For a long time afterwards, she was unsure as to where the boundaries of her nightmares ended, and where they had become stark, horrifying reality. When Nelly revealed the awful truth, in as gentle a manner as possible, Emma had felt physically sick, but more than that, she had felt dirty and degraded. There had been murder in her heart, such bitterness that coloured her every sleeping and waking thought, until she could see no pleasure in anything. All those things she loved were as nothing to her. The delightful things of nature and God’s creation . . . the turquoise ocean, the brightly coloured birds and even the daily tasks of the work she pleasured in, meant nothing. She had grown morose and withdrawn for a time, and was not moved by Nelly’s pleas, nor by her love and stalwart friendship, so vile and unclean did she feel.
After a while though, some deeper instincts within her persuaded Emma that it was not she who was vile and unclean, it was the monster who had forced himself on her. So, with Nelly’s unswerving determination to show Emma her own worth, each day had grown a little easier to accept. Also, the fact that only she, Mr Thomas and Nelly knew of the deed Foster had committed against her that night lessened Emma’s shame.
In spite of Emma’s Christian upbringing she could not find it in her heart ever to forgive Roland Thomas’s son. So now when the older man spoke of his revulsion for the ‘dog he had sired’, and explained how he would never know a moment’s peace if everything he had worked for should come to a sorry end in the grasping hands of such a no-good, Emma understood. And she was glad that it was so.
‘There’s something else, Emma,’ Mr Thomas told her now. ‘If you and I were married, the authorities would declare you a free woman! Oh, think of it, Emma . . . you would be free, in command, and one day you’d inherit everything! You’d have freedom, money, and power! Say yes, Emma! You must say yes!’ His voice was trembling and he reached out to lay his hand over Emma’s small, work-worn fingers. ‘You and me, Emma . . . not man and wife in the true sense, for I suspect your heart belongs to this “Marlow” you cried for when you were close to death, and . . . I would never want another woman after my Violet. No! Partners, Emma! Business partners, and an agreement that would be good for both of us. Say yes, Emma. Please!’
But Emma could not say yes so easily. Yet in the face of such a strong and sensible argument, neither could she now say no without first giving it a deal more thought.
Roland Thomas sensed her slight hesitation, and his hopes were raised. ‘All right, Emma,’ he conceded, ‘I won’t ask for your answer right away. But . . . I beg you not to keep me waiting too long for your decision.’
‘I won’t,’ she promised. There the matter was laid to rest for the time being.
‘’E’s asked yer ter marry ’im, ain’t he, gal?’ Nelly and Emma had finished their long day’s work and were presently making for the beach, where they might sit awhile and discuss matters close to their hearts. ‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Nelly with big, round eyes, her voice breaking into a giggle. ‘I saw it comin’ a bleedin’ mile away, ever since he asked yer up ter the parlour the day afore yesterday.’ Here she gave a little skip and playfully nudged the smiling Emma. ‘G’orn!’ she laughed. ‘He did, didn’t he, eh? What a dark horse you are, Emma gal!’ Of a sudden, she grabbed Emma by the arm and pulled her to a halt. ‘Hey, bugger me!’ she said, as the full consequences struck her. ‘T’ain’t such a bad idea at that, is it, eh? When the old bugger pops orf . . . well, you’ll come into everything, won’t yer? Cor, just think of it, Emma darlin’ . . . the Thomas Trading Business’ll be yours, and yer won’t be a convict no more either. Why! Yer could even go back ter England!’ At this Nelly began trembling as she cast her mind back to that fateful dark morning when they were taken from the cell in an English gaol and bundled into a rickety cage atop a flat-waggon.
Emma was also remembering. ‘Yes, Nelly,’ she said in a strangely quiet voice, ‘it could be the means of me going back to England . . . if I wanted to. ‘And oh, yes, she did want to! It was that one thought above all others that had kept her going these past years. Back to England! How her heart rose at the prospect! But nothing was ever as black and white as it looked. To her mind, there were two alternatives offered to her. One, she could refuse Mr Thomas’s generous offer, and that would mean serving out her sentence, after which it could take many long and laborious years before she accrued enough money to take her back to England – there was always the possibility that her plans to return might never be realised, and that was too much to bear. On the other hand, if she were to accept the offer of marriage, there must surely come a day, as Mr Thomas had forecast and as Nelly had rightfully pointed out, when she would be a woman of significance hereabouts, a woman of property and prosperity, with the means to go wherever in the world she chose.
There were two desperate needs inside Emma, two deep and driving ambitions that would not let her be. She had so many ideas and plans with regard to exploiting the numerous business opportunities which beckoned those with the determination and courage to go after them. However, she was also driven by the desire to go back to her homeland, where she had many enemies to root out and scores to settle. Above all, she would never rest until she had found Marlow, for there was much to explain, and forgiveness to be sought.
‘Oh, Emma . . . if yer do marry Mr Thomas, yer won’t go back ter England and leave me, will yer? Don’t do that ter me, Emma darlin’ . . . ’cause what would I do without yer, eh?’ There were tears in Nelly’s voice as she looked at Emma with fearful brown eyes. ‘Yer wouldn’t desert yer old friend, would yer?’ she asked, and Emma’s heart went out to her. ‘I ain’t going another step till yer tell me yer won’t clear off ter England and leave me!’ Nelly vowed, putting on a brave front, yet betraying her nervousness by the manner in which she had drawn her long skirt up and was twisting it round and round her fingers.
‘Come on,’ Emma smiled at her reassuringly and, taking hold of Nelly’s arm, she started walking at a smarter pace until they covered the entire length of the tunnel, which had been cut through the limestone cliffs by a whaling company, for speedier access from the landing beach to the warehouses inland.
Emerging from the relative gloom of the tunnel and coming out on to the sandy beach, Emma sat down on a small boulder and patted another alongside. ‘Come and sit beside me, Nelly,’ she said. When Nelly had done so, she brought her quiet grey eyes to rest on her friend’s anxious face, saying, ‘I haven’t told you before, about Mr Thomas’s offer, because I haven’t yet made up my mind. When he first asked me my instinct was to say no right off. And, I’m still of the same mind. So you see, Nelly . . . you’re working yourself up into a state for nothing.’
‘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 t
o 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.’
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