Alley Urchin Page 8

  ‘This uncle of yours . . . this “Caleb Crowther” . . . he had that kind of power?’

  ‘He did . . . and has, as far as I know. He was a Justice of the Peace, and moved amongst the most influential and powerful people.’

  ‘Was it he who arranged your own transportation, Emma?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Emma thoughtfully. But such a possibility had long troubled her. And if he were guilty of that, then what else did he have a hand in? What of Mrs Manfred’s hanging? What of her own inheritance? And why had none of the Crowther family come to her aid when she had sent out messages from her cell, begging for their help? Yet they had not replied . . . not once, and she had no other family to turn to. Oh yes, these were matters which had sat long and uncomfortably on Emma’s mind. One day she would learn the answers. She must.

  ‘Now that you know all of my background, do you still want me to enter into a marriage agreement with you, Mr Thomas?’ she asked of him now.

  His answer was immediate. ‘Now . . . more than ever!’ he told her with an assuring smile, ‘Just name the day, and I’ll be a proud and fortunate man to have such a woman alongside me. After hearing your story, Emma, I reckon you’re more of a victim than a criminal. All I ask of you now is to name the day . . . and your fortunes can’t help but take a turn for the better.’ He was on his feet, as though the occasion warranted it, and when Emma looked at his broad, craggy face, then smiled at him with gratitude shining in her warm grey eyes, he appeared unusually selfconscious. Lowering his dark gaze to the peg-rug where he seemed intent on studying the reds and browns of the ragged tufts there, he said quietly, ‘I’ll never ask more of you, Emma, than you already give.’ He made no move to lift his gaze, lest it linger too long on hers. ‘You have my word on it,’ he told her.

  ‘I know that,’ Emma assured him, ‘and I thank you for it.’

  Of a sudden, Roland Thomas raised his eyes before stepping forward, saying with a more serious expression and in a sterner voice, ‘There are other matters though, which do give me cause for concern. I’ve given you my word on a particular issue, Emma . . . now, I must ask you to do the same for me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Emma was intrigued yet, at the same time a deal of anxiety had crept into her heart for fear that she might not be able to give her word on whatever was troubling him. Emma was now deeply committed to their agreement, because it would indeed open doors for her that might otherwise stay forever closed. ‘What is it, Mr Thomas?’ she asked, her concerned eyes searching his large, loose features as though she might find her answer there.

  ‘First of all I reckon you could forget the Mr Thomas . . . and begin calling me by my name, Roland. It doesn’t seem right for a woman to be calling her intended by his surname. Most of all though, Emma . . . I want you to promise that you’ll not be itching to make for England the minute you slip the shackles of a convict. Oh, I wouldn’t blame you, girlie! Not after what the devils back there have put you through! What! . . . I’d do the very same myself. But y’see, Emma, the whole idea of this partnership between us is to deny that waster son of mine any access to my money or business, and for you and me to work side by side in building it up to the kind of business that I’ve always dreamed of, ever since first setting foot here. Oh, I know it’s a grand concern now, and I’m right proud o’ what I’ve achieved . . . but I feel in my bones that where I’ve stopped, Emma . . . you are only just beginning. I want to be a part in it, Emma, afore I’m put to rest alongside my Violet.’ The darkness in his eyes grew almost black as he drew in a deep and trembling breath, and when he spoke again, Emma was struck by the pain and bitterness in his voice. ‘Take the name of Thomas to the very top. Take it where the likes o’ Foster Thomas can never get their grubby paws on it . . . and, while it grows and prospers, I hope the one I’ve disowned sees it happen and rues the day he set his hand against his own flesh and blood! Do that for me, Emma, and above all else . . . do it for yourself.’ He now seemed to shrink before Emma’s eyes, as, lifting his hand and drawing it wearily across his brow, he went over and sank into the same chair in which his wife had been cruelly tormented on that fateful night. Of a sudden, he leaned forward, dropped his head into the palms of his hands and began quietly sobbing, his broad shoulders shaking with emotion, and occasionally gently moaned the name ‘Violet’ with heartrending broken voice. To Emma, who was torn between going to comfort him and leaving the room, it was a sad and humbling sight.

  ‘I let her down badly,’ he said now, keeping his face buried from Emma’s sight. ‘I should have taken her home . . . that was her only wish, and . . . I let her down. I’ll never forgive myself. Never!’

  ‘Never is a long time,’ Emma said softly, ‘and I’m sure Mrs Thomas understood your reasons for not going back to England. What you did here . . . the work you both put into this fine business, you did it for her, and for your son. She knew that, and I’m sure she understood well enough.’ There was no answer and little response from Roland Thomas, and Emma expected none. Instead he nodded his head and kept his body bent forward in the chair.

  ‘As for me wanting to seek out the answers I crave, well, I’ve waited a long time and I can wait a little longer. You’re right . . . there’s so much more to be done here, so many opportunities that mustn’t be missed. Things are beginning to happen, and we have to be ready. Don’t concern yourself about me turning my back on you after you’ve given me such a wonderful opportunity to prove myself. I won’t desert you, I promise, and between us, we’ll show the competitors as clean a pair of heels as they’ve seen in a long time. We both have our reasons for seeing the growth of the Thomas Trading Company. When the time is right for me to take leave and trace my path back to those who heartlessly forged it, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to go back, not as a young innocent upon whom stronger men would prey, but as an accomplished business woman . . . a woman of property and consequence, a woman who is more than capable of bringing her enemies to account!’ There was a hardness in Emma’s heart as she spoke, and it was betrayed in the icy edge to her voice. ‘That will be worth waiting for!’

  And so it was agreed. For three years or more, Emma would dedicate herself to matters of business. After that, if she deemed the time to be right, she would take leave and sail for England, to attend to issues that were personal and close to her heart. The wedding date was set for the month of March, some eight weeks hence, in the year of our Lord, 1870.

  ‘Married now, eh! Well . . . all the luck in the world ter yer, Emma darlin’!’ Nelly raised her merry brown eyes to where Emma stood with her back to the cell door, and, in a voice that was somewhat subdued by her grim surroundings, said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, gal! I know I shouldn’t have got to fighting with that Rita Hughes . . . but the bastard said some‘at as put me back up.’ Here she gave a small laugh. ‘If yer ask me, she’s bleedin’ lucky somebody pulled me orf her. What! I’d have killed her fer sure!’

  ‘Oh, yes? And got yourself hanged for it, eh?’ Emma was angry and it showed, in her voice, in her countenance, and in the steel-grey of her eyes. ‘Do you honestly think I don’t know what Rita Hughes said that “put your back up”? Do you think I don’t know that there are folks hereabouts who condemn the fact that Roland Thomas has taken a convict for his wife? Their opinions don’t concern either me or Mr Thomas . . . so they shouldn’t concern you!’ Giving a deep sigh and shaking her head, Emma came forward to sit beside Nelly on the narrow iron bed, and gently patting the back of Nelly’s hand, she said with tender feeling, ‘Oh, Nelly, Nelly! Will you always insist on landing yourself in trouble on my account? Don’t you know by now that I am capable of fighting my own battles? Do you think you’re going to stop folk from gossiping between each other, by attacking them with pitch-forks?’ For a minute, there was a deep and profound silence while Emma allowed her words to sink in, and Nelly appeared to be taking them to heart. But then, the silence was broken by Nelly’s soft giggling. ‘Cor, bugger me, Emma, gal,’ she laughed, ‘d’yer k
now, I’ve only just realised what a narrer escape I’ve had.’ Then, just as Emma thought that her words were having the desired effect, she was told, between spurts of laughter, ‘If I’d damaged that pitch-fork . . . I’d have been in real trouble with you, wouldn’t I, eh?’

  Try though she might, Emma couldn’t keep a straight face when she turned to see Nelly’s lively eyes and homely face all crumpled with laughter. ‘Oh, Nelly!’ she said, trying hard to suppress the merriment already spreading from her heart. ‘What will I do with you?’

  ‘Get me outta this bleedin’ dark hole for a start!’ came the reply. And, because of her new status, together with the fact that she had only just come from the Governor, where her pleas on Nelly’s behalf had been accepted – with a warning that ‘should it happen again, I’ll probably throw away the key!’ – Emma was able to secure the hapless Nelly’s release.

  The two women were a strange yet familiar sight as they made their way from the Convict Depot and along William Street. Emma looked exceptionally smart and respectable, dressed in black boots, bonnet and cape, with the long, flouncy, dark-blue skirt softly swishing with her every step. There was an air of elegance about her, and an absolute confidence that only social standing and the promise of prosperity can bring. Nelly looked the worse for wear, having been deprived of the pretty white blouse and brown skirt that Emma had got her for the wedding, and dressed by the authorities in a plain grey frock, which hung on her narrow frame like a sack from a carcass.

  ‘When we get back to the store, you’d best put yourself in a tub of hot water, and the rags from your back into the rubbish bin!’ Emma told her. ‘Make no mistake about it, Nelly . . . it’s been the devil’s own job talking you out of this one. If you don’t curb that temper of yours, Lord only knows what’ll become of you.’ Emma was anxious that Nelly fully understand the seriousness of her short temper and complete lack of respect for authority. ‘You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Nelly?’ she asked.

  ‘O’ course I do!’ retorted Nelly. ‘Stop bleedin’ well nagging me. Look here, Emma darlin’ . . . if I was ter promise yer that I won’t be goaded into fighting again, will that do?’

  ‘It’d be a start at least,’ conceded Emma, ‘as long as it doesn’t go the way of all your other promises of a similar nature.’

  ‘Oh, stop worrying, Emma,’ Nelly chided, ‘it’ll be all right, you’ll see. When I feel meself heading for trouble, I’ll count ter ten . . . how’s that, eh?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but launched into a tuneful whistling of a bawdy tavern-song. Emma shook her head in exasperation. It was no use! Nelly was her own master, and wouldn’t be shaped by any other hand, however loving and well meaning it was. ‘Come on,’ Emma hurried along, ‘let’s get you home before the preacher hears what tune you’re whistling.’

  ‘The divil himself can hear what tune I’m whistling,’ replied Nelly, ‘and it won’t bother me none at all!’ Whereupon she resumed the bawdy tune with even more gusto.

  As it happened, ‘the divil himself was listening, in the form of Foster Thomas. It was still very early in the morning, the hour when most folks were only just beginning to stir on to the streets. An hour that Emma had chosen well for her errand, because the last thing she wanted was for Nelly to be paraded along the street and to be subjected to people’s unkind stares. There had been enough talk as it was: with Nelly choosing to roll about in the dust with Rita Hughes, and to attack her with a pitch-fork, in full view of those guests who were loyal enough to Roland Thomas to attend his wedding. It was planned that it should be a quiet affair, which, in spite of the fracas later caused by the caustic remark made by the blacksmith’s daughter combined with Nelly’s short temper, had been carried off extremely well. It had delighted Emma to learn that both she and Mr Thomas had a number of genuine supporters.

  Little had changed since Emma had been made Mrs Thomas, and subsequently, a ‘free’ woman. She wore a gold band on her finger; she entered into deep and far-reaching plans for business expansion with her husband; she walked to the church with him on a Sunday, arm-in-arm, and was dutiful as a wife to all intents and purposes. Yet there was no other physical contact between them. Each made no demands on the other. Emma could not bring herself to address him as any other than ‘Mr Thomas’, as she had done for so long. And the one large bedroom had been divided in two, by means of placing a wardrobe down the middle.

  Emma had taken over the duties of housekeeper from Rita Hughes, and a young lad had been taken on to help about the stores and warehouse. Already Emma had been instrumental in securing a more satisfactory warehouse along Cliff Street, and talks were underway to contract a sea-going vessel and reliable crew to run trading goods all along the coast. All in all, the arrangement between Emma and Roland Thomas was proving to be most satisfactory.

  In the five weeks following the wedding ceremony, nothing had been seen of Foster Thomas, and no word of his whereabouts was ever heard. Emma hoped he might have crawled into some God-forsaken corner to rot away, but she suspected he had not, for creatures of his sort seemed always to survive, albeit by their predatory nature. She suspected also that, if any one person might know where he was, it would be Rita Hughes who, Emma knew, was besotted with the worthless fellow.

  ‘Back! Get back, you fool . . . outta sight!’ Foster Thomas gripped his fingers tight about the arm of his companion before, with an angry snarl, he swiftly drew her into the shadows. ‘She mustn’t see me,’ he hissed through gritted teeth, ‘not yet anyway . . . not until I’m good and ready!’ There was no mistaking the loathing in his eyes, as he ran them over the upturned face of Rita Hughes. Slowly, his eyes narrowed to thin, cruel slits as he raised a finger and drew it along the angry red weal that ran from the corner of his mouth, then down over his neck to the tip of his shoulder blade. ‘So! They think they have cheated me, do they? Well, let them think it! But I’ll have what’s mine. One way or another, I’ll have what’s mine.’ When he glanced down at her, with the fury alive in his eyes, Rita Hughes was forced to ask herself whether she was doing the right thing in hiding him. When he had turned up some twenty-four hours earlier, there had been no question in her mind that she must help him because wasn’t it true that they had cheated him, and that the news of his father’s wedding had been a terrible shock. Now, though, she began to wonder just what manner of revenge he intended, and for the first time, she was afraid. Yet, amidst her fears she was filled with a love and longing for him so desperate that she could never refuse him anything! All the same, when he watched Emma out of sight, his eyes following her every move, she wished she could turn from him. But she could not. When he began murmuring in a strange and fearful voice, ‘I mean to have everything . . . everything that belongs to me!’ she knew she would do all she could to help him. Foster Thomas sensed his power over her; sensed it and revelled in it. Yet he was careful not to disclose the fact that, when he vowed to get back everything that belonged to him . . . it included Emma. It must include Emma, above all else, because no other woman would do. Emma might have taken his own father for her husband, but she was his. When the time was right, he would claim her. But he would need to be devious, and ruthless. That did not bother him. What bothered him was how, when it became necessary, he would discard Rita Hughes, for she was besotted, he knew. No matter, he would use her, like he would use others; when they were of no more use, he would employ whatever means he could to dispose of them. In the depths of his dark and treacherous mind, Foster Thomas had begun a particular train of thought with Rita Hughes foremost in his thinking. It ended with another image looming large. The image was that of Nelly, and with it Foster Thomas saw an easier way to Emma, and to all that had been taken from him. The plan was already forming in his mind. It gave him pleasure and, when he chuckled aloud, Rita Hughes gave a shiver. But when he grabbed her and took her in a passionate kiss, all her doubts melted away. He only had to ask, and she would do anything for him.

  ‘Yer a good friend ter me, darlin’
. . . and I don’t deserve it.’ Nelly was getting ready for bed and Emma had brought her a number of garments chosen from her own wardrobe. These she laid across the back of the cane stand-chair, while Nelly slipped into her nightgown and got into bed. ‘How can I repay you, gal?’ she asked.

  ‘You just keep your nose clean, and work towards your ticket-of-leave,’ Emma told Nelly, ‘that’s all I ask of you.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed, her clear grey eyes roving over that bright, impish face which she loved dearly. ‘I’ll help you all I can, Nelly . . . you know that, don’t you? When I go to England, I want to take you with me. We’ve been through so much together, Nelly . . . you and I.’

  Of a sudden Emma fell into a deep silence and Nelly suspected that she was thinking of a particular night when the two of them had been bundled into a prisoners’ waggon, and Emma’s newborn daughter had been left behind. Now, when the tears began tumbling down Emma’s sad face, Nelly was quickly beside her, her arms about her friend and the tears moist in her own eyes. ‘Aw, Emma darlin’ . . . let the past go, why don’t yer? Please . . . let it go, or it’ll tear yer apart.’

  Emma was crying softly, and when she turned to look at Nelly, the pain was heavy in her anguished eyes. ‘Oh Nelly, she was so beautiful . . . mine and Marlow’s daughter.’ A faint smile passed over her lovely face as she said, ‘How like Marlow she was with that rich, black hair . . . so tiny she was, so very lovely. Oh, Nelly, why did she have to die? How could the Lord be so cruel as to punish an innocent babe for my sins?’

  Emma was sobbing now, and as Nelly held her fast in her arms, she was smitten with guilt. All these years she had let Emma believe, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the child had been lifeless when it had rolled into the gutter. How could she tell Emma otherwise, when even the slightest hope that the child was alive would have made her exile even more of a nightmare!