The Miller's Daughter by Margaret Dickinson Page B

Sarah bristled, then she laughed. ‘Don’t try to be something
you’re not, lass. Let ’em see how you live. All right, go to an extra bit of trouble – ’ she shrugged her plump shoulders, ‘like we do at Christmas. But don’t
try to do things and fancy dishes ya not comfortable with.’
    ‘You’re right, of course. But – but I have this feeling that Father wants to make a good impression.’
    ‘Does he now?’ Sarah said softly.
    That evening, Emma, in her best Sunday dress, found herself opening the back door to a huge bunch of flowers. She gasped in surprise and the flowers quivered as if the person holding them was
laughing. The bouquet was lowered and in the soft light thrown by the lamp in the kitchen behind her, Emma found herself looking into the laughing eyes of the soldier at the railway station. Behind
him, in the dusk of early evening, Emma saw her father helping Bridget Smith down from the pony and trap which he had used to fetch his guests to the millhouse.
    Emma opened the door wider and stood back to one side, gesturing with her hand to the young man to step inside. ‘Please – please come in.’
    ‘These are for you,’ he said and held the flowers out towards her.
    She felt an unaccustomed blush creeping up her face. ‘For – me?’ she stammered and took the proffered bouquet. ‘No one has ever brought me flowers before.’ The
truthful remark was innocently beguiling.
    ‘Then it’s high time someone did,’ the young man remarked and held out his hand. ‘We haven’t been introduced properly, but I have seen you before. I noticed you at
the station.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes, really,’ he smiled, giving an exaggerated wink. ‘How could any man fail to notice you, Miss Forrest?’
    A warm glow spread through her and yet a small voice prompted her to be wary. Was he laughing at her, insinuating that, with her height, she stood head and shoulders above any other woman? She
returned his gaze steadily but could detect no ridicule in the clear blue-grey eyes.
    He was still holding out his hand towards her as he said, ‘My name is Leonard Smith.’ And as she put her hand into his warm, firm clasp, he added, ‘How do you do, Emma Forrest?
I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’
    He was no longer dressed in uniform. Tonight he wore a well-cut black suit in an expensive fabric over a stiffly starched white collared shirt and a neatly knotted, bright red, tie. Looped
across his waistcoat was a watch chain, from the centre of which hung a small gold cross. His sleek, dark hair was cut short and greased to shining neatness. Although his nose was perhaps a little
large, he had a firm jawline and white, even teeth.
    Leonard was lifting his nose in the air and sniffing appreciatively. ‘My word, that smells good. I can’t tell you how much a chap misses home cooking. Army rations aren’t quite
the same you know.’ He gave a low chuckle and his eyes twinkled with merriment.
    ‘It’s nothing special . . .’ she began but at that moment Bridget Smith stepped into the house in a flurry of laughter.
    The evening was a great success. Emma could not remember ever having seen her father so relaxed or so jovial. Certainly not since her mother had died. He was openly flirting with Bridget Smith
who, with her tinkling laughter, her bright blue eyes and the coquettish way she tossed her head, fascinated Emma. Was this, the young girl mused, the way a woman was supposed to behave to catch
her man? Her mouth twitched at the corner as she wondered if this was the way she ought to behave. Would such skittish behaviour win Jamie Metcalfe?
    ‘A penny for them,’ Leonard Smith’s spoke softly at her side. She was so deep in her own thoughts that the sound of his voice startled her, making her jump. ‘Oh,
I’m sorry.’ Flustered, she began to babble, ‘I was just watching – I mean – admiring your mother. She’s very beautiful.’
    It was not quite the truth. Bridget Smith was