The Miller's Daughter (39 page)

He was coming towards her now, weaving his way through the throng to reach her side, a worried frown on his face when he saw her talking to his brother. As he came and stood beside her, Jamie
nodded a greeting. ‘I wanted to tell you, tell you both, that I’m sorry. Sorry for how I behaved when I came home after the last lot.’

Emma felt William glance from one to the other, but she said nothing now. Later, she would tell him everything and she would tell him too that the ghost of her first love had finally been put to
rest. But now she allowed Jamie to struggle with the words he had been withholding so long. ‘I – I’ve realized now, through this war, what it must have been like for you, William,
when Mother and Dad died, and you only a lad. I – I should have been more understanding.’ Between his nervous fingers, the cap continued to twirl like mill sails.

Emma smiled and stepped forward to reach up to kiss his cheek. ‘It’s all water under the bridge now, Jamie. Let’s start anew. Today’s the day for new beginnings. The past
is dead and – and buried.’ She faltered a little over the words, for fleetingly, the vision of her son, Charles, came into her mind. Her dear boy was buried somewhere in France, and she
knew not where; perhaps she would never know exactly where. But she smiled tremulously through unshed tears. Deep in many hearts today, there was an ache for loved ones who would never return, yet
life had to go on and today the whole village was trying to put the bleak, dark days of war behind them and look to the future.

Emma’s future clutched at skirts. She swept the child up into her arms. ‘And this sticky little urchin, is Lottie. Say “hello” to your uncle Jamie, Lottie.’

The child, her face smeared with red jam, regarded Jamie solemnly, her clear blue eyes seeming to assess him. Then her mouth curved and two dimples appeared in the round cheeks. She reached out
her chubby arms to be held and as Emma passed her into his arms, both she and William chuckled at the look of consternation that appeared on Jamie’s face.

It had been a good day, a happy day. As they walked home in the dusk, Lottie walked between them, but her little feet dragged with tiredness.

‘It’s a lick and a promise for you tonight, little one,’ Emma murmured, ‘and into your bed.’ But she paused in the yard and looked up at the mill, Lottie leaning
against her knee. ‘Oh, William, I don’t know when I ever felt so happy. But I feel guilty at feeling it.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, Charles and – and Leonard too,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t wish him dead, you know.’

William’s arm tightened about her. ‘Of course you didn’t. And stop feeling guilty. Charles wouldn’t want you to grieve for ever. He’d want you to be happy. And
Leonard too. For all his faults, I believe he cared for you in his own way.’

Emma smiled. ‘Dear William. You’re such a kind, understanding man. I’m so lucky, so very lucky.’

As she stood there in the yard, looking up at the mill now restored by William’s clever, loving hands to its former glory, Emma was filled with a tumult of emotions, of memories flitting
through her mind. She remembered the night the mill sails had blown down, of little Charles’s bravery. Further back, she remembered Luke and his constant concern for her, a girl, having to
work as hard as she did. And she remembered her father, his bitterness at not having a son, and then his joy when she gave him a grandson. And now that grandson was gone too.

She felt her daughter pull at her skirt and she lifted the child into her arms and as she did so, it was like a locked door in her memory being released and suddenly opened. Clearly, almost as
if he were standing beside her, she heard her grandpa Charlie’s deep, gravelly voice.

‘You’re a miller’s daughter, Emma Forrest, never forget that. There are no sons to carry on the name, but that’s no matter. You carry Forrest blood in your veins,
that’s what counts, and one day, all this will be yours.’

At last, she had recalled the memory that had lain buried in her mind, blotted out by the dreadful event which had happened only moments after he had said those words to her. Now, she remembered
it all so clearly, so vividly that the returning memory almost robbed her of her breath. Her grandfather had been holding her in his arms, had lifted her up and pointed to the mill and said the
words; ‘
You are a miller’s daughter, Emma Forrest
.’ Then he had set her on the ground, walked towards the mill and begun to climb up and up and up . . . Moments later he
was lying, smashed and bleeding on the ground beneath the mill’s sails.

The child in her arms, wriggled and whimpered. ‘Mum, you’re squeezing Lottie.’

Emma felt the world reel and the feel of William’s arm about her and his concerned voice saying, ‘Are you all right, Em?’ brought her crashing back to the present.

She passed the back of her hand across her forehead and smiled tremulously at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am now. Now – everything’s all right.’

With, their arms about each other, they turned to go into the house; Emma felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Grandpa Charlie hadn’t minded at all that she, Emma,
had been a girl. And now, in her arms, she carried her only hope for the future, another
miller’s daughter
.

From the shadows across the street, a man stood watching the tender scene; a man with bitterness in his heart.

‘One day,’ he vowed, ‘I’ll have what rightly belongs to me, Emma Forrest – Smith – Metcalfe – or whatever you call yourself now. If it takes a lifetime,
I’ll have what’s mine. You see if I don’t.’

‘Mum, there’s this new boy at school. He started a few months back when he came to live with his grandmother in Thirsby. He’s dishy.’

Thirsby was a small hamlet about three miles from Marsh Thorpe but still within the catchment area for the Grammar School Lottie attended in Calceworth.

‘Oh yes?’ Emma said, absently, starting to add a column of figures for the third time.

Lottie bent and kissed the frown of concentration on her mother’s forehead. ‘Like me to do that for you, Mum? Maths never was your strong subject, was it?’

‘Oh, please. I get a different answer every time.’ Thankfully, Emma pushed the sheaf of papers towards her daughter and watched in admiration as the girl picked up the pen and ran
her glance down the column adding up the figures in her head. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘He’s dishy. I could really go for someone like him.’

Emma smiled fondly at the short, blonde curls bent over the figures. Small and slender with blue eyes and a clear, smooth porcelain skin, Lottie was like a precious china doll. And William,
bless him, treated their daughter as if that was exactly what she was.

‘However a great carthorse like me produced such a daughter, I’ll never know,’ Emma would laugh. Now, with the passage of time and secure in William’s never-failing love,
Emma could joke about herself.

‘To me,’ he would say, cupping her face in his hands and stroking the now short, pure white hair, ‘you were beautiful and you always will be.’ Then he would put his arm
about her thickening waist and his gaze would go towards their daughter and Emma would see adoration in his face. It brought her joy every time she saw a father’s love for his daughter.

‘She’s like my mother,’ she would say softly. ‘Sarah always says so. I can’t remember her very clearly, but I have fleeting memories of a sweet face and a sunny
nature.’

She heard William’s deep chuckle. ‘Well, that’s Lottie to a point, but the sun goes in and the storm clouds gather now and then when she can’t get her own way.’

Emma laughed. ‘She can be a stubborn little madam, when she wants to be.’

‘Aye, and then we’re all running for shelter. Still, even if I’d been given the choice, I wouldn’t change a hair of her lovely head. Would you?’

‘No,’ Emma said slowly, biting her lip.

‘Do I hear a “but” in there somewhere?’ There was surprise in William’s voice.

‘It’s just that I worry about her, now she’s older. I mean, I know she’s still at school but she almost seventeen. She’s a young woman.’

‘Well, all parents worry about their daughters. About their children whatever their sex, if it comes to that.’

‘Mm.’

‘It’s more than just that with you, though, isn’t it, Em? Come on, tell me, love.’

‘Sarah’s right. Lottie is like my mother. Very like her. And I worry that – that if she gets married and – and has children . . . Well, you know what happened to my
mother?’

‘Oh, darling,’ William’s reassuring arms came around her now. ‘Things are very different nowadays for women in childbirth. For a start, they’re not left at home
with little or no proper medical attention.’ He touched her cheek and said, teasingly, ‘It’s nearly sixty years ago, my old dear, since you were born and your poor mam was losing
all her other babies. You’ve no need to fear for Lottie, not now, I’m sure.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Emma murmured. ‘Oh, I do hope you’re right.’

Now, deliberately casual, she asked Lottie, ‘What’s his name, this – er – dish?’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Micky.’

‘And what’s he like?’

Lottie looked up and smiled, her delicate pink cheeks dimpling. ‘Oh Mum, come on. I’m not getting the third degree, am I? You’ll be asking next what his father does and are his
intentions towards me “honourable”?’

Emma laughed. ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant – well – is he good-looking?’

‘Would I go for anything less?’ Lottie countered saucily. ‘Well, now, let me see. He’s tall.’ She giggled. ‘I only come up to his shoulder. He’s got
sort of bluey-grey eyes and dark hair and, yes, he’s vey good-looking.’ She sighed ecstatically. ‘And he’s a right charmer. All the girls are after him. I shouldn’t
think I’ll even get a look-in.’

Thoughtfully, Emma watched the bowed head.
That
she did not believe, not for one minute.

‘And you say he’s come to live in Thirsby with his grandmother?’

‘Thirty-six, forty, fifty-seven,’ Lottie murmured, her pen still running up the columns. ‘Yes.’

For some unaccountable reason, before she even voiced the question, Emma knew the answer, ‘What – what’s his surname?’

‘Smith,’ Lottie said absently, her concentration still on the figures.

A cold hand clutched at Emma’s heart. ‘Smith?’ she squeaked. Oh, it couldn’t be, could it? Smith was a common name and yet . . . Emma swallowed painfully, remembering
suddenly that Bridget Smith lived at Thirsby. And Lottie had said he had come to live with his grandmother. Emma stared at Lottie’s bent head and her tone, when she spoke, was sharper than
she intended. ‘Well, you’re too young to start thinking about boyfriends yet anyway. You’ve your O levels in two months’ time. I don’t want any silly nonsense over
boys ruining your chances.’

She saw the pen stop, her daughter’s head come up slowly, saw Lottie’s blue eyes widen and her pretty mouth open in a gasp of surprise. ‘Mum . . .?’

But Emma turned and hurried out of the kitchen and into the shop at the front of the house. Thankfully it was empty and she leant against the counter and closed her eyes. Suddenly Emma felt
dizzy with fear. Oh no, she prayed fervently. Not that, please not that.

‘It can’t be anyone related to Leonard, can it?’ she asked William, following him from the granary across the yard to the mill and back again, taking anxious
little running steps at his side.

‘I shouldn’t think so, love,’ William said, calm and matter-of-fact as ever. ‘Did Leonard have any brothers or sisters?’

Emma stood, perplexed, fingering the hem of her apron. ‘No, oh no. Bridget said – I mean – she told me once that she hadn’t really wanted Leonard . . .’ Her voice
trailed away.

‘So, you’re saying Micky is Leonard’s son, are you?’

‘I – I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve just got this awful
feeling
.’

William picked up another sack and heaved it on to his shoulder. From his semi-stooping position, he grinned up at her. ‘Why don’t you go and ask the bees, love? They’ll know
for sure.’

‘William! Don’t you dare laugh at me.’ To her chagrin, tears sprang into her eyes. Seeing them, William at once dropped the sack to the ground and reached out to her.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were so serious. Whatever are you getting yourself so worked up about? Leonard was killed in the war.’

There was a silence between them, the only sound the rhythmic rattle of the rotating sails above them.

Emma met William’s steady gaze. ‘So we’ve been led to believe, but even though the court granted us that – that Presumption of Death Order so that we could marry, we
can’t ever be really sure, can we?’

William sighed. ‘Does Lottie know anything?’

‘She knows I was married to someone else and that he was killed in the war, because she knows Billy and she’s heard about – about Charles.’ Even now the loss of her
firstborn still hurt Emma. Billy Smith had made a career in the Merchant Navy after the war, but some years ago now he had gone to live in Australia and had married out there. He wrote regularly
and sent photographs of his wife and family, but Emma doubted she would ever see her younger son again.

‘Does she know what your married name was?’

Emma wrinkled her forehead and sighed. ‘I really don’t know. Probably not. Billy’s just – well – just “Billy” to her. What she certainly does not
know,’ Emma went on slowly, ‘is that we were not married at the time she was born.’

‘Well, I’m surprised that someone hasn’t told her already. You know what this place is like for gossip. It’s a wonder if some kid hasn’t teased her about it at
school if nothing else.’

Emma shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Once they’d accepted it, I’ve always thought the villagers have been very loyal to us. Besides, we did all the right things and were
married as soon as we—’ Her eyes widened and her mouth rounded in an ‘oh’.

William nodded grimly. ‘Exactly. If Leonard is still alive, we may not be married at all.’

They stared at each other.

‘Look,’ William said reasonably, ‘we might be worrying for nothing. We don’t even know if this lad is anything to do with Bridget. The best thing we can do is to let
things take their natural course. Make the boy welcome if she wants to bring him home. Just like you would any of her friends, just like you always have and,’ he added pointedly, ‘just
like you would any
other
lad.’