Read The Miller's Daughter for Free Online Page A

house. She was tempted to shout, ‘May I come with you, Father?’ The thought of doing
so made her clap her hand to her mouth as if to stop the mischievous words escaping her lips of their own accord.
    Once more, she ate her tea alone and went to bed long before Harry Forrest returned home.
    The following morning as Emma carried a tray of warm cottage loaves from the bakery into the shop, the door bell clanged and Emma, with a ready smile on her lips, looked up to
greet her customer. The woman standing on the other side of the polished wooden counter was a stranger to the village and immediately Emma realized who she must be and the smile on her generous
mouth faltered. But the woman was smiling and holding out her gloved hand across the counter.
    ‘I thought it was high time we met. My name is Bridget Smith. And you . . .’ her voice was high-pitched but pleasant and she paused as if to give emphasis to her next words,
‘must be Emma?’
    Slowly Emma held out her hand and found it clasped gently in the soft fabric of the woman’s lilac coloured gloves. Emma knew she was staring at the face before her, but she could not tear
her mesmerized gaze away. This was the woman the villagers called ‘the Merry Widow’, the woman her father was keeping company with and in turn making himself at best, the idle talk of
the pub bar, at worst, a laughing stock.
    Bridget Smith was small and slim. Her bright, blonde hair was drawn neatly back from her face into a stylish chignon at the nape of her neck. Little tendrils curled on to her forehead and framed
her delicate, pink cheeks. Her coat, a vibrant red on this cold November day and with a luxurious fur collar, fell in straight lines to her neat ankles and her button boots encased tiny, dainty
feet. A delicate, flowery perfume wafted across the counter towards Emma as she gazed into the woman’s face. She wore face powder so skilfully applied that her skin looked soft and velvety.
Her lips were darker than their natural colour, toning perfectly with her scarlet coat and her eyes were the blue of a summer sky, twinkling as she smiled, her cheeks dimpling.
    ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ Mrs Smith said and, releasing Emma’s hand, she hitched herself elegantly on to the high stool that always stood on the
customer’s side of the counter. She crossed her slim ankles in an action that was almost coquettish.
    Taking a deep breath, Emma tried to force out the responding words, but she could utter no sound. Her mind was reeling. All she could think about was what William had told her. ‘Arrived
out the blue, she has. No one knows who she is, or where she’s come from, nor anything about her.’ He had glanced at Emma awkwardly and then added, a little hesitantly, ‘But she
– er – seems to have set her cap at ya dad. At least,’ he added quickly, ‘that’s what everyone reckons. Mind you, ya know what village gossip is. And I’m sure
your dad has more sense than to get caught up with the likes of her.’
    Emma had stepped closer to William. ‘What do you mean “the likes of her”?’
    He had wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably as if wishing he had not said so much. ‘Well, er, she seems a flashy piece. Y’know?’
    ‘No,’ Emma had murmured, ‘I don’t know.’ But William could not be persuaded to say any more.
    Facing Bridget Smith now across the counter, Emma was seeing for herself the woman whom the village gossip described as ‘a flashy piece’. Now, trying valiantly to be fair and
unbiased, Emma thought the name a little uncharitable, in fact, now she saw the woman for herself, very uncharitable. Certainly Bridget Smith was elegantly dressed, extravagantly so if compared to
the village women, yet it was not in the bold, brassy manner she had anticipated from William’s description. What Emma felt as she took in the whole of the woman’s appearance, was not
disgust but envy. How she would have loved the chance to dress in such clothes,