The Miller's Daughter (7 page)

Transfixed, they both stared at the man, who picked up his kitbag and stepped down from the train. Ignoring the villagers clustering around him, he shouldered his way roughly through them
towards the exit. So close that if they had reached out, they could have touched him, he seemed about to pass them by, but then something made him glance directly at them. He stopped, his dark
glare going from one to the other.

Emma could not speak and William’s voice was hoarse as he said, hesitantly, ‘Jamie?’

‘Did you arrange this – this
fiasco
?’

Stunned, Emma gasped and beneath her fingers she felt William tremble. ‘I – I—’ he began, but Jamie gave a grunt of annoyance and turned, striding away from them, from
everyone and speaking to no one.

The crowd, robbed of their expression of pride, of joy, fell silent, save for a low, disgruntled murmur spreading amongst them. The band too fell silent, the notes dying away in a disorderly,
tuneless petering out as Jamie disappeared from their view.

Then suddenly from the far end of the platform there came a delighted shriek and heads turned to see the newcomer in their midst, Bridget Smith, stretching out her arms towards a young man in
uniform standing in the doorway of a carriage further down the train.

‘Leonard! Oh, my Leonard, my darling boy.’

The young man threw his kitbag onto the platform and raised his arms high in the air, a wide grin stretched across his face. ‘Mother!’

He jumped down and threw his arms about her, lifting her up and swinging her round and round, whilst Bridget shrieked with laughter.

The crowd, surprised to find that, after all, there was another soldier on the train, were determined not to be cheated of welcoming someone, anyone, home from the war. They surged forward,
milling around Bridget and her son, clapping and cheering. Emma saw that her father was pushed to the back of the throng, for the moment, forgotten.

‘Play, let’s play,’ the bandmaster hissed and glancing over his shoulder, raised his arms. Once more, the musicians lifted their instruments to their lips.

William put his mouth close to Emma’s ear and above the noise, said, ‘I’d better go and find him.’

Emma nodded and, as she felt him move away from her, stared enviously down the platform at the joyous scene. The young man was being patted on the back by a dozen hands and then two of the
village lads hoisted him on to their shoulders and carried him along the platform, followed by Bridget and the crowd, laughing, clapping and cheering.

If only, Emma thought, that had been Jamie.

Someone touched her arm and she turned to see Sarah’s troubled face watching her.

‘We should have listened to the bees, Emma lass,’ Sarah said sadly. ‘I knew summat weren’t right. We should have listened to the bees.’

‘I thought I told you to stay with me instead of mekin’ a fool of yasen running after young Metcalfe?’

Her father was angry, as she had known he would be. Emma kept her glance downcast as she placed his supper in front of him, deliberately feigning meek apology and keeping hidden the fire of
anger she knew flashed in her brilliant eyes. In a tight voice she said, ‘Jamie didn’t want us there anyway.’

Her father grunted. ‘Serves ya right for mekin’ such a to-do-ment. I’ll give the lad that, he’s not like his show-off of a father, our so-called Mayor!’ He picked
up his knife and fork and added gruffly, as if afraid his daughter might think he was relenting. ‘But I’ve no time for any of them Metcalfes. None of ’em and you just remember
that, me girl.’

Now she raised her eyes and said craftily, ‘Perhaps it was a good job we did put on a bit of a show. Mrs Smith and her son seemed pleased.’

Mollified a little, as she had hoped, Harry said, ‘Aye, aye, they were.’ There was a pause and his keen, steely gaze was upon her. ‘Now there’s a grand lad, ’er
son. He got a medal in the war. Mind you’re nice to him, girl. You hear me?’

‘Yes, Father,’ came the automatic reply, though her mind was still on Jamie. Emma had been trying to slip away all evening to go to the forge and see the Metcalfe brothers. She was
sure that once Jamie was home and had a chance to talk to William, everything would be all right. But she needed to know, needed to see for herself. It was too late now. She would have to wait
until the following morning. Perhaps, she comforted herself as she went upstairs to her bedroom, carrying the candle in its holder carefully so that the shivering light did not blow out, it would
be better to leave the two brothers to settle down together first. After all, there was a lot for them to talk about; unhappy things that she should perhaps have no part in just now.

Emma closed her bedroom door, set down the candle and sank on to the small stool. Leaning her elbows on the surface of the dressing-table and cupping her chin in her hands, she stared at her
shadowy reflection. In the flickering light, she could fancy herself beautiful though her violet eyes were dark pools. The soft glow caught her high cheek bones, accentuating the fine structure and
the strength of her face, defining the curve of her cheek and the firm jawline that was just short of being square. She slipped off her blouse; her shoulders were smooth, like silk in the gentle
light. Loosening her undergarments, she ran her hands over her full, firm breasts and down to her surprisingly slim waist, then out again over generous hips. A small smile played on her mouth. She
was a woman now; a woman for Jamie. Unwinding her plait and loosening the long black hair from its twists until it fell, covering her breasts, to below her waist, she brushed it until it gleamed in
the candlelight.

Emma took one last look at herself and, sighing, rose from the stool and turned away from the mirror, disheartened by her reflection. At school she had seen a picture in a book of a famous
painting by Rubens showing voluptuous women. Then, she thought, if I had lived then, I might have been thought beautiful. But not now, when the fashion was for slim, almost shapeless women, with
skirts above their ankles and hair cut short to frame sweet, delicate faces. Maybe that was the sort of woman Jamie wanted now. It was certainly the kind her father admired and, unbidden, the
vision of Bridget Smith came into her mind.

Emma slept fitfully, disturbed by uneasy dreams of bands playing, people shouting, soldiers spilling from the train on to the platform. She was being swept away by the excited
crowd before she could reach him. She was stretching out her hand, struggling through the throng, but she couldn’t get to him, couldn’t touch him . . . She awoke sweating, her legs
tangled in the sheet and her long hair strewn wildly across her face. His name was upon her lips, ‘Jamie’. She heard a noise outside her door and then the sound of her father’s
footsteps descending the stairs and knew it was time she rose. She gave a groan, pushed back the covers and swung her feet to touch the cold floor, feeling more tired now than when she had gone to
bed the previous night. But there was no shirking the day’s work ahead.

As she was dressing and splashing her face with cold water from the ewer and jug on the marble wash-stand in the corner of her room, she heard the rattle of wagon wheels in the yard. Buttoning
her blouse, Emma bent and looked out of the low window overlooking the mill and found herself staring down into the upturned face of Ben Popple standing in the yard below beside a cart laden with
sacks of grain. Even in the pale, early morning light she knew he had seen her and she straightened and stepped back quickly from the window.

Tensing every muscle in her body, she waited for what would surely come next; her father’s voice calling from the foot of the stairs. ‘You there, girl? Ben Popple’s here. Get
yarsen down here and help unload.’

She groaned aloud. Now there would be no escape until all the bulging sacks were stored in the granary and Ben Popple’s wagon empty. Then the odious man would invite himself into the
kitchen to share their breakfast. He would sit in the wooden rocking chair at the side of the hearth – the chair that had been Grandpa Charlie’s – watching her as she moved about
the kitchen, a smirk on his mouth and suggestive remarks coming from his lips.

Leaving her bed unmade, Emma banged her bedroom door. Downstairs, she strode through the kitchen and into the yard to begin heaving the sacks from the cart without even a civil word of greeting
to Farmer Popple.

Now it would be the middle of the day before she could even think of seeing Jamie.

It was late afternoon and growing dusk before Emma managed to slip away unnoticed. The bakery was closed for the day and Sarah had gone home. Her father’s tea was
prepared and the table laid, but there was every possibility he would be late in for his meal this evening, for the mill’s sails whirled in a strong easterly gale and Harry Forrest knew that
with the coming of darkness, the wind might drop suddenly. He could not waste a precious moment of a good milling wind, not if he wanted to keep on the right side of Ben Popple.

Praying that the wind would not drop for at least half an hour, Emma hurried up the incline, past the end of the road leading to the chapel and on towards the market square.

The forge and the wheelwright’s shop were in darkness. Pulling her shawl over her head, Emma stepped beneath the brick archway bearing the sign
P HWFDOIH
and passed
between the smithy and the workshop towards the cottage standing behind them. She found she was holding her breath as she lifted her hand to knock on the door. And then, from inside, came the sound
of raised voices, arguing heatedly.

‘You’ve done nothing but complain since you came home. Give it a rest, can’t you?’

Emma drew breath sharply. That was William’s voice. Gentle, placid William and talking to Jamie in such a way. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her hand fell away and she
leant a little closer to the door, unashamedly eavesdropping.

‘There’s plenty to complain about. The wheelwright’s business is all but gone and I daren’t think how many customers you’ve lost us from the smithy. You never were
much of a hand with the hammer.’

‘Well, I’ve had plenty of time to learn these last three years, ’cos poor old dad couldn’t do much for the last part of it.’

There was a heavy, uncomfortable silence and then Jamie’s voice, bitter and belligerent, came again. ‘You’d have done better to keep the wheelwright’s side going.
You’re a bit better at the joinery, but not a deal.’ The praise, if praise it could be called, was given grudgingly.

William’s voice, softer now and with an infinite sadness in it, said, ‘Whatever I’d done, it wouldn’t have been right, would it, Jamie?’

Again there was a silence, as if Jamie could not find an answer.

Suddenly the door was flung open. Emma, bending close, had not heard any movement from beyond and so was caught unawares. Embarrassed at being found obviously listening to their conversation,
she straightened up and stammered, ‘I – er – came to see how you were.’

The frown on Jamie’s face deepened. ‘Oh, it’s you. Come in, why don’t you?’ He pulled the door open wider. Stepping across the threshold, she came close and looked
up at him, her gaze taking in every contour of that well-beloved face. It was the vision she had carried in her mind’s eye and in her heart for three years from childhood into womanhood. She
was so close, she could have reached up and touched his face, a face that was so much thinner now, the hollow cheeks and grey skin giving it a haggard look. She ached to caress his brow, to smooth
back the unruly lock of dark hair that fell on to his forehead, to trace the strong jawline with her fingertips. But she kept her hand firmly by her side. The man who stood so close that she could
feel the waft of his breath on her face, was almost a stranger to her. There was angry, bitter resentment in his tone. ‘Why not invite the whole village round to view the hovel this place has
become? If me mother could see it now . . .’

Emma glanced towards William and her tender heart went out to the young man. He looked crushed, defeated. The longed-for return of the brother he had so loved and admired and, yes, revered and
idolized, had turned into his worst nightmare.

William did not deserve such treatment and Emma’s violet eyes flashed. Turning back to Jamie she faced him squarely. ‘If your mother were here now,’ she said, speaking with
deliberate emphasis, ‘she’d be thanking the Good Lord for your safe return. But she would
not
,’ she flung her arm out towards William, ‘be blaming William for
something that is not his doing, not his fault.’

‘Oh, so that’s how the land lies, is it?’ A sneer twisted Jamie’s mouth. ‘William’s the blue-eyed boy with you now, is he, young Emma? I’m forgotten, I
suppose.’

Emma gasped and shook her head slowly in disbelief. ‘What’s got in to you, Jamie Metcalfe? You’re not the same—’

Harshly, he said, ‘Of course I’m not the same. The things I’ve seen . . .’ Suddenly she saw the pain of remembered horrors in his eyes before he turned his head away from
her saying roughly, ‘And nothing’s the same here either, is it? It’s all I thought of – out there. All I clung to, the thought that home was always here, just the same as it
always had been. And now . . .’ He gave an angry sweep of his arm encompassing not only the house, but the smithy and the wheelwright’s workshop too. ‘Oh, what’s the use . .
.’ Roughly he pushed past her and went out of the door banging it behind him with such force that the whole cottage seemed to shake.

Emma stared at William in disbelief. The young man ran his hand through his hair in a hopeless, distracted gesture. ‘Oh, Em, I’m sorry you saw all that. You came at just the wrong
moment.’

‘What is it? What’s the matter with him?’

William shrugged. ‘I suppose it must be hard for him, coming back to all this,’ he gestured with his hand. ‘And – and – ’ his glance went to the mantelpiece
where a matching pair of framed photographs of their parents stood, ‘and them not being here.’ He moved to the fireside chair that had always been Josiah’s place and sat down
wearily in the worn, comfortable seat. A fire burned in the grate, the only light in the room. William leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The flickering firelight illuminated his
gentle, youthful face that was, at times, still vulnerable and yet, at this moment, Emma saw a strength in his features, a mature understanding of the harsh realities of life. Quietly she moved
forward and knelt on the peg rug on the hearth.