Because it was mid-afternoon, the mill was quiet. The door was thrown open to the warm October day, and he paused in the doorway to remove his gloves and allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside.
An older man stuck his gray head over the stair railing to call out to him from the floor above. “Good afternoon!”
“And to you.” He stepped inside. “Are you the miller here?”
“Aye.” He grinned good-naturedly and came stiffly down the stairs. With each step, his hips and knees hitched, making him resemble a wooden marionette.
John furrowed his brow at how the man moved. He’d never met Arthur Bradley in person before. He hadn’t been at Bishopswood long enough to meet most of the villagers by simply coming and going through the area, and all the interactions he’d had regarding the mill had been through Cora, with no reason to visit the mill in person when he could send his estate agent or secretary instead and spare himself her wrath.
Now he regretted that distance.
Bradley wiped the dust from his hands as he approached, then frowned at John’s appearance. He wasn’t dressed like someone who brought grain to a mill. “What can I do for you, sir?”
So…Bradley didn’t recognize him.
“Thank you.” Bradley slapped his hand affectionately on one of the beams. “She’s small but fierce.”
He chuckled at the Shakespeare reference. Now he knew where Cora got her wit and education. “And apparently Greek.”
Bradley’s eyes shined in surprise. “You know your mills.”
“Not nearly as much as I should.” The irony behind that was biting. But Cora wasn’t here to give him the explanation he wanted. He slowly circled the small grinding room. “It was an easy guess, since you don’t have a mill wheel or sluice.”
“Aye. Don’t need them. The river’s deep and fast enough to drop a shaft below.” Like a proud parent, he gestured John over to the grinding mechanism and millstones. “We’re built out over the river, so the current drives the paddle below, which turns the bottom grindstone.”
He arched a brow, his knowledge of mills coming to an abrupt end. “The bottom stone?”
“Mills with wheels and windmills rotate the top stone. Ours rotates the bottom. The grinding takes up less room this way, and there’s less mechanism to upkeep.”
“But your stones are also smaller than others I’ve seen.” John waved a hand to indicate the grindstones. “Which means you grind less grain and take longer to do it.”
Not the best situation for a business. No wonder they made such little profit. Even in a small village the size of Little London, where cows and horses outnumbered the villagers, the mill should have been busy year round.
“Had to build the mill this way. Had no choice.” With a haunted smile, Bradley released the brake to start the wheel turning, then moved over to the large bin that stretched up to the first floor and pulled the lever to spill more grain down onto the grindstones. “I’d fallen in love.”
John’s gaze darted to the miller, but the man’s focus never strayed from the grain falling evenly onto the turning stones.
“I started this mill in order to win my wife’s hand.” He glanced around at the dusty old beams and bags of flour stacked against the walls that were ready to be picked up, the large scale that hung from the central beam, the dozen or so pieces of paper that listed each order pinned to the wall behind the counter in the corner and stirred slightly in the soft afternoon breeze coming through the open doors and windows. “Lucy’s father refused to let me marry her until I was able to provide for her and our children, but all I owned in the world was this tiny piece of land. It wasn’t big enough to farm, but it had trees that I could use to build a mill and the water to power it. So that’s what I did. Had to go into debt to purchase the grindstones, though.” Nostalgia touched his voice. “Took me three years to pay them off, and all that time Lucy waited. She could have had any man in the village, but she believed in me.”
And
“Aye, she was.” His eyes glistened, and he looked away, back toward the turning stone and the flour that had begun to fall away to the bin below. “She worked here in the mill with me until she passed.” He crossed to the central pillar and rubbed his hand over a heart and initials carved into the wood, brushing away the flour dust that had gathered there. “Anyone who sees this place thinks it’s only a grist mill, just like any other up or down this river. But when I see it, I see my wife, and when I work here, it’s as if she’s still with me.” He gestured his hand to indicate the entire building. “This is all I have now, this mill and my daughter. This place is my life and my heart.”
