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to have her hair prettily styled and to wear cosmetics. And the woman’s expression was warm and friendly and
though Emma had determined to be on the defensive when she met ‘the Merry Widow’, instead she found any planned resentment melting under Bridget Smith’s smile.
    ‘Oh, your father is so lucky to have a daughter,’ Bridget gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘How I do envy him. I have only one son, the absolute bane of my
life.’ She held up her hands, palms outwards as if in despair, but the tinkling laugh that accompanied her statement belied her words.
    In spite of herself, Emma felt her own smile widening. ‘I don’t think,’ she murmured, speaking for the first time since the woman had entered the shop, ‘that my father
would agree with you.’
    ‘Oh, go on with you,’ Bridget flapped her hand playfully towards Emma. ‘I’ve heard all about that, don’t you worry. Him and his silly mill. Besides, from what I’ve heard,’ she leant forward, sympathy in her voice, ‘he has you working every bit as hard as any son.’
    Emma nodded. ‘But it’s the name, you see. Even when I marry . . .’ she paused, almost tempted to spill out the hurt of years, but she took a deep breath and corrected herself,
‘even if I were to marry, it wouldn’t be a Forrest at the mill.’
    Bridget shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘Does that really matter so much? You and your children would still be Forrest descendants , now wouldn’t you?’
    Emma sighed. ‘Yes, but that’s still not enough. Not for my father.’
    At that moment, the subject of their conversation came into the shop from the door leading into the kitchen. Seeing Bridget sitting there, he gaped in surprise for a moment and then, as she
watched, Emma saw the most astounding transformation come over her father.
    ‘Why, Bridget, my dear.’ He was moving round the counter, holding out his hand and smiling such a sycophantic smile that Emma stared in astonishment. Bridget was looking up into his
face, fluttering her eyelashes, putting her dainty gloved hands into his dusty paws and allowing him to help her down from her perch on the high stool. Standing beside him – she only came up
to his shoulder – she looked like a delicate china doll beside the tall, slightly stooping frame of the miller.
    ‘We’ve been having such a nice chat,’ Bridget trilled and Emma stifled her amusement. The woman seemed to speak with an emphasis on nearly every other word.
‘ What a dear girl. I can’t wait for her to meet my Leonard.’ She leaned towards Emma again with a conspiratorial air. ‘You’re not engaged or promised to
anyone, are you, my dear?’
    ‘Well—’ Emma began but her father’s loud guffaw swept away any such ridiculous notion.
    ‘Suitors for my daughter aren’t exactly queuing at the door.’
    ‘Now, now, Harry,’ Bridget scolded and tapped his arm playfully. ‘She’s a lovely girl and if you were to allow her to buy some pretty dresses – with my help, of
course – ’ Bridget turned her head slightly and gave Emma a broad wink, an action that could not have been missed by the girl’s father, ‘you’d soon see.’
    Emma held her breath but then her mouth dropped open as Harry Forrest, a stupid, besotted grin on his face and his gaze never leaving Bridget’s, said, ‘Whatever you say, my
dear.’

Six
    ‘I wouldn’t have believed it possible if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes,’ Emma confided in Sarah, though her hands never paused in kneading the dough
beneath her strong supple fingers. ‘He’s like a lovesick lad. Mind you, she seems very nice.’
    Sarah’s reply was a snort, her round little body shaking with indignation. She pushed the long handled, wooden spade-like peel into the depths of the bread oven and brought out a cottage
loaf. Six more followed swiftly, all round and brown and perfect, their smell permeating the bakehouse and drifting appetizingly through the kitchen and into the shop. Sarah, her