The Miller's Daughter Read Online Free Page B

quietly,
‘But you do know, Sarah, don’t you?’ The woman avoided meeting Emma’s eyes and still said nothing.
    Into the silence, Emma asked, ‘Who is “the Merry Widow”?’
    Her steady, violet gaze was on Sarah, whose cheeks flamed as she darted a fleeting, uncomfortable glance at Emma. Turning away, Sarah bit her lip. ‘Don’t ask me, Emma love, please
don’t ask me.’
    Emma felt a twinge of unease. She could not remember Sarah ever being so evasive nor so agitated. What was all the mystery?
    I know, she thought suddenly, I know who I can ask.
    By midmorning, when the mill sails were spinning and Sarah was being kept busy with customers in the bakery, Emma slipped away. She marched up the road, past the turning
leading to the chapel and on towards the market place, purpose in every stride. Past the butcher’s on the corner, the cobbler’s and the long, low whitewashed pub, she came to the far
end of the square where the smithy and the wheelwright’s workshop stood next door to each other, joined by a semicircular brick archway. Attached to the archway was a sign declaring in bold,
black lettering, METCALFE.
    Standing in the open doorway of the forge, she raised her voice above the clang-clang of the hammer. ‘William, have you any news of Jamie? Is he safe? When’s he coming
home?’
    The gaunt young man straightened his back from where he had been stooping over the anvil. With one hand he dropped the horseshoe, glowing red hot, from the end of the tongs into the butt of
water where it spat and sizzled. He turned to face her, the smile creasing his thin face and banishing for a moment the haunted look that always seemed to be in his eyes these days, making him seem
so much older than his seventeen years. ‘What a lot of questions all at once, Em.’
    ‘Well, have you heard anything, William? Anything at all?’
    Sadly, he shook his head and the anxious look came back into his blue-green eyes. His voice was scarcely above a whisper, ‘No, no, I haven’t—’ He seemed about to say more
but stopped abruptly in mid-sentence and ran the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat.
    A sudden tremor of fear ran through her. Her heart quickened its beat and she caught her breath. ‘William, you don’t mean – you’re not afraid something’s happened
to him, are you? Oh, it couldn’t. Not now, right at the end of the war. It would be too cruel.’
    ‘No, no, Em,’ he said swiftly, putting out his hand towards her. ‘I don’t mean that. It’s just that – it seems a dreadful thing to say, but for some things,
I’m dreading him coming back.’
    Emma’s violet eyes darkened with sympathy. ‘I know, I know,’ she said gently and reached out to touch his arm, bronzed and sinewy from his work.
    William Metcalfe shrugged. ‘I don’t even know if my letter about our parents’ death ever reached him. I’ve heard nothing from him. Not a word.’
    ‘Oh. Oh dear.’ She scarcely knew what to say. She was silent now, in sympathy for the young man who awaited his elder brother’s return with such a mixture of emotions. She was
remembering the time only three months earlier when the whole village had turned out for the funeral of Josiah Metcalfe. The procession had wound its way from the Metcalfes’ home behind the
blacksmith’s and the wheelwright’s premises in the market square to the chapel. The memory caused Emma not only sadness for Jamie and William, but acute embarrassment. Whenever she
thought of that day, she almost squirmed with humiliation. Of all the village folk, only her father had stayed away from the funeral. She had been aware of the whispers and, although she had tried
to hold her head high as she joined the congregation in the chapel, she had felt angry and uncomfortable that her father was so conspicuous by his absence. The whole village knew that the two men,
Josiah Metcalfe and Harry Forrest, had little time for each other, but even Emma