Alley Urchin (9 page)

‘But you’d be
daft
not to say yes, gal!’ exclaimed Nelly, somewhat surprised. She would have said yes the minute he asked her!

‘Maybe, Nelly. But I don’t know that it would be right, to take him up on his kind offer . . . when I would be getting much more than I deserve, and taking more out of the relationship than I could ever give back. Here,’ she paused a while before telling Nelly, ‘there’s a deal of thinking to be done, but . . . I mean to give him an answer this very night. And whatever my decision is, Nelly, I could
not
go back to England and leave you behind. What! I wouldn’t have a minute’s peace, wondering what trouble you were busy getting yourself into!’ When she softly laughed, the smile returned to Nelly’s downcast face and soon the two young women were in a better frame of mind.

It was gone eight o’clock when Nelly and Emma began their gentle stroll back along the High Street. When Emma made clear her intention of stopping awhile on King’s Square, as she wanted to ‘go into St John’s Church and talk things over with the Almighty’, Nelly’s reaction was immediate. ‘Yer can if yer like, Emma darlin’, she retorted with a vigorous shake of her brown head, ‘but I ain’t comin’ in! It’s bad enough being made to go by the authorities . . . but I ain’t bloody
volunteering
!’ By now they were outside St John’s Church, and Nelly found a shady spot in which to wait. ‘Me an’ the good Lord don’t see eye ter eye at the minute, gal,’ she laughed, ‘on account of I keep finding meself up ter me neck in trouble . . . and he seems ter have no control over me whatsoever! I do believe he’s washed his hands of me!’

‘You can’t blame God . . . or anybody else for that matter,’ Emma was quick to tell her. ‘The trouble you’ve landed yourself in has been your
own
doing!’ Here she turned at the church doorway and added in a quieter voice, ‘If only you didn’t want to keep fighting with the authorities, Nelly . . . and if you could curb that wicked little streak in you, that always wants to chase after the kind of fellas who bring nothing but trouble.’ Here she gave a great sigh as she let her concerned grey eyes linger a moment longer on that rebellious but homely figure that had thrown itself haphazardly at the foot of a gum tree. The sight of Nelly’s defiant, upturned face sent a pang of affection through Emma. ‘You’re incorrigible, Nelly,’ she smiled, shaking her head. ‘But look . . . it’s been a good while since you’ve been in trouble, hasn’t it, eh? So maybe you and the Lord
are
on speaking terms, after all?’ She hoped Nelly might change her mind and step into the church with her, but no.

‘Then I’d best stay where I am, and not push me luck, Emma, gal!’ came the chirpy reply. After which, Nelly set up whistling her tavern song, and Emma left her to it.

Inside the church, Emma knelt at the altar, closed her eyes and offered up a prayer. She made a special mention for Nelly, and asked that her impetuous nature didn’t get her into any deeper water. Then, feeling ashamed and guilty at bringing such a terrible thing into God’s house, she spoke of the awful deed committed against her by Roland Thomas’s estranged son. She asked for forgiveness because of the bitterness in her heart towards him and, above all else, Emma prayed for guidance on Roland Thomas’s proposition. She reminded the Lord about her love for Marlow Tanner, and of her need to take revenge on Caleb Crowther, the trusted uncle who had betrayed her.

When Emma came to the subject of her lost baby, her heart was too full for prayer and the tears ran down her face as, in her mind’s eye, she saw again that small, precious life which had been safe in her arms for such a desperately short time. The tiny face of her newborn daughter was as fresh in her mind now, more than seven years on, as it had been when she had given birth to it, there in an English cobbled street outside the gaol. It was deeply painful for Emma to know that her beloved daughter was no more.

Emma stayed a moment longer, neither thinking too deeply nor praying. It was enough that she had unburdened her heart, and so in these few precious moments, she just knelt in the peace and serenity. She let it flood into her heart and, as the moments passed, she felt a new kind of strength within her. She had made up her mind. Roland Thomas would have his answer that very day, and Emma would abide by it, come what may. First though, there was much to be said between them; things of the past which must be revealed.

‘I don’t want to know, Emma. You’re a good woman, I can tell, or I wouldn’t be asking you to be my wife.’ Roland Thomas was seated on the horsehair couch and, when he spoke, Emma turned round from the window to look at him with her strong eyes and an unusually severe look on her face. ‘I
mean
it, Emma,’ he urged, ‘you don’t have to tell me anything!’

Emma’s gaze lingered on his face for a moment longer, before she turned away to look out of the window once more. Her gaze was vague and distant and her voice painfully quiet as she told him, ‘There can be no agreement between us . . . until you know all there is to know about me.’ She waited, her back to him, shoulders taut, and an air of defiance in her countenance. When, in reluctant tones, Emma was told, ‘Very well . . . if you feel that strongly,’ she returned to sit on one of the four ladder-back chairs which surrounded the circular table.

Pulling herself in closer to the table, Emma clenched her fists together on the green corded tablecloth and, after a moment spent composing herself for what she knew would be a painful ordeal, she began to unfold the story that had eventually brought her here in shackles. A story of deceit, betrayal and brutality. A story of love, of lost dear ones, and of heartbreak. A story that, though it seemed already to have spanned a lifetime and had its origins so many thousands of miles away across the oceans, was not yet over. Might not be over for another lifetime to come!

Quietly, and with great regard for the turmoil which he suspected was raging within Emma as she revealed the roots of her nightmare, Roland Thomas paid close attention to her every word.

Emma spared nothing. She told of her heartbreak when her darling papa had died. She explained how he had innocently appointed his brother-in-law, Caleb Crowther, to be trustee of his mills and fortune, and gave the same man complete and irrevocable guardianship over his beloved daughter, Emma. Yet no sooner had his bones been laid to rest, than Emma’s uncle, Caleb Crowther, saw fit, first of all, to put her out to work . . . while his own spoilt and petulant daughter, Martha Crowther, was sent to a fashionable school for young ladies, her place there being bought and paid for by the money which Emma’s father had left in trust for
her
. Then, when it suited his purpose, and in spite of the fact that Emma had fallen hopelessly in love with a young bargee by the name of Marlow Tanner who loved her in return, Crowther married her off to Gregory Denton, a manager at one of her father’s mills. It was a disastrous match for Emma: Gregory was impossibly possessive and wrongly suspicious of her every move, and his jealous old mother detested Emma so much that she confined herself to bed and from there she created enough malicious mischief to make Emma’s life a misery. All this time, only Emma’s old nanny kept her sane and remained a true and stalwart friend.

‘If I had thought that things were so bad they couldn’t possibly get worse . . . I was miserably wrong,’ Emma went on. ‘With the Civil War in America, the shipments of cotton to Britain were strangled to a halt. People starved in their millions, and mills all around were shutting down at an alarming rate.’ Here the memories became too vivid in Emma’s mind and, for a long moment, she paused to reflect until, in a gentle voice, Roland Thomas persuaded her, ‘Go on, Emma.’

In faltering tones, Emma told how her husband had gone to pieces after he lost his job. She told how she had searched for him when he was most troubled, and how she had met him leaving a public house in the company of others as drunk as himself . . . she revealed how he had struck and humiliated her in front of them; then later, how she had to flee for her very life when one of those same men relentlessly pursued her. When it seemed as though she were lost, Marlow Tanner had been there to save her. ‘It was the beginning of the end,’ Emma murmured, feeling shamed at the memory of herself in Marlow’s loving arms, yet at the same time feeling warmed by that precious recollection.

Soon after, Emma explained, she was horrified to discover that she was expecting Marlow’s child. Her only friend, her nanny from childhood, Mrs Manfred, persuaded Emma that her husband must be told the truth and, to give Emma moral support, she stayed over on the night Emma decided to make her confession. ‘It was a nightmare. Gregory came home in the early hours . . . he was more drunk than I’d ever seen him.’ Emma described how he had discovered her pregnancy after violently stripping off her clothes. ‘He went completely crazy!’ A struggle followed and Mrs Manfred came to Emma’s help; during the confusion, Emma’s husband lost his balance and crashed down the stairs. His neck was broken in the fall. Old Mrs Denton accused both Emma and Mrs Manfred of plotting to murder her son, and they were arrested. The outcome was that Mrs Manfred was hanged, and Emma sentenced to ten years and transported.

‘And the child?’ Roland Thomas had a great impulse to go and comfort Emma, who had been devastated by the cruel demise of her dear, gentle friend, Mrs Manfred. But he dared not, for fear that Emma would surely reject him. ‘What became of your child, Emma?’ he asked gently. Then, he was moved to a deeper compassion when Emma went on in faltering tones. She described how, in the dark, early hours of a grim morning as she was being loaded into the waggon along with other prisoners, the child would be contained no longer. ‘I gave birth to Marlow’s daughter right there, in the street, with only dearest Nelly for strength and comfort. The child never drew breath . . . She wasn’t given the chance!’ Emma was up on her feet now, the memory of it all causing her to pace the floor in agitation. ‘She was snatched from my arms and left in the gutter, like so much dirt!’

‘Can you be
sure
she wasn’t alive?’ Roland Thomas had unwittingly voiced the tiny hope which had burned in Emma’s heart ever since that day. But no! How many times had she questioned Nelly over and over about it? What had Nelly seen when Emma passed out? Was there even the
slightest
chance that the newborn was still alive, as the waggon moved away? Could she be certain? Oh, the questions she had asked . . . and each one a fervent prayer. But always the answer was the same: ‘No.’ Nelly was adamant, ‘Don’t torture yerself, gal . . . the bairn were dead.’ Gradually, the light of hope was dimmed in Emma’s weary heart. But not extinguished. Never completely extinguished.

‘The chances of the infant having survived are desperately slim . . . almost non-existent,’ she replied now, ‘and I have made myself accept it, or be driven crazy.’

Roland Thomas nodded. ‘And Marlow . . . what became of Marlow Tanner, the man you loved?’

‘The man I will
always
love,’ Emma corrected. ‘And it’s only fair that you know it, Mr Thomas,’ she told him, the edge returning to her voice. Then she saw him nod and heard his reply, ‘I’m aware of it, Emma, and it matters not to any agreement we might make.’ Emma answered his question and the words pulled on her heart like heavy weights. ‘I sent him away. I
had
to . . . for his own good! If I hadn’t, then Caleb Crowther would have made it his business to hound him, and to bring him forward on some fabricated charge that would have meant transportation . . . or even the gallows.’

‘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.