by Linda Little
Frightened now, and desperate, I pleaded. “Ewan, I simply couldn’t. The idea is outrageous. What will people say—your wife in the mill! Do you want people saying you can’t provide for a wife? And the Sabbath is not to be used for travel. There is nothing necessary in it. Do you imagine for one instant that God will reward your flagrant disregard…”
With one stroke of Ewan’s arm the supper, dishes and all, crashed to the floor in a riot of splatter and shards. Suddenly his face overpowered my field of vision, ice-diamond eyes, his nostrils flared like a horse’s, a bubble of spit at the corner of his mouth. I tried to scuttle backwards but my chair held me captive until it tipped, nearly dumping me at his feet. He spoke, his lips thin with rage, his voice so low, so gelid, my skin tightened with each word. A hint of beef on his breath. “Don’t. You. Preach. To me. God’s. Design.”
He spun in one movement and walked across the kitchen, his gait stiff as frostbite. When he closed the door behind him, wood approached wood with such terrifying restraint the lone click of the latch cracked the air like bone.
I stooped to clean up the mess on the kitchen floor, my hands quaking so badly I broke a teacup that had escaped the original calamity. The fear of those early vicious days of Ewan’s confinement with the broken leg, his wild captive fury, reclaimed me. To be the focus of such rage shrinks the soul. I cowered. The word itself cradled around me. Coward. Indignation rescued me. Listening night after night to his prayers—make my wife worthy of Thy blessing—charges of indolence! Running the roads and gossiping! And now he meant to leave me to run the mill. True the very busiest weeks had passed but there would be steady custom for months yet. What was I to do about my work? Because Ewan believed I did not work did not make it true. And the MacCarron boy would fetch and carry and watch the kiln? This is what he offers me? That boy’s father, the lecherous cad, I knew only too well from Ewan’s broken leg days. He stood too close, brushed against my sleeve. “You grind wild oats too?” And with Ewan right there in the mill, barely out of earshot. Fresh heat rose to my cheeks. This was not right. Ewan could not make me do this. I would send for the sawyer to come and run the mill. I would hang a closed sign on the door. If he would not listen to me I would call on the local preacher to demand he listen to sense. I would turn away the customers at the mill door or I would make such a poor job of the milling that his reputation would be destroyed.
As I finished the washing up, swept, set the bread for the next day, I ranted myself dry. Night closed in and with it the stark quiet that feeds loneliness. What could possibly have possessed Ewan to come up with such a plan? I struggled to set myself aside and examine Ewan’s perceptions, reminded myself how all couples had this duty to understand their mates, but me more than most because of Ewan’s awkward deficiencies that seemed inextricably paired with his mechanical gifts. By the window, in the glow of the lamp, I sat with folded hands and plumbed his assumptions. The mill was his. The wife was his. A man and his wife are one. This one, as we are meant to discover in our own time, is the husband. I knew how to mill—experience brought about through his suffering. With my efforts added to his he could effectively work in two places at once. These ideas would be self-evident to Ewan and arguing did not alter his truth. Sadness crept into the crevices and niches left by my retreating anger. Make my wife worthy, make my wife worthy—every night in his prayers. I, in my indolence, had not yet brought him a son and I stood there flouting his will. Until I produced the son why would I not be asked to fill the void?
“I do not agree.” I spoke aloud and with force, repeating myself, hearing my own voice striking against the silence of the house. “A woman is not a slave to her husband’s wishes. A woman has a body and a mind and a will of her own. She has duties of her own and a place of her own.”
I thought of the farmers I would see at the mill door, of their heading home with flour and meal and news of the miller’s wife working in the mill. Not at my injured husband’s side, which was spectacle enough, but on my own. Like a man. Shame flushed over me. I imagined the news met with disdain in kitchens everywhere—I never heard of such a thing! We’ll all be wearing trousers next I suppose, and felling trees and wrestling oxen as if we don’t have enough to do. I could see Mrs. Cunningham striking her wooden spoon on the edge of her stewpot and bristling at the news—It doesn’t surprise me to hear her putting herself around like a man. She always thought she was better than everyone else. Or pity—That poor dear! I swear Ewan MacLaughlin would harness a cat if he could catch it. Or—I thank God I have a husband who knows his duty to his family.
“Is this your main concern? The gossip of your neighbours?” I asked myself this the way I might have addressed an advanced student in my teaching days. Of course our neighbours’ good opinion is important to us but surely not to the exclusion of our own needs, desires and consciences. Ripples of fear lapped at me but I fought them back. Laying aside the social expectations, the extra workload, and Ewan’s dictates, the work of milling was not unpleasant. I cast my mind back searching for the best memories of my difficult days in the mill. Yes, as Ewan proclaimed, the mill’s design streamlined production and required little in the way of heavy labour. I liked the clattering rhythm, the warm aroma, the orderly management of the accounts, the sense of competence that came with running such a large and vital piece of machinery. Ewan had faith in my ability. It was so often impossible to know what he felt but this fact, surely, was unassailable. He would not see his mill in anyone else’s hands. I had seen the mill conceived of and raised. We had worked side by side there. Shouldn’t it be so—that he trusted his wife above all others?
In the end I knew I could not outright defy Ewan’s dictate. Just as well to agree as to be forced. The longer I sat alone in the gloom the more my conclusion felt like a decision, and the surer I became with my decision. Ewan did not return to the house. Eventually I climbed the stairs and crawled into bed.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I FOUND EWAN SITTING AT HIS PLACE AT the kitchen table. I placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal before him. The normalcy of this small act pointed us back towards familiar territory.
“You are my wife. A miller’s wife,” Ewan said.
It was not an order, not a question. I heard a note of vulnerability, of relief in his voice. There was no contrition in the tone but perhaps an explanation offered in lieu of apology. There was an offer of restoration.
“You must listen to what I say, Ewan. You must take into account how I feel. It’s the nature of marriage. I’m not a servant.”
“You can manage a mill. It will be an easy thing for you.”
“Yes,” I said. “But send for that boy. He can help with the farmers.”
Ewan nodded.
SUNDAY MORNING AS DAWN BROKE EWAN SADDLED UP HIS HORSE. Before he left he returned to the kitchen and stood before me as though he had something to say but could not recall what it might be.
I spoke into the silence. “Be careful on the roads,” I said. “Safe journey.”
“Be sure your grist is clean and dry before it sees the eye of the stone. Thumb your grind to keep it fine.”
I stood at the window and watched him go. A gulp of abandonment then a surge of excitement, then uncertainty. It being Sunday I had only my necessary chores: feeding and milking, setting my feet on well-worn paths. By the time I sat down to a full pot of tea and a slice of ginger cake I was nearly giddy. There was freedom to be had in Ewan’s absence. My little library, I realized with surprise, I had all but abandoned. It was impossible to open a novel in Ewan’s presence, even on Sunday, without feeling his disapproval. He did not prevent me from attending church, from Sunday visiting, from reading stories or poetry. This I needed to reinforce to myself. Yet I could do none of these things without having him raise an eyebrow and pass a comment about the silliness, vanity and gossip central to all these “womanish” pastimes. I could not draw him into a discussion, conversation or even an exchange of opinions on the subject. He disdained discussion. In fact, h
e disdained my company. Newlywed notions of us strolling, arm in arm, by the brook of a Sunday, sharing intimacies and building confidence in ourselves and our union I had long since buried. Monday morning would bring its own worries; Sunday I would claim for my own. I cut myself a second piece of cake and set off for the Yorkshire moors with the Brontës. The afternoon I would pass with Abby who was just regaining her feet after the arrival of her sixth child, little Jacob.
EARLY MONDAY MORNING I MET YOUNG ANGUS MACCARRON AT THE mill door with a brisk good morning. He was big for his fifteen years and a lout, as advertised. I immediately directed him to help me pull the desk out from the wall like a schoolteacher’s. Ewan simply figured in his head and stood over his book to note his numbers in pencil; I intended to sit and write entries in ink beside full names flowing across the page. I hoped this nod to my past profession would bolster my sense of authority and with it my confidence and perhaps the farmers’ respect. The mill had grown stout with new weight, with responsibility.
“Where’s the miller?” young Angus asked.
“Mr. MacLaughlin will be away for a short while. I will be here in his stead for the duration.”
“What?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Who’s getting’ the millin’ done?”
“You will address me as Mrs. MacLaughlin or ma’am. I will be in charge of the milling. You will be attending to the kiln and to other duties as instructed.”
The brat guffawed in disbelief.
“Angus MacCarron, if there are jokes you will share them with me so I can laugh too. If not, we shall both attend to our respective duties. Is this clear?”
“Eh?”
“The correct answer to the question is ‘Yes, Mrs. MacLaughlin’ or ‘Yes, ma’am.’ If you hold an alternate opinion, which you have every right to do, you may return home now to explain to your father why you will not be bringing fifty cents home tonight. Do you understand?”
I watched the lad synthesize this information. He was a boy of harsh breeding. I imagined him bullied at home and sassy when out of harm’s way. But loutishness aside, he was not stupid and I watched as his inclination to mock this startling arrangement gave way to practical considerations.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Lay the kiln fire then. We are certain to have a grist or two of oats in today.” I struggled a moment with my conscience but honour is a poor match for necessity. I needed the boy’s allegiance. I called to him as he turned towards the stairs. “Mr. MacLaughlin says you are well known to be a good worker, smart and attentive. He promised me I’d have no trouble with young Angus.”
The boy stopped and regarded this news with surprise. Could it be true that he had established a good reputation for himself? Suspicion and pride wrestled for supremacy on his features. I smiled slightly, nodded a tight affirmation, calling to the boy’s naïve hopes for himself, coaxing him forward like a fawn peering out from the cover of the underbrush. Yes, it’s true (I tried to tell him with my eyes), you are held in high regard. You must rise to expectations.
“You and I shall make a happy team, don’t you think?” I puffed up my voice with what I hoped was both kindliness and authority.
“Yes, ma’am.” He beamed and scampered down the stairs to his post.
I tied one of Ewan’s clean aprons over my coat and smoothed it down trying to settle my racing heart. That was the boy. Men are not so easy to fool. Already in the distance I could hear the clop of hooves.
Tom Joudrey turned away, indignant. “Who’ll be in charge of the stones next time I come? The cows, I suppose. Or the chickens.” And he hauled his load back home despite my entreaties.
Willy Ban arrived next with oats for meal and corn to crack for fodder.
“Ewan will be gone a short while,” I said, “a few days, a brief trip. He has a commission, is attending to a mill that is not operating properly, his expertise is needed, he has been called away, no other millwright would do.”
Willy looked dubious. “I’ll come back another day.”
“No, leave your grist here. Angus will help you with it. I’ll see it gets ground. Ewan will not be gone long.” They unloaded the grain, Willy perhaps choosing to believe Ewan would grind the grist when he returned.
By the time the next wagons arrived we were busy with oats in the kiln and had the vertical fodder stone grinding away. With each new customer I had to explain Ewan’s absence but as the morning unfolded, as each man saw that someone before him had handed over his grain, the farmers became increasingly willing to chance the new “miller.” They were reluctant to abandon the outing of a trip to the grist mill; a lazy day was too rare to be so easily aborted. And like a dreadful accident, it was hard not to watch the exhibition, I suppose. A woman taking orders was one thing, but this was a different kettle of fish altogether.
All went well until my stomach began to whisper that dinnertime was approaching. Only then did I realize I had neglected to consider dinner for myself and the lad. Of course there was no one to carry a hot dinner down to me in a pan swathed in towels. Had it been only myself I would have gladly soldiered on, but I would not have the boy reporting that he had been starved at work, that the miller’s wife was too lazy to feed him. There would be scandal enough without that. So I stopped the stones, called to Angus to let the kiln alone and the two of us marched together up the hill past waiting farmers, my face flaming. Of course the kitchen stove was cold, the lunch a hurried affair of fried eggs and cheese and Saturday’s old biscuits with jam and hastily boiled tea. Dishes were left greasy on the table, farmers impatient in the laneway. Nonetheless the remainder of the day moved along well without incident.
At the end of the day I directed Angus to stop in at the Cunningham farm on his way home. “Ask Mrs. Cunningham for two dinners to be delivered to the mill each day for the remainder of the week. Tell her they are for you and the miller.” I did not favour my odds. No doubt she would have heard the news. On the one hand Delilah Cunningham was always eager to feel a coin in her palm, but she was perhaps even fonder of grasping a superior moral position. I imagined her on her step, arms folded tight across her weasel bosom and glaring down her nose at Angus.
“Is the missus ill then?”
“She’s hearty enough I’d say.”
“Good. I’m happy to hear it. It’ll be no bother to her then to attend to the miller herself. I’ve enough to do feeding my own without cooking for the road.”
However the exchange transpired the result was the same. Not even the prospect of cold cash could lure Mrs. Cunningham into countenancing such bizarre behaviour. I learned to prepare a stew and bake my biscuits before bed and carry the pot down to the mill with me in the morning. I could simmer the stew over the kiln fire. The biscuits, of course, were never quite fresh but I could warm them in a towel in the kiln. There was no pie, but the boy did not complain. He likely knew no better fare at home, for which I was grateful. My beautifully polished kettle I sacrificed to the open flame of the kiln fire where it blackened like a miner’s boot. I also learned that by the end of the day I did not have the strength to churn my butter so I woke earlier to do this chore before dawn. On Wednesday evening when I climbed the hill I found a loaf of Abby’s fresh bread wrapped in a cloth on the table. Tears of gratitude welled in my eyes. I must scold Abby for this. Abby, with a brand new baby and all her brood, had no time to be making extra work for herself. I fretted over my washing. Monday had come and gone and, of course, I had had no opportunity to see to it. I wondered if Saturday evening might serve. I could hang it on the line before midnight and it could dry on Sunday while I slept. But a line full of wash flapping on the Sabbath? Perhaps it was the exhaustion combined with the kindness of the fresh bread, but I sank into a chair and sobbed.
On the first Sunday after Ewan’s departure I rested. One week gone and another yet to endure. For the first time in my life I returned to bed after feeding the animals and I slept, deep and hard, past noon. A child could
run this mill, Ewan said. This is true enough supposing the child understands how the wheel transfers its power from shaft to pulley to gear every step of the train from the millrace to the stone nuts and the stones themselves, and supposing the child learns each sound and can follow each as it is laid on top of the previous one. Supposing the child can follow the song of the damsel from two or three stones at once and can smell the heat of a stone running too close and keep the buhrstone fed while following the progress of the oat shelling stone. Supposing the child can maintain his composure in the face of the grumbles and sniggers of men and supposing the child has a mother to fetch him a hot meal at dinnertime and keep the house cozy and clean and tend to his clothes and his household, then, of course, a child can run the mill.
By my second week enough of a routine had emerged to keep me steadied. Through a combination of liberal praise and veiled threats I managed to keep young Angus useful and just this side of surly. The mill itself offered an odd sort of refuge. There were moments when the work wrapped itself around me and absorbed me completely, carrying me away from my troubles.
On the second Sunday after Ewan’s departure I waited, unsure. Despite the Sabbath I set bread and baked it, revelling in this commonest of domestic tasks. It felt simple and comforting and nothing like work. Surely this was necessary work for what would Ewan think to return to a home with no bread in the pantry? And when else was I to find the time for such a chore? Nonetheless guilt buzzed about my head like a mosquito. What was baking bread if not regular women’s work? What did the Sabbath prohibit if not our regular labours? The sun rose and brightened, filled the sky, then leaned again towards the earth and set. I lit the lamps. Just as I made up my mind that he would not be coming and that I must mill another week, the dog barked. I ran to the door with a lamp as Ewan swung down from his saddle, his silhouette ghostly in the dark. Relief flooded me with a shocking intensity that weakened my knees. I leaned back letting the solid wall of the house hold me, the lamp quivering in my hands.