‘Is it true? Oh, Em, say it isn’t true.’
Emma closed the heavy metal door on the batch of dough she had just put into the oven. She adjusted the damper slightly at the side of the oven and then turned slowly to face him. She stared at him for a moment and then nodded, saying quietly, ‘It’s true.’
William ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end even more. He looked like a startled scarecrow. If the atmosphere had not been so charged, his appearance would have amused Emma. As it was, the frantic look in his eyes killed any merriment.
‘Why? In Heaven’s name, why?’
‘Because he asked me to marry him,’ she said simply.
‘But, Emma, are you sure about it – about him? I mean – well – do you know what he does for a living?’
With a start, she became painfully aware that William had called her ‘Emma’. He really was angry with her. Immediately defensive, she retorted hotly, ‘Of course I know.’
But then Emma bit her lip. But did she? she asked herself. Did she really know how her future husband earned his living?
‘Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, you know,’ Leonard had said airily when she had asked him what his business was and why he went to Lincoln so often.
‘What? Do you mean a sort of dealer? Someone who buys and sells?’
Leonard laughed and tweaked her nose playfully. ‘What a clever girl you are, Emma. That’s it exactly. I’m a dealer.’ And he had laughed again.
‘What in?’ she had persisted.
‘Ooh, now let’s think.’ His blue-grey eyes were sparkling with mischief. ‘All sorts of things. Anything from a spade to a diamond. Would you like to be dripping in diamonds, Emma darling? Maybe one day I’ll make my fortune and dress you in diamonds.’
Then Emma had joined in his teasing. ‘Hardly suitable for working in the mill or the bakehouse.’
Then Leonard had lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each finger, like a gentleman courting a fine lady. ‘But it’s hearts I’m dealing in at this moment. Your heart. Have I beaten all the other bidders to win your heart, Emma Forrest?’
‘There are no other bidders, Leonard,’ she had told him truthfully. And silently added to herself, not any more.
‘And you don’t – mind?’ William was saying now. ‘You don’t mind what he does?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can’t blame a man for the way he earns his living, as long as it’s honest.’
William looked doubtful as he muttered, ‘Exactly. Is it, though?’
She knew that William must be referring to the sort of dealer who dealt on the fringes of the law, his way of trading not strictly honest, the kind who would pass off a fake antique as the genuine article or maybe ask far too high a price for something, taking advantage of folk’s ignorance or simplicity. She hoped her future husband was not one of those.
‘Ya pays ya money and ya teks ya chance,’ she said mockingly, deliberately lapsing into broad dialect.
William’s frown deepened so that for a moment he looked uncannily like his older brother. The fleeting similarity hardened Emma’s resolve.
‘What would you have me do, eh? Wait around ’til I’m an old maid for your brother to come to his senses? You know what the village folk say about me, don’t you, William? That I’ll only find a husband ’cos he wants to get his hands on my father’s mill. And it’s not only the gossips. It’s what my father thinks – or rather used to think – too.’ She saw William’s face grow paler until his eyes were big and dark against his white skin, but he made no answer and ruthlessly, she went on. ‘But Leonard’s not after the mill. He doesn’t know the first thing about milling. Shouldn’t think he’s even interested in it. So I know that’s not the reason he’s marrying me. And I don’t exactly see a queue forming behind him, do you?’
William seemed about to speak, even opened his mouth to form the words but then he clamped his jaw shut as if deliberately cutting off whatever he had been about to say. There was a silence and he seemed to be struggling with himself. At last he said, ‘But do you love him, Emma? And does he love you?’
She stared at him. Such a personal question, even from William, startled her. ‘We’ll do very nicely together, thank you,’ she said tightly. ‘And my father is delighted by the match.’
‘He would be, wouldn’t he?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, he’s bedding the mother, ain’t he?’
Emma gasped. ‘Don’t be so – so crude!’
The young man’s white face was suddenly diffused with colour and he muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I think you’d better go, if you’ve said all you came to say. And that’s been a mite too much.’
‘Em, I’m sorry, really I am. It’s only that . . .’ His gaze searched her face as he moved towards her, his hand reaching out tentatively. With a shock she saw that his fingers were trembling. ‘Please, Em, I – I only want you to be happy.’
Her expression softened and briefly she clasped his hand and squeezed it. ‘Oh, William—’
‘Emma, Emma? Where are you, girl?’
‘Oh, that’s me dad. I must go.’ She began to pull away but found herself held fast now in his grip.
‘Emma, just remember. If you ever need any help – if things don’t work out. Remember, I’m your – your friend always.’
‘Oh, William—’ she began again, but her father’s voice came again, loud and impatient, ‘Where’s me breakfast, girl? Have I to wait all day? I’ve work to do even if you ain’t.’
Emma pulled herself free from William’s grasp and hurried from the bakehouse and into the kitchen.
Fourteen
William was not the only person to disapprove of her forthcoming marriage to Leonard. To Emma’s dismay, Luke Robson was strangely tight-lipped and Sarah, who had been a second mother to her, seemed perplexed and troubled.
Trying to make light of it, Emma had asked her, ‘What do the bees think, Sarah? Have you asked them?’
For once, Sarah, who usually took such teasing good naturedly, frowned and snapped, ‘Dun’t you mock, Miss Emma. I know I’ve got me funny ways, I’ll be the first to admit it, but dun’t you mock me.’
Immediately contrite, Emma put her arms about the woman’s ample waist. ‘Oh, Sarah, don’t even think such a thing. I was only teasing.’
The fat arms came around her hugging her tightly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, lass. I should know you would never be unkind. I don’t know what I’m thinking about, but Luke’s got me so wound up and worried, I hardly know what I’m sayin’.’
‘Luke? Why, what’s the matter? He’s not ill, is he?’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ The arms about her loosened and Sarah pulled away, her eyes avoiding meeting Emma’s.
But the girl persisted. ‘What then?’
‘He – he’s not happy about you marrying that young feller.’
‘Why?’
Sarah’s words came in a rush. ‘Oh, Emma, dun’t take it wrong. You know he cares for you. You know how we both think of you as if you were our own.’ The plump cheeks glowed red with embarrassment and she plucked at the corner of her white apron with pudgy, nervous fingers.
‘I know you do,’ Emma said gently, ‘and I’m sorry he feels that way. I thought he’d be glad for me.’
They were silent a moment, standing in the yard near the back door in the early autumn sunshine, glancing across to where Luke lugged heavy sacks of grain down the steps of the granary.
‘I didn’t ought to be taking time off for a wedding just now,’ Emma murmured. ‘Not when we’re so busy. I ought to go and help Luke. I ought to try to talk to him.’
‘Leave ’im be, at least today. Mebbe he’ll come around given time.’
‘But why is he so against Leonard?’
‘You hardly know the young feller. None of us do. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” that’s what Luke keeps saying, lass,’ Sarah said worriedly, shaking her head. Sh
e glanced at Emma, a defensive note in her tone as she added, ‘And since you ask, the bees aren’t happy about it either, so there.’
With that parting shot, Sarah’s bustling little body flounced back into the bakehouse and Emma could hear her banging the bread tins as she set them out for the following morning’s batch of dough. She sighed and, despite Sarah’s warning, was about to cross the yard towards Luke when a wagon, driven by her father, drew into the yard and pulled up near the granary steps. Flinging the reins over the neck of the horse, who stood docilely, Harry Forrest climbed down stiffly. Resting his hand on the rail at the side of the steps, he looked up as Luke, heavy-footed under the weight of a bulging sack of grain, clomped down the wooden stair.
‘Ain’t you finished yet? Farmer Popple wants his flour to tek to Lincoln this Wednesday.’
Luke, twisting his neck awkwardly under the heavy load glowered at his employer. ‘We’d get on a dang sight quicker if you didn’t keep doing ya disappearing act and kept the mill running when the wind’s right, ’stead of going a’court-ing.’ Luke sniffed and muttered. ‘Man of your age and all. Must be in ya second childhood, I reckon.’
‘And who asked you for your opinion?’ Harry Forrest raged.
Emma, quickening her pace towards them, intervened, ‘It’s all right, Father. I’ll give Luke a hand. Sarah’s holding the fort in the bakehouse.’ Without waiting for his approval or otherwise, she placed her foot on the bottom step, grasped the handrail and ran lightly up the steps. But as she reached the top her father’s harsh voice reached her, ‘You get back down here, girl, and see to your own business. Ya should be getting ready for ya wedding. There’s enough for you to do in yon house to welcome ya new husband. This is men’s work, so leave us to do it.’
Open-mouthed she stared down at him, whilst Luke dropped the sack he was carrying and gaped at Harry, who muttered morosely. ‘Well, what’s the matter with the pair of you, standing gawping like idiots?’
It was Luke who actually voiced what was in Emma’s mind too. ‘By heck, ya’ve changed ya tune, ain’t ye? She’s been good enough to hump these great sacks about for years, almost afore she were big enough to lift ’em, and with no thought from you for the fact that she’s a girl. But now, all of a sudden, because you can suddenly see the chance of getting yarsen a grandson – another Charlie Forrest – ’ sarcasm laced the old man’s words now, ‘now she’s to be treated proper, like the woman she’s been for years. Well, Harry Forrest, let me tell you summat. I’ve never held with how you’ve treated your lass in the past. She’s pure gold, that girl.’ His gnarled hand gestured upwards to Emma, still standing at the top of the steps, her hand grasping the rough-hewn wood of the rail so tightly that the splinters dug into her palm. She held her breath, stunned by the words spewing from Luke’s angry mouth. ‘You don’t deserve to have her as your daughter,’ he ranted. ‘Ya never did. But how you can stand there and be encouraging her to marry the likes of Leonard Smith, well, it beats me.’
The two men stood glaring at each other like a couple of fighting cocks, whilst Emma stood, silent and still at the top of the steps, waiting. Her heart was thumping, but her father made no effort to deny Luke’s accusation. So, she said to herself, that was the reason behind her father’s sudden thoughtfulness for her. Harry Forrest wanted a grandson. He wanted another Charlie Forrest to inherit his mill and suddenly, with the arrival of Leonard Smith, he had at last seen a way to get what he most wanted and at the same time to defy the Metcalfe family once and for all. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The hurt went deep but she refused to let anyone, least of all her father, see it. Her chin came higher. Well, she thought, whatever Harry Forrest’s motives were in encouraging her to marry Leonard, she had no doubt that the young man’s reasons could not be questioned.
No young man, certainly not one as good-looking and smartly dressed as Leonard Smith, married a girl for any other reason than that he wanted to do so. Why, he could surely have the pick of all the girls he met in the city, if he’d a mind. But he’d asked her, Emma Forrest, to marry him. He’d taken her out, brought her flowers and chocolates and charmed her. She enjoyed his company and, under his flattery, she felt like a real woman. Leonard really wanted to marry her, she knew he did. So she lifted her chin and, as she spoke, the two men below her looked up in surprise, almost as if they had both forgotten she was standing there, listening to every word.
‘You can stop your arguing because I shall be marrying Leonard a week come Saturday whether you,’ she glanced at her father, ‘like it,’ her gaze swivelled to Luke, ‘or not.’
And with that parting shot she turned, stepped into the granary and with a strength that had a lot to do with the angry humiliation burning inside her, heaved a sack of grain onto her broad shoulders. When she appeared in the doorway once more it was to see Harry Forrest marching towards the house and Luke struggling to pick up his sack again and stagger towards the mill.
The day of her wedding dawned bright and clear with that special sharp tang of autumn.
‘You will come to the church, won’t you?’ she asked Sarah. ‘I – I know you don’t approve but I couldn’t bear it if you stayed away.’
‘Of course we’ll be there, lass. Mebbe we’re wrong. I hope to goodness we are. All we want is for you to be happy. Now, shall I help you get ready?’
‘Oh – er . . .’ Emma felt her cheeks glow hot.
Sarah pursed her lips. ‘Oh, I see. She’s coming, is she?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said. ‘It’s been so difficult, what with Father . . .’
Sarah smiled, but Emma could see it was somewhat forced. ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.’ She turned away. ‘I’ve plenty to do, anyway.’
Now Sarah was hurt. Emma sighed. This wedding seemed to belong to everyone else but her, she thought.
Bridget arrived midmorning in a flurry of excitement. ‘Where are you, my dear girl? Are you dressed and—?’ She stopped in amazement as Emma came into the kitchen from the bakehouse, her face red from the heat of the fire, her hands covered with flour. Bridget gasped. ‘Emma, my dear, what are you thinking of? The ceremony is in an hour and a half and you haven’t even begun to dress. Now, come along, my dear, do.’
Emma allowed herself to be led from the kitchen towards the stairs, but as she did so, she glanced back towards the door into the bakehouse to see Sarah shaking her head and casting her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Fancy your father expecting you to work on your wedding day. Really! I shall have something to say to him.’
An hour later, Emma scarcely recognized the face that stared back at her from the mirror. Bridget had brushed Emma’s freshly washed hair until it gleamed. Then, with her nimble fingers, she had twisted, rolled and patted it, piling it high on the top of Emma’s head in the most elegant style the girl had ever seen.
‘Oh, Bridget?’ she breathed, ‘how clever you are.’
The woman beamed and laughed girlishly. ‘I’m enjoying every minute of it, my dear. Now, let me show you how to put a little colour into your cheeks, though you scarcely need any. You really have perfect skin, Emma. Positively glowing with health.’
A few minutes before they had to leave for the church, Bridget said, ‘Now for the final touch. Look, I’ve made you a little coronet of yellow roses to hold your veil in place and Leonard has sent you a bouquet to match. It’s waiting downstairs for you. There . . .’ She fastened the coronet on the top of Emma’s hair and attached the trailing veil to it. ‘Now, let me look at you. Stand up.’
Carefully, hardly daring to breathe, Emma rose from the dressing stool and moved to the only space available in the cluttered bedroom.
‘Turn round,’ Bridget instructed and then she clasped her hands together. ‘My dear, you look magnificent. Regal. Yes, that’s the word, regal. Leonard really is a lucky boy and your father will be so proud of you. Now, I really must go and take my place in the church.’
She came forward and planted a delicate k
iss on Emma’s cheek, so brief it was like the touch of a butterfly’s wings.
As she went down the stairs, Bridget’s voice floated back to her. ‘You should leave in about ten minutes, my dear.’
Left alone in her room, Emma stared again at her reflection in the mirror. With her hair piled on top of her head, she looked even taller, but the beautiful dress accentuated her generous bosom and slender waist and the delicate blush on her cheeks refined her face. Her violet eyes, the dark lashes long and curling, stared back at her. A tremor ran through her. For a moment the whole day was unreal. The person staring back at her was not Emma Forrest, but someone else. This elegant creature could not possibly be Harry Forrest’s carthorse of a daughter.
And then the thought that she had managed to hold at bay pushed its way into her mind and threatened to be her undoing. She thought about Jamie Metcalfe. It should have been Jamie for whom she was making herself beautiful. It should be Jamie waiting at the church for her. But Jamie did not love her enough . . . Resolutely, Emma lifted her chin and moved towards the head of the stairs and descended, one step at a time, towards her father who waited in the yard to give her away in marriage.
Leonard had hired an open carriage to drive Emma and her father to the church and as she climbed into it outside the front of the house, she could see that all along the curve of the street ahead, the villagers stood waiting to see her in her wedding finery. She smiled and waved for there was not one face amongst them that she didn’t know, that she hadn’t known since her childhood. They were her friends, each and every one, and they had come out to wish her well.
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