As the carriage passed the open space of the market place on the right-hand side, her gaze went at once to the brick archway between the smithy and the wheelwright’s yard. Framed in the archway, stood the tall, burly figure of Jamie, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, his waistcoat unbuttoned, as if he had just stepped out from the forge to see what was causing all the commotion. He was too far away for her to see his face but then, closer, standing half-hidden behind the corner of a wall as if he didn’t want to be seen and yet could not help being there, she saw William. As she met the haunted look in his eyes, eyes that were huge in his white, pinched face, Emma’s lips parted in a gasp.
She didn’t think that if she lived to be a hundred she would ever, for the rest of her life, forget the look on William Metcalfe’s face as she passed by him on the way to her wedding.
Fifteen
Married life was not quite what Emma had imagined it would be. She had known, of course, what to expect on her wedding night; Sarah had seen to that.
The older woman, blushing and stammering, had tried to explain. ‘Don’t ever refuse him, Emma. It’s a wife’s duty and if – well – if he’s a kindly feller, then – then – it’s not all that bad. In fact . . .’ the blush had deepened, ‘it can be very nice.’
But if Emma had fondly imagined caring for her husband, cooking, washing and cleaning their own little house and being a willing, even joyful, wife in their bed at night, then she was to be disappointed. The truth of her life as a new bride was very little different from what it had been before her marriage. Leonard, far from suggesting that they set up home together or even that she should move into the cottage he shared with his mother, just moved into the millhouse to share the double bed in the room which Emma had occupied for as long as she could remember. She still rose every morning just as early as she had always done to begin work in the bakehouse and, without it even being discussed, she continued to work in the mill. Indeed, the only difference was that there was now another man in the house to pander to and, although he shared her bed, even that side of married life was vaguely disappointing to her.
There was no one to ask, not even Sarah, as to whether what occurred between them in the privacy of their bed was normal or not. The act was very quickly over and performed in complete darkness. There were no words of love between them, no tender caresses before the thrusting and writhing of buttocks above her and his final grunt of either satisfaction or accomplishment. In her naivety, Emma could not know which, nor could she explain the feeling of unfulfillment as she lay sleepless and staring wide-eyed into the darkness whilst Leonard lay on his back beside her, snoring loudly, with his mouth wide open. And why, she wondered did he only make love to her when he returned home late at night from the city, when his eyes were bright with the success of a day’s dealings and with the smell of liquor on his breath?
Strangely enough, in the days following her marriage, it was not Sarah who became Emma’s confidante, but her new mother-in-law, Bridget. Although Sarah was as loving and devoted to her as ever, somehow, where her new husband was concerned, Emma felt a constraint between them. She knew that neither Luke nor Sarah approved of the match and the knowledge made it difficult for Emma to talk to either of them about Leonard. But with Bridget, there was, of course, no such restraint. So when, on the rare occasions she found herself with an hour or so to spare, Emma walked the mile to the other side of the village to the low, whitewashed cottage where her mother-in-law lived, Bridget’s welcome was always ecstatic. On opening the door, she would fling her arms wide and enfold Emma in a hug. ‘How lovely.’
Sitting in her pretty sitting room, Emma said. ‘Leonard’s so secretive. I wish he’d talk to me more about what he does.’
‘Oh, men!’ Bridget flapped her delicate hands and her laughter tinkled when Emma tried, tactfully, to ask what it was exactly that Leonard did and where he went, sometimes staying away overnight. ‘They’re a law unto themselves, my dear, and Leonard’s worse than most. But a woman’s duty is to look after her man, in every way.’ And her merry laughter sounded again and her eyes twinkled coquettishly. Emma found herself smiling too. It was so easy to like Bridget and she couldn’t quite understand why some of the villagers gossiped about her so scathingly. Now she was patting Emma’s hand and saying, ‘Don’t ask him too many questions, Emma dear. He doesn’t like it.’
A small frown creased Emma’s forehead. ‘But I don’t understand what it is he does, exactly. I mean, some days he comes home in such a good mood, bringing expensive presents from town. At other times, he’s in a black mood and borrowing a few shillings from me for the fare back to Lincoln. Is it because sometimes he pulls off a good deal and then another time, it doesn’t work or – or something?’ She was floundering, trying to ask the right questions and yet completely mystified.
Bridget blinked at her. ‘Deals?’
‘Yes, he’s a dealer, isn’t he? That’s what he told me. I presumed he buys and sells things? Is that right?’
‘Well, er . . .’ Bridget hesitated and her glance shied away from Emma’s direct gaze. ‘Sort of, I suppose. I think he does a bit of all sorts, you know.’
Emma was shaking her head. ‘No, that’s just it, I don’t know.’
She had never thought of herself as stupid nor even particularly naive and innocent, but suddenly Emma felt very ignorant of the ways of the world beyond the confines of Marsh Thorpe. She knew nothing, she realized, of town or city life, nothing about the world of men other than the lives of the few men she knew; her father, of course, and the local farmers and the craftsmen and shopkeepers in the village community.
Bridget shrugged her shoulders, ‘Well, you know how men are. They don’t think we can understand the world of – er – business. If you take my advice, dear, just don’t ask questions.’
‘I’m leaving this morning. I’ve matters to attend to in Lincoln.’
‘Of course,’ Emma smiled. ‘I’ll have your supper ready for when you get back, Leonard.’
‘Eh?’ He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, I shan’t be back tonight, Emma.’
‘Oh, I see. When will you be back then? Tomorrow?’
‘Can’t say. Depends.’
‘On what?’
An irritated frown creased his forehead. ‘Stop questioning me, woman. It depends how long it takes me. How long I choose to stay.’
She was silent and watchful as she waited for an explanation, but when none was forthcoming, she asked quietly, ‘What exactly is it you do, Leonard?’
He turned away and said casually over his shoulder, ‘I’ve told you. This and that. I have to be ready to travel, you know. To go where the best – er – deals are.’
‘I see,’ she murmured, her gaze upon him but he kept his face turned away from her, busying himself over the packing of his suitcase, each item folded and neatly laid in precise order in its depths. ‘Would you like me to help you pack?’ she offered.
‘No!’ His answer was like a pistol shot. ‘Don’t you ever touch any of my things, not my possessions nor my clothes, except those I give you to wash for me.’
Emma gasped and stared at him, and immediately he crossed the space between them and put his hands on her shoulders. He was smiling again, charming once more. ‘My dear, what am I thinking of? Please forgive me. I’m not yet used to having a wife to look after me. I suppose it began in the army. You know, caring for one’s own kit and that. Perhaps it’s best if you allow me to continue as I always have. I’m so used to all the packing and unpacking and I know just how I like things done.’
She returned his look steadily. ‘That’s all right, Leonard. I was only trying to help.’
‘I know,’ he kissed her forehead and turned back to the suitcase, his sharpness of a moment ago gone as quickly as it had come. He was laughing now. ‘Even Mother knew not to touch my things. Just one of my little foibles. You’ll soon get used to me, Emma. Me and my funny little ways.’
‘As you wi
sh, Leonard,’ Emma said evenly and turned to leave the bedroom.
So, Bridget’s advice had been right. It was better that she did not question her husband and his comings and goings unless she wanted a full-scale confrontation. Emma sighed and went downstairs. It was time she lit the fires in the bakehouse anyway, she reminded herself.
‘Where’s he off to then?’ Luke asked at her shoulder as she stood leaning over the yard gate a little later in the morning, watching the carrier’s cart taking Leonard up the street, round the sharp corner and out of sight.
‘Lincoln. On business.’
Luke sniffed. ‘Oh aye?’ His tone was disbelieving and though Emma twisted her head sharply to look at him, the older man had turned away and was hobbling towards the mill.
‘Luke?’ She hurried after him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, lass, nothing,’ he muttered and refused to stop or even to look at her. ‘I’ve work to do. Ya’d better let me get on wi’ it, else ya dad’ll be after me.’
She laughed then, a clear sound in the early morning air. ‘Since when did you ever take any notice of him?’
Luke shot her a swift smile, but a wary look came into his eyes. ‘Aye mebbe you’ve a point there, lass. I’d better be watching mesen from now on, I reckon.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ But he was gone, walking away from her and calling back over his shoulder. ‘You go and help Sarah in the bakery. It’s high time you stopped lifting these heavy sacks, now you’re a married woman.’
She watched as he climbed the granary steps stiffly, hauling himself up as if every step pained him. She was about to turn and go into the baker’s shop, but then she called out to him. ‘You send them up on the hoist, Luke. I’ll go up top. I’ve time to unload them into the bins. It’ll save you a lot of clambering up and down.’
The old man continued his weary climb and she could not be sure whether he had heard her or not. She shrugged and went towards the mill to mount the ladders to the bin floor. He would soon realize she was up there, she thought, when he sent the sacks up on the hoist.
Emma was panting slightly as she arrived on the floor where a permanent dust haze seemed to hang. In a few moments the air would be thick with it as she tipped the grain into the bins. As she waited, she leant against the whitewashed wall and looked out of the tiny window overlooking the yard below. The day was still with hardly a breath of wind. If this weather kept up, Emma thought, they would be forced to start the engine to work the mill. Although the motor was kept oiled and greased and ready for use, her father always put off starting it. He hated the monstrosity, as he called it, and usually it was Luke who had the job of unwinding the thick belt and starting the engine, whilst Harry Forrest grumbled and groused and glowered at the sky as if personally willing the wind to come again. It was one of the few things Emma and her father actually agreed about; they both preferred to see the sails spinning to work the mill.
She saw Luke staggering out of the granary and down the steps, a bulging sack of grain on his back, and cross the yard towards the mill. As she turned away, she saw her father come out of the back door of the house and walk towards the mill too. From far below Emma heard the gentle chink of metal as Luke fastened the sack onto the hoist chain and began to operate it. A few seconds later the sack crashed through the trap doors and she caught hold of it. Just as she was about to shout down to Luke that she was up there and had the sack, their raised voices floated up clearly through the hollow silence of the idle mill.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel, Harry Forrest, I ain’t working for you a minute longer. Given my life to you and Forrest’s Mill, I have, and that’s the thanks I get. You tek ya fancy son-in-law into the mill instead and see ’ow far that gets ye. What d’ya think he knows about milling, any road?’
‘He’s not coming into the mill. At least, not now, though it’ll be his one day when I’m gone.’
Even from here, Emma could hear the shock in Luke’s voice. ‘His? His?’ He almost spat out the word. ‘You’d leave ya dad’s mill to that – that – ’ It seemed as if words failed him to find an appropriate adjective for his opinion of Leonard Smith, for he broke off and then said, ‘What’s it going to be then? Smith’s Mill, is it? Cut out ya own flesh and blood, would ye?’
‘No, that weren’t the deal.’
There was silence for a moment and above them in the dust of the bin floor, Emma held her breath and bent lower towards the hole in the floor so that she might hear better.
Luke’s voice was lower now, but there was a menacing note in his tone. ‘Deal? What deal?’
‘The deal I had to make,’ came her father’s voice raised in anger, ‘to get my daughter a husband.’
Far above him, Emma put one hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp and groped with trembling fingers to find the edge of a nearby bin to steady herself.
The tirade continued. ‘How else would she have got one, eh? Answer me that!’
‘Easily,’ came Luke’s sharp retort. ‘She’s a fine lass and young Metcalfe—’
‘Oh, him!’ Harry Forrest spat out. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘That’d’ve been better than the one you’ve wangled for her. He’s a fortune hunter, if ever I saw one. Ya’ve taunted the poor lass for years that no one’d marry her except to get ya blasted mill. And then damn me if ya don’t go and fall for that very thing yasen. He’s a trickster. Can’t you see it? Or are you blind ’cos you’re getting ya way with the mother, eh?’
‘Watch ya tongue, Luke Robson, else ya’ll find yasen out of a job.’
‘Suits me. I’m damned if I want to work with a man who sells his own daughter.’
Emma made an involuntary movement, opened her mouth to shout down and then clamped it shut again. She could not move, could not make a sound without revealing that she had overheard every word of their quarrel; a quarrel that had left her feeling more hurt and humiliated than she had ever felt in her life.
Luke didn’t mean it, not about leaving his work, she was sure he didn’t. In the heat of the moment they were both saying things that later they would bitterly regret. But it seemed that Luke did mean everything he said, for his final words were, ‘Do ya own milling from now on, Harry Forrest.’
‘If you walk out of here, Luke Robson, ya won’t walk back.’
‘Suits me,’ Luke said again.
‘And you’ll be out of ya house an’ all.’
There was a moment’s pause, then a low growl from Luke that Emma could scarcely hear. ‘By heck, Harry, after all these years.’
The hoist chain shivered and clinked and Emma drew back from the hole. For a moment she thought Luke had given in, but then she heard his boots on the stone floor and peeked out of the window to see him hobbling away across the yard towards the orchard and his cottage. Her father appeared in the yard just below her and stood watching Luke Robson as if seeing him off his premises, before he too marched across the yard and back into the house.
Wearily she leaned against the wall and then slid down to sit on a pile of sacks as her legs gave way beneath her. She felt sick and, closing her eyes, Emma dropped her head forward into her hands. The words she had overheard hammered round her brain. Her marriage was nothing but a bargain stuck between two men. And what exactly, Emma wanted to know, had that bargain been?
A few moments later she heard shouting below in the yard and pulled herself up to look out of the window again. Hurrying across the yard towards the gap in the hedge leading to her own cottage, her face flushed with anger and outrage in every bustling step of her round little body, was Sarah.
‘No. Oh no,’ Emma groaned aloud and sank back onto the sacks.
The mill was silent, the only sound the gentle clink of the hoist chain as it quivered. Outside the breeze stayed defiantly calm and the sails stood idle. With Luke storming off in a temper, her father’s stubbornness, and Leonard half way to Lincoln, there was no one who could start the engine.
Farmer Popple wou
ld not get his grain ground this day.
She stayed in the mill for a long time, stunned by what she had overheard, what the few moments of anger between her father and Luke had wrought, though she had no doubt that once they all calmed down, Luke would return to his work and Sarah would go back into the shop.
At last she heard the back door of the house open once more and saw her father leaving the yard, crashing the gate shut behind him and setting off up the village street. Cold anger spread through her and hardened her resolve. She was glad now that she had not revealed herself and let them know she had overheard every word. Calculatingly, she decided, quite rationally and coldly, that she would keep her counsel. She would act as if she had heard nothing and she would express surprise to find Luke and Sarah missing. She would demand to be told what had happened. And then she would see what explanation her father gave.
Stiffly, her legs trembling with emotion even though her resolve was now quite firm, Emma climbed down the ladders and came out of the mill into the yard. As she reached the door into the house, she hesitated. There was no one about, no one in the yard and, thinking quickly, she realized that if she were to make her ignorance of the quarrel plausible, she would have to have a believable story. It would be easier to keep to if it was also the truth. If she could say that she had not even been there, that she had been to the market place, to the butcher’s maybe . . . Come to think of it, she tried to gather her scattered thoughts, I do need to order a joint for the weekend.
She turned, left the yard and went out of the gate and up the road to the market place. It was market day and she would soon lose herself amongst the throng, would perhaps even talk to a few folk she knew, so that on her return she could chatter brightly about village news rather than what she had really overheard. A small, wry smile quirked her mouth. I’m becoming as devious as my father and Leonard, she thought, and unbidden, the saying, ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ slipped into her mind.
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