Alley Urchin (33 page)

Of a sudden, he began giggling, and it was plain to Emma that he was either drunk out of his senses, or he had completely lost his mind. Either way, she was riveted with the most awful and compelling belief that neither she nor her unborn child would ever see the morrow.

The thought made her frantic, and she desperately searched her mind for ways in which she might escape, or alert others in the house. It wouldn’t be too long before Rita Hughes went looking for her, she told herself; have faith, Emma, trust in the Lord! But if Foster Thomas intended killing her, Emma knew that he could do it easily, in a moment, before the door could be opened. She knew it and was terrified.

‘Don’t turn away from me, Emma.’ She felt his rough fingers beneath her chin as her head was yanked back. She felt his booze-laden breath fanning her face, but still she kept her gaze lowered from him. She would have thumped her boot heels against the carpet, but he was crouched on her legs, his weight keeping them secured. He was devious. But then, madmen usually were. ‘So Nelly came running to you, did she?’ he asked in a whisper, still smiling. ‘I knew she would. I planned it that way, y’see.’ The smile went from his face and, to Emma’s horror, he began slowly undoing the buttons of her dress. When she struggled and squirmed, he fetched his hand up and slapped it hard across her temple. ‘No, Emma . . . you’re not to struggle against me. You’re mine, y’see . . . you’ve
always
been mine, I’ve told you that so many times and still you fight against it!’ His eyes were wild as they stared at her, yet they were vacant also. In that moment Emma knew that he was completely and utterly mad.

‘That Nelly . . . she knows too much for her own good.’ He was talking in a whisper as he leaned close towards her, all the while undoing her buttons. ‘She saw me, y’know . . . the night my mother was shot. I set the whole thing up, but it went wrong.’ He laughed very softly as he slid his hand into Emma’s dress and began caressing the warm firmness of her breast. Emma felt physically sick, but she knew that if she were to save herself and her child, she must not goad him, for he was quite capable of sliding his hand to her throat and squeezing the life from it. ‘If things had gone well that night . . . then
I
would have Thomas Trading . . . and all this.’ He waved a hand to encompass the whole room. ‘But there’s still hope. Oh, Emma . . . you and me, we can do anything we set our minds to!’ He looked into her face as though searching for some sign of encouragement. When he saw only hatred and fear in Emma’s accusing eyes, he made a curious expression, like an animal in pain, Emma thought; then without warning he placed his two fists one either side of Emma’s dress and, with a low growl sounding deep in his throat, he ripped the bodice apart, exposing her bare breasts, now scarred red by his fingernails.

In that same instant, the door crashed open. Foster Thomas scrambled to his feet, his wild eyes picking out the figure of his own father, who was lying twisted on the floor. He was exhausted by the immense and determined effort it had taken for him to get from his bed – without waking the nurse – take his hand gun from the drawer, then to crawl along the passageway, hampered by the dead weight of his legs, and finally to reach up and open the door. The terrible ordeal he had gone through showed on his face, which was contorted with pain. But when he stared up at this man, this terrible coward who was his own son, Roland Thomas’s heart was filled with a strange guilt. Somehow, he imagined, the blame must lie with him. He had spawned this worthless creature, and only he could make amends. He raised the gun and pointed it at his son’s heart.

‘No!’ Emma’s terrified scream stayed trapped in her head. But there came another sound, a loud earsplitting sound, when the room was pierced with fire. Foster Thomas stood perfectly still for a split second, then, with his startled eyes staring into his father’s distraught face, he crumpled silently to the ground, his eyes fixed in a round, surprised expression.

The silence which followed was eerie, but then there came the sound of anxious voices and running feet in the distance. Emma saw the nurse first, as holding a lamp before her, she came to a halt by the twisted, sprawling figure of Roland Thomas. Her unbelieving eyes went from her patient to the body lying nearby – its vacant stare seeming to fix itself upon her – then, her mouth falling open as though in slow motion, she rested her shocked gaze on Emma’s bound and gagged figure, with the dress almost torn from it. She saw the devastation in Emma’s terrified eyes and was paralysed by it. Emma’s paramount thoughts were of her husband, who had been made to commit a terrible crime, murdering his own son!

It was as though Emma’s heart had stopped beating when, her eyes drawn once more to the face of Roland Thomas, she saw that he was softly crying. It was with a rush of horror that she realised the dark intent in his expression, yet she was powerless to stop him. The frantic protest which was cruelly stifled in her throat found an outlet in her eyes, as they pleaded with the nurse to lower her gaze and see what dreadful thing her patient was about to do. But the nurse was already giving urgent instructions to the servants and to Rita Hughes, who had also heard the shot and had come to investigate.

In those few vital moments when the frantic expression in Emma’s grey eyes conveyed itself to her husband, it was already too late. He looked at her, smiled gently and moved his lips in a silent whisper. Emma read those two words as easily as if they had been shouted from the rooftops: ‘Forgive me,’ her husband asked. Then he turned away.

When remembering it over the years to follow, Emma thought it strange how very quickly the whole thing had happened – in the space of mere minutes – but how tortuous and endless it had seemed.

She relived that awful night many times before she could finally rid herself of the look in her husband’s tragic eyes when he had mouthed his pitiful words; of the sound which his bath chair made as Taylor hurriedly trundled it down the passageway towards the nurse; and of how, even as Taylor and the nurse prepared to arrange it in order to lift Roland Thomas more easily into it, a second shot rang out. Emma was haunted by the vision of the nurse’s starched white dress all spattered with crimson, and that poor woman’s scream rang in Emma’s dreams for some long time afterwards.

Later, when the authorities had completed their investigations, and she sought solace in Nelly’s room, Emma fell like a child into her arms, clinging to the one person who knew her almost as well as she knew herself. ‘Oh, Nelly . . .
why
?’ she sobbed. ‘Roland was such a good man.’

Nelly held her tight, nuzzling her own bruised and battered face against Emma’s hair. Like Emma, she had witnessed things that would long torment her. ‘Who knows why, Emma darling,’ she murmured. ‘When the good in us is faced by terrible evil . . . who knows what we might do?’

Chapter Eleven

‘It’s a boy, Emma!’ Nelly had watched the final moments from when the small dark head had first appeared. Now, as the tiny shoulders came into sight and then the baby’s whole perfect little form slithered into the world, she was unable to contain her joy and excitement. ‘Aw, Emma . . . you should see the little bugger! He’s gorgeous!’ she shouted gleefully, her brown eyes watching Widow Miller’s every movement, as she collected the tiny babe into her arms. Holding the squirming bundle upside down, the plump woman gave it a number of short, sharp spanks on the buttocks, smiling broadly when its loud cries filled the room. Then, taking it to the dresser, she quickly washed it, wrapped it in a shawl and came back to the bed, where she placed it in Emma’s arms. ‘Nelly’s right,’ she said with a kindly smile, ‘you have a beautiful son.’ She then set about washing Emma and making her comfortable.

When the tiny bundle was put into Emma’s outstretched arms, she was so full of emotion that she could only nod her gratitude. When she took the child to her breast and lowered her gaze to see its tiny face, her vision was blurred by the tears of joy which sprang from her heart. There were no words which could convey how Emma felt in that most precious moment. Here, in her arms, warm and real, was her son, Marlow’s son, as perfect a boy as she could ever have wished for. In her heart she gave thanks to God for her baby’s safe deliverance, because, in the weeks following the tragedy which had unfolded right before her eyes, there were anxious times when the doctor feared that Emma might lose her child. Yet never once did Emma lose her faith. She made herself believe that this child was meant to be, that she and Marlow were meant to be, and that if there was a merciful God, he would bring her through the ordeals which he had set her, for she had weathered them in as courageous and determined a manner as was humanly possible. Surely now he would help her to find a kind of happiness and peace of soul. In her son, he had answered her prayers.

‘He don’t look like you, Emma gal.’ Nelly had waited for the Widow Miller’s departure before sitting on the bed alongside Emma. ‘He ain’t got your auburn hair . . . and he ain’t got your grey eyes neither!’ She was fascinated.

Emma smiled up at Nelly’s homely face, which was as jubilant as though the infant might be her very own, and her heart was touched by memories of Nelly’s dreadful ordeal at the hands of Foster Thomas. For just a moment her joy was marred. She knew that, even were she to live to a ripe old age, there could never be anyone who would be as close to her in friendship as Nelly. Impulsively, Emma held the child towards this woman whom she had loved like her own flesh and blood, for more years than she cared to remember. Together they had been through so much, yet all their ups and downs had only served to bring them even closer. ‘Hold him, Nelly,’ she offered now, ‘feel how warm and soft he is.’

‘Oh, Emma! . . . Can I? Aren’t you afraid I’ll drop him?’ Nelly’s face was a picture, as her brown eyes grew big and round and she put her hands behind her back to prevent them from grasping the child until she was good and ready. ‘Ooh, look at him,’ she laughed, ‘I do believe the little bugger’s smiling at me. No! I won’t take him, Emma . . . I just know I’ll drop him.’ When Emma insisted, she gave a sheepish grin and brought her two hands from behind her back. Taking a few moments to prepare herself, she vigorously wiped the palms of her hands on the deep folds of the blue silk dress which Emma had bought her. Then, after a deal of nervous coughing and throat noises, she held out her arms, a look on her face that amused Emma: a mingling of bliss and sheer terror. ‘Tell him not to wiggle, Emma gal,’ she muttered, taking the bundle and holding it close, ‘it’s been a good many years since I held a young ’un, and I might have forgotten the right way to do it.’

‘Isn’t he beautiful, Nelly?’ Emma gazed at her son, her adoring eyes following his every feature. Nelly was right. He did not have auburn hair or grey eyes, because in that tiny face there was a wonderful likeness to his father. He had hair as black and rich as Marlow’s, and the eyes, though touched with sapphire blue, were dark also. Even the strong lines of his face, the shape of his nose and that straight set chin were reminiscent of Marlow, and Emma’s happiness was overwhelming. Yet in her great joy, there was a tinge of sad regret when she thought of that other babe which she had borne, a little girl with the same dark colouring, and who would have been a sister to this son of hers and Marlow’s. But that was over sixteen years ago now, and if the child had lived, she would be almost a woman. Emma let her thoughts dwell on that for a while, looking to find some measure of consolation in the knowledge that it was all too far in the past now, too late. But it only made her pine all the more, as she made herself think about a girl of seventeen, a dark-haired girl with the striking vivacious looks of Marlow, and perhaps having also some measure of Emma in her character. The years had not diminished Emma’s loss nor her pain, but only intensified it. She would have to learn how to live with the memories and not let them cause her pain. In time, maybe, she would be able to, Emma thought. But she could never forget.

‘Here, Emma . . . you’d best take the little darling back.’ Nelly placed a gossamer kiss on the infant’s forehead. ‘I do love him, Emma. He’s precious,’ she said.

Emma collected him in her arms. ‘Thank you, Nelly,’ she said, gratefully squeezing her friend’s hand, ‘he is . . . very precious.’ She thought that nobody in this world could ever know just how much. Now there were plans to be made, exciting plans which she had kept to herself these past months, but which were now pushing themselves to the front of her mind. ‘Nelly,’ she said quietly, afterwards seeming lost in thought, as she looked for the best way to broach the subject, in view of Nelly’s excitable nature.

‘Yes? . . . What’s on yer mind, gal?’ Nelly had got to her feet, but now she looked down at Emma with a puzzled frown. ‘Oh look! Yer ain’t worrying about the business and such, are yer?’ she demanded. ‘Rita Hughes is doing a
grand
job at the store . . . she’s a changed woman since that . . . awful business.’ Nelly’s face became crestfallen as she was forced to remember. But then, in that way she had of pushing away anything which disturbed her too deeply, she went on, ‘And that Silas Trent . . . well! If yer don’t mind me saying, Emma . . . the bugger’s work-mad! I mean it, darlin’ . . . yer couldn’t fault him. He’s running that business like it were his own! What! . . . I’m telling yer . . . yer couldn’t do better yourself!’

‘I know that, Nelly.’ Emma wondered how she could ever repay Silas Trent for giving up the sea in order to watch over her interests while she herself had been unable to.

‘You’ll be up and about in no time now,’ Nelly reminded her, ‘but o’ course . . . you’ll have this little ’un here to look after. What name are yer giving the lad?’ she asked.

Emma had not decided on that issue yet, because she was torn between her own father’s name, Thadius, and Marlow’s father’s name, which if she remembered right, he had told her was Bill. It would have been lovely if she could talk it over with Marlow. But as yet, Silas’s enquiries as to his whereabouts had been unsuccessful. The news from Blackburn, Lancashire, was that he had left the area on learning of his sister Sal’s demise. It was said that he had been heartbroken. Emma did not intend to give up though, and had told Silas that Marlow must be found. He was not alone in the world any more, because here was a woman who loved him. And he had a son! What better purpose was there for a man to live?