’ Her eyes widened. ‘But – but you usually come home midweek.’

‘I’ve business in Sheffield on Wednesday and Thursday, so I shan’t be home until the weekend.’

Emma’s eyes narrowed and before she had stopped to think, the thought that had troubled her for several months now, formed itself into words and came out of her mouth. ‘Leonard, have
you got someone else? Another woman in Lincoln?’

‘Eh?’ He spun round and she had to admit that the surprise on his face was genuine. He stared at her for a moment and then let out a huge guffaw of laughter and came back towards
her, his arms outstretched, to take her by the shoulders and give her a gentle shake. ‘Heavens, no! I’ve got enough to handle with the one I’ve got.’

His eyes were dancing, his mouth smiling as he turned on the familiar charm. In spite of herself, Emma found herself smiling in return.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘You can hardly blame me for wondering. You spend so much time away from home and—’

‘My dear, I have my business to keep going. And I’m sorry I’m not more use to you here, but, well,’ he shrugged his shoulders, ‘my time’s better spent doing
the job I know how to do. Now you must see that, don’t you?’

‘I suppose so,’ Emma murmured. Even after having been married to him for almost seven years, she still did not know precisely how her husband made his money. All she knew was that it
was some kind of dealing. She supposed that meant buying and selling, for he always seemed to be scouring the newspapers. He was still the same; flush with money one week, penniless the next and
borrowing from her. Although he always promised to pay her back the next time he pulled off a deal, he never did repay her and in the end she ceased to expect it. After all, they were husband and
wife and all that was hers was, by law, his too. As, more than once, Leonard had reminded her. But whenever she tried to probe too deeply into his affairs, her husband became angry and eventually,
Emma had given up trying. Whatever it was that he did to earn a so-called ‘living’, Emma decided at last, then let him get on with it. Shrewdly, however, she did not so readily hand
over money every time he demanded it.

‘I can let you have a little next week,’ she would answer, becoming as evasive as Leonard himself, ‘when Farmer Popple pays me.’

Then Leonard would frown and glare at her, but she would stand firm and he would turn away muttering darkly about what might happen to people who did not pay their debts on time, though whether
he was referring to Farmer Popple or to himself being in debt to someone, Emma could never quite be sure.

But now, Leonard was all smiles. ‘Actually,’ he was saying airily, ‘I’m going over to Sheffield to look at a second-hand car. A mate of mine knows a bloke in the
business.’

‘Leonard, we really can’t afford . . .’

‘I’m not asking you for money, Emma. I had a bit of good luck last week so I thought I’d get one while the going’s good.’

‘I see,’ she said flatly. No intention of paying back all the money he’s had from me, she thought.

‘Oh, come on, Em, cheer up. If I get this motor car, I’ll take you out for a drive next Sunday – you and the boy. If the weather’s nice, we’ll take a picnic and go
up the coast. How about that, eh?’

Suddenly, he looked so boyish, so anxious to please, that she hadn’t the heart to spoil his fun. She forced herself to laugh, tapped his nose playfully with her forefinger and said gaily,
‘You’d better.’

‘That’s the ticket.’ He leant forward and kissed her forehead briefly. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll try to find someone in Lincoln who knows about mills.’

‘Oh, it’s all right, don’t bother. I’ve just remembered someone locally who might be able to help.’

His wide smile showed gratitude at being relieved of the responsibility, and he left the house with a jaunty step and his Homburg set at a rakish angle.

Now why on earth had she never thought of it before she asked herself? It had been Leonard’s unusual shortening of her name to ‘Em’ that had reminded her. Only one person ever
called her that; William. And now he worked for a millwright in Bilsford.

She only had to ask, she knew, and William would come.

When she had delivered her son to the village school only a few yards up the road from the mill, Emma crossed the road and went into the market place, striding purposefully
across the square towards the smithy.

During the past seven years, she had, of course, seen Jamie about the village, at chapel, in the market, even in her bakery. She had spoken to him, enquired after his health and William’s,
but this was the first time since her marriage that she had visited him at the smithy, the first time she had deliberately sought him out. As she drew near, she could hear the roar of the furnace,
could smell the tang of singeing hoof that always seemed to linger about the place, even when there were no horses there being shod. Then she heard the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of his hammer as
he shaped a piece of metal on his anvil. From a safe distance she stood and watched him.

He must have caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, for she saw him stiffen and then slowly straighten up to face her. For a fleeting moment, his feelings were naked in his eyes;
brown eyes that were dark with longing. But then the mask of indifference clouded his face and the perpetual frown deepened. Against her own will, her heart quickened its beat.

‘And what do you want?’ he said gruffly and flung the piece of metal into a corner, its clanging sound echoing around the yard.

‘Good morning, Jamie,’ she said with emphatic politeness.

He grunted and then grudgingly replied, ‘Good morning.’

‘Do you know the name of the people William works for in Bilsford? He did tell me once, but I’ve forgotten it.’

Jamie wrinkled his brow, ‘Er, something beginning with P – er – Pickering. Yes, that’s it, Pickering.’

Feeling she owed him some kind of explanation, she added, ‘I thought maybe he’d take a look at the mill for me. The machinery, y’know. Luke’s not up to it any
more.’

‘Aye, I’d heard he was ill.’

There was silence and though Emma waited, gave him every possible chance, there was no offer of help from Jamie.

Sighing softly to herself, she turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll write to him.’

‘You do that,’ the man said harshly. ‘But he’ll not come.’

She half-turned back towards him. ‘Eh? Why not? Why won’t he come?’

Jamie sniffed. ‘He ain’t been back here more than twice since he went six years ago. Too taken up wi’ his new employers and his new job to think about his family; the
only
member of his family left now,’ he added bitterly. He glanced at her and said, ‘He lives with them, y’know.’

Emma frowned. ‘So? Why is that so very dreadful?’

Jamie prodded the air with his finger. ‘He should never have gone in the first place. His duty’s here with me, in the family business our grandfather and his brother started.
He’d no right to leave me here to cope alone.’

Softly Emma said, ‘Maybe now you realize just how he had to struggle after your parents died and you were away in the war. And he was only a boy then, not even a man.’

‘That’s different,’ he argued. ‘I had me duty to me country to do. ’Sides, when I left, me mam and dad were well and strong. How was I to know what would
happen?’

He fell silent, but the accusation against his younger brother still hung in the air between them.

‘Maybe, Jamie,’ Emma said gently, and there was an infinite sadness in her tone, ‘if the same man who went away to the war had come back to us – the very same man –
then perhaps a lot of things might have been different.’

The tears sprang to her eyes and lest he should see them, she turned away and hurried across the market square without looking back to see if he stood watching her.

She received a reply to her letter to William by return of post.

She let the letter fall from her hands on to the table. She knew William was right. He understood the relationship between the two men as well as she did. A small smile curved her generous mouth
as she thought about her childhood friend. Kind, considerate, so gentle, and always, she thought, ruefully comparing him to her volatile husband, the same. William had never been in one mood one
moment, another the next. Dependable, reliable – dull, some might have said, but Emma at this moment felt the loss of his nearness keenly. But tomorrow, he would be here. How good it would be
to see him again.

She made her way across the yard and through the orchard. It was a bright, breezy morning, white cumulus clouds scudded across a pearl grey sky. To the west, the sky was darker, threatening
rain. She paused a moment as she passed by the hives and stood listening and watching. There were three rounded straw skeps on wooden stands. For years now, she had been trying to persuade Sarah to
let her buy the more modern square, wooden hives, but Sarah was adamant.