Read The Miller's Daughter Online
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
The Miller's Daughter
Margaret Dickinson
PAN BOOKS
For Robena and Fred
Part One
One
LINCOLNSHIRE 1918
‘I’ll tell you something, Emma Forrest. The only way you’ll ever find a husband is ’cos they’ll be trying to get their hands on my
mill.’
Deliberately, Emma kept her face expressionless. The remark, made so often, had long ago ceased to hurt.
‘Yes, Father,’ she murmured softly, so accustomed to pandering to this man’s demands that agreement came automatically to her lips. But then, for once, a spark of defiance
glittered in her violet eyes, making her add, ‘But you never know, perhaps someone will be glad of a hardworking housekeeper.’
Frowning, Harry Forrest glared at her. ‘You answering me back, girl?’ There was surprise in his tone, as if he had never thought the day would come when his eighteen-year-old
daughter would show insolence, and to him of all people. For a moment she stood facing him.
If only he had cared to look properly at his daughter, Harry Forrest would have seen that she had her own special kind of beauty. A broad, smooth forehead, a nose that was straight and high
cheekbones above a full-shaped mouth that, despite the hardship of her life, smiled far more readily than it ever pouted. But her eyes were her best and most unusual feature. Large and
black-fringed, they were the deepest blue, almost violet. True, her build was a little too tall, her figure a little too buxom for the word ‘dainty’ ever to be applied to Emma Forrest.
‘Handsome’ or ‘a fine figure of a young woman’ might be, and was, said of her, but only by others for Harry Forrest never looked – never really looked – at his
daughter.
Hiding a mischievous smile, she turned away and in answer to his sharp reprimand, murmured, ‘As if I would.’
‘Aye well, just mind you don’t. And another thing, ya can forget ya mooning over young Metcalfe. Don’t think I don’t know about it, ’cos I do.’ Harry Forrest
wagged his forefinger at her. ‘I know what he’s after and let me tell you, girl, there’ll never be a Metcalfe in my mill. Not while there’s breath in my body.’
As Emma bent forward to pick up another sack of grain, her long, black plait swung forward. Impatiently, she flicked it back over her shoulder, gritting her teeth as her strong arms heaved the
sack on to the running barrow. The metal wheels rattled on the hard surface of the yard as she pushed it from the granary towards the mill, the noise shutting out any more of his ranting. Out of
the corner of her eye she saw her father turn away with a disgruntled shake of his head and walk round to where the brake rope and the striking chain hung down the side of the mill. As she watched
him, Emma noticed how rounded his shoulders had become so that he appeared almost humpbacked and today his legs looked even more bowed than usual. Yet Emma knew that the appearance of frailty was
deceptive. Harry Forrest was a strong man physically and in character too.
But one of these days, Emma promised herself silently as she tipped the sack from the barrow, he’ll have to be told the truth about Jamie Metcalfe and me.
She carried the heavy sack of wheat up the four steps and dumped it inside the open double doors of the mill just as her father came back.
‘I hope you’re keeping a tally of what you’re bringing across, girl?’
‘Yes, Father,’ she said evenly and moved towards the battered wooden desk set against the wall and turned the page of the open ledger. ‘It’s Farmer Leighton’s
wheat.’
Harry Forrest gave a satisfied grunt. ‘Good. We’ll get some good flour today then.’ He began to heave himself up the wooden ladder to the meal floor above to begin his
day’s work. Without pausing in his climb, he went on, ‘And there’s going to be a good wind. We should manage two pairs today. Bring Leighton’s barley across next.’
Outside again, Emma pushed the empty barrow back towards the granary once more. In the middle of the yard she paused to glance up at the huge sails as they began to turn just above her head. Her
heart lifted at the sight and she stood a moment, her gaze roaming over the tall black shape of the mill and the white-painted sails against the scudding grey clouds. Shrewdly she studied the sky.
Today the cold November wind was constant, blowing across the flat land from the sea with enough strength to keep the sails turning steadily and enabling the miller to run two pairs of millstones
at once. One pair, the French burr stones, would grind the wheat into fine flour for their own bakehouse and the second pair, fashioned from Derbyshire Peak stone, would grind barley and oats for
animal feed for the farmer. It was perfect milling weather and her father would be working all day and possibly far into the night if the wind stayed constant.
It was their way of life; from dawn to dusk Emma Forrest’s days were filled with work, beginning in the bakehouse kneading the dough and finishing late at night wiping down the shelves in
the bakery in readiness for the following morning’s fresh bread. In between there were meals to cook, clothes to wash and the house to clean, to say nothing of helping in the mill, as she was
supposed to be doing at this minute, she reminded herself, instead of standing here idling in the middle of the yard.
As she climbed the granary steps again, the fear that shadowed every moment of her day and disturbed her sleep at night pushed its way into Emma’s thoughts. Once more she found herself
repeating the fervent, silent prayer for Jamie’s safe return inside her head. The war was really over, after four long, terrible years. There would be no more killing, no more maiming. At
last, the boys were coming home. Already, one or two soldiers had returned to the village. Then why, Emma worried, had there been no news from Jamie?
It was all she had ever wanted, to be Mrs Jamie Metcalfe. Whatever her father said, she knew Jamie loved her and, besides, she didn’t think Jamie wanted her father’s mill. He was a
proud man, proud of his own skills and of the blacksmith’s and wheelwright’s business that had been in the Metcalfe family for generations. She sighed, wondering if the news of the
recent death of both his parents had even reached Jamie in the mud and squalor of the trenches. It was bad enough that he was out there in a foreign country, but to think of him hearing such awful
news from home with no family or friends close at such a time made Emma shudder. There had been no word from him, not even to his brother, William, in reply to the letter bearing the sad news. Poor
William, Emma thought. Too young to go to war, he had been plunged suddenly into manhood, struggling to cope with the work single-handed until Jamie came home.
Closing her eyes, she could see Jamie as clearly as if he were standing in front of her as he had on the day, three years ago, when he had marched away from the village, the sound of his
neighbours’ cheering ringing in his ears, the band playing as more volunteers left for the Front.
‘But you can’t go,’ Emma had tried to argue with him. ‘You’re only seventeen.’
‘Shan’t tell ’em I’m not eighteen for six months.’ He had grinned, his dark brown eyes teasing her.
Resisting the urge to fling herself against him, she had stared at Jamie, willing him not to go, fearful for him and yet proud of him all at the same time. He was so tall and broad and strong;
he could pass for twenty, never mind eighteen. His smile had creased the lines around his mouth and sparkled in his eyes that were gentle for her alone.
‘Now you be a good girl while I’m gone,’ he had said softly, reaching out with strong, toughened fingers to touch her cheek with surprising tenderness; the hand of a man that
could soothe a temperamental mare as easily as it could swing the heavy forge hammer. ‘Remember, you’re
my
girl.’
It was the very first time he had said the words.
Friends through childhood, the three of them – the two Metcalfe boys and Emma Forrest – had grown up together in the small community of Marsh Thorpe. They had gone to the village
school, to the chapel and they had played together. As they had grown older, they met on Sunday afternoons for a few precious hours of freedom from work. Sometimes in summer, Harry Forrest would
grudgingly allow them to use the small cart in which he delivered bread and collected grain from the farmers to be ground in his mill. On those rare occasions Jamie would drive them along the
straight road leading to the coastal town of Calceworth, the pony’s silky mane rippling in the sea breeze as he trotted. The three friends would stroll along the promenade, watching the sun
glistening on the sea and sniffing the salt air. Walking between the two brothers, dressed in her best Sunday dress and bonnet, Emma would feel such a happiness well up inside her that she thought
she would burst. William was her dearest friend, but it was Jamie she loved and it seemed as if she had loved him for ever.
On the day Jamie had gone to war, through the unshed tears she had tried valiantly to keep hidden, Emma had watched him march away. His broad shoulders swinging easily, his black curly hair
glistening in the sunlight, his wide grin and a cheery wave were the last things she remembered.
He had written regularly at first and she had replied, sending news of all that was happening in their village. But about a year ago his letters had become spasmodic, the words stilted as if he
could no longer write to her in the spirit of their old, easy friendship. Then the letters to her had stopped, although she knew from William that he was safe. Lately, even William had heard
nothing. She could not stop the tremor of fear running through her afresh, even though she tried to tell herself that, soon, everything would be all right. The war was over and he would be coming
back. He must come back, she told herself, as if by the strength of her willing it to be so, she could make it happen.
Resolutely, she made herself dwell on happier thoughts and plans for their future together. Maybe he would be home in time for Christmas and perhaps, in the spring, they could be married and
those happy, sunlit days would come again. Thinking of him, she smiled, remembering his laughter, the look in his eyes as he had touched her cheek. What would Jamie think of
her
now, after
three years?
When he had gone to war, she had been a young girl of fifteen and, although she had grown no taller, she had now filled out into womanhood. As she ran her hands down her sides, feeling the
curves of her own body and imagining herself in his arms, her pulse quickened. Oh no, Emma was sure Jamie wouldn’t be marrying her just to get his hands on Harry Forrest’s mill.
But oh, please, please, let him come home soon.
‘I do wish ya’d let me do that, Emma lass.’
Emma glanced up to see Luke Robson emerging from the doorway of the mill and coming down the steps. She smiled at the elderly man. Although his wispy white hair seemed to be disappearing at an
alarming rate so that his pate was smooth and shining, Luke always seemed to have a broad smile on his wrinkled face. Once, he had been as strong as the man who employed him, but now the cough that
racked him was robbing him of his strength. Luke would not have thanked her, though, if he had guessed that Emma tried to do much of the heavy work to help him.
‘I’m fine, Luke,’ she reassured him, her clear tones carrying above the constant sound of the whirling sails. ‘Hard work never hurt anyone.’
But as she tipped the sack off the running barrow to land at his feet, the older man shook his head disapprovingly. ‘He shouldn’t expect a pretty lass like you to work like a lad.
Housework and looking after the bakery, mebbe, but you shouldn’t be working out here in the yard and the mill. T’ain’t right. These sacks are too heavy for some lads, ne’er
mind a lass. And I’ve telled him so time and again, but he won’t listen. One of these days we’ll come to blows over it.’