Alley Urchin (7 page)

Roland Thomas was right. Time did tell; but the tale it told was both grim and shameful.

‘I’ll stay by Emma awhile, child. You go and lay your head down in a proper bed.’ It was midnight and Roland Thomas intended to turn in for the night. Foster had made himself scarce – probably gambling or supping grog with the ruffians who wandered hereabouts, he thought. Now that Emma appeared to be resting easier, the tiredness had crept up on him. In a few hours, there was a most unpleasant and heartbreaking duty to perform. He would need his strength for that.

‘No, thank you, Mr Thomas, sir. I feel better when I’m near Emma.’ Nelly could hear the weariness in his voice as he bade her goodnight, and it was there in the slump of his shoulders as he left the room. ‘He’ll sleep well tonight,’ she told Emma, ‘and he’ll need all the sleep he can get, ’cause the ordeal ain’t over fer the poor old sod yet.’

For the next half-hour Nelly continued to chatter, even though she knew well enough that Emma was in a deep sleep and heard nothing of her snippets of gossip. All the same, she told how folks had come to the store with their best wishes for Emma. She revealed how Rita Hughes had helped Mr Thomas in the store and ‘been a real blessing in disguise’. Then she went on in great detail about how Foster Thomas had come home after four days, ‘full o’ cock-eyed excuses as to where he’d been all that time’, and what was more, she had been excused from the routine of daily reporting to the authorities . . . ‘’cause the buggers know I won’t be far from where my Emma is!’ she laughed. After a while, a great weariness fell over Nelly. Her tongue grew heavy and her eyelids felt like lead weights against her eyeballs until every limb in her body ached for sleep. Then, unable to fight it any longer, she glanced at Emma’s still and quiet form. With a sigh, she lay back her head and let the wave of welcome sleep wash over her. In a matter of minutes, she was out to the world and gently snoring.

When Foster Thomas came softly up the stairs he had but one thought in his mind, and that was Emma. The big round clock above the landing window struck one in the morning as he felt his way along the bannister in the pitch black. He dared not carry a lamp for fear he might be seen and, as he’d put away a jar or two of best grog in the company of those who were considered to be undesirable in the best social circles, he might be shown the way back down the stairs – worse still, his old father might take it into his head to show him all the way to the front door! Here he gave a small laugh, lost his balance and clung to the bannister as though his very life depended on it. Why was it, he asked himself, that Emma insisted on fending him off, when all the while she was as hot for him as he was for her? The little baggage . . . teasing him like that, when she knew full well that they were meant for each other.

Quietly now, he eased the door open just wide enough to admit his long lean body into the room. The room was in darkness, save for the shaft of moonlight coming in through the window where the curtains were not quite pulled together. In this soft yellow light, which showed the burned-down candle and which fell on Emma’s pale and lovely features, he was guided towards the bed where she lay. All the while, the sound of Nelly’s gentle snoring pulsated through the room, raising in him the comforting knowledge that, at long last, he and Emma were alone. And oh, he had such a longing in his loins for her . . . such a desperate need for her that he couldn’t stop himself from trembling. Emma was his! Fight it she might, but there was no escaping the outcome. She was his, and though he could have taken her by force if he cared to, he had not, for there were any amount of women he could have in that way, but they meant nothing to him. Emma was special, and he would never rest until she came to his bed of her own accord. Oh, but in spite of her little games, she would! Yes indeed she would.

When, in a moment, he touched his fingertips to her temple, Emma made no movement at all. When he stroked the silkiness of her rich chestnut hair, she gently stirred. Afraid that she might cry out, he took away his hand from her forehead and, for a while, he stood very still, his arms loose by his sides and his blue eyes, made all the more murky by the drink he’d consumed, raked her face until they knew every finely chiselled line and curve. How greedily he devoured that creamy forehead with its heart-shaped hairline and high, perfectly shaped dark brows; even now, though they were tightly closed, Foster Thomas could imagine Emma’s startlingly beautiful steel-grey eyes at their most magnificent . . . this being, to his warped mind, when she looked on him with the utmost contempt. Oh, but he wasn’t disturbed by it for he had convinced himself that it was all a show, a ploy to drive him crazy with desire. And it had worked! By God, it had worked because, as he gazed on her now, savouring her beauty to the full, there came over him an insatiable and feverish desire to draw back the bedcovers and to gaze upon the sleeping Emma in all her naked loveliness. The more he thought of it, the more urgent became the yearning, until the breath quickened in his throat and his pulse raced with excitement. He had never seen Emma unclothed. Not once had he feasted his eyes on her nakedness. Now the urge was too strong to resist; he
must
see her, for nothing else would satisfy him this night. And, if he were to slide in beside her, who was there to stop him? Certainly not his father, who was sleeping the sleep of the dead, downstairs; nor Nelly, who was also deeply exhausted. As for Emma . . . even if she had a mind to, she was in no position to object.

By now, every sense and nerve-ending in Foster Thomas’s body was tingling at the prospect of taking Emma’s nakedness to himself. There was a torment within him which pulled him two ways: he had vowed never to take Emma without her full and eager cooperation, but, having her lying before him now, so warm and vulnerable, and with the raw passion racing through his body when the need in him was as proud and obvious as ever it could be in a man, his resolve not to invade Emma’s beauty without her wanting it as much as he himself did was weakening – already he had lost control.

As he reached out, with trepidation, to pluck the bedclothes from her, the palms of his hands were sweating and his every limb trembled uncontrollably. Gently now, and all the while holding his breath for fear of being discovered, he slid back the clothes which hid Emma from him. He had suspected that she might not be wearing a nightgown; not when the heat of the day was such that men were forced to cease their labours or fry in the merciless sun. In the dead of night that same heat was so oppressive and suffocating that even when lying still in bed, a body was bathed in sweat.

Emma was
not
wearing a nightgown, having come through a feverish crisis when it would have clung to her like a second skin. The doctor had given instructions that Emma be covered up to the chin by the bedclothes, and occasionally flannelled down with fresh water to reduce her soaring temperature. Nelly had allowed no one else close to Emma and not once had she failed in her duty to carry out the doctor’s instructions. So, when Foster Thomas drew back the bedclothes, the sight of Emma’s slender body caused him to gasp out loud. If he had thought her face the most beautiful he had ever seen, then how much more magnificent was her body!

Riveted to the spot and almost afraid of what his astonished eyes beheld, Foster Thomas scored every detail into his lecherous mind. His eyes narrowed and his desire for Emma was greatly intensified as he let his gaze wander over her nakedness. Even when she softly stirred and turned her head deeper into the pillow, he was so mesmerised that he could not drag his gaze away, nor could he move, although his instincts warned him that Nelly could wake at any minute. Greedily, his eyes took in all that he could of Emma, this adorable creature whom he had vowed to have for his own. He gazed at the long, thick hair which was fanned out over the pillow, its vibrant autumn hues a stark contrast against the starched white pillowcase. He stared long at that lovely face, with its large wonderful eyes and those high aristocratic cheekbones, the perfect full mouth and that chin which, though completing the exquisite oval shape of Emma’s face, was strong and determined, as was her character. Oh, what sensual delights invaded him as he roved his narrow opaque blue eyes over Emma’s youthful, thrusting breasts, so small and perfect with proud inviting nipples standing warm and dark against the creamy whiteness of her breasts. He thought her waist was small but not tiny and the curves of her thighs deliciously inviting, and how impatient he was to tangle himself between those exquisite legs. Too impatient, he chided himself, because already he was aching with such excitement and anticipation that in a minute it would be too late! Quickly he stripped off his clothes to stand naked and desperate for a taste of Emma’s loveliness.

When with great care, or he would surely give the game away, he inched himself on to the bed, Emma was trembling from being uncovered for so long. She stirred, raising her arm above her head, and softly moaned. In a minute he was on her, covering her nakedness with his own and murmuring tender words against the warmth of her neck. With one arm stroking her hair and the weight taken by his elbow, he reached his other arm down to ease open her legs. When, this time, Emma became agitated, twisting her body this way then that and calling out the name ‘Marlow’, he stayed still, not daring to move for fear she had alerted the others. For what seemed a lifetime, he remained frozen against her, tormented by the touch of his body on hers, but terrified that he might be discovered. But no, Nelly was still deep in the sleep of exhaustion, her rhythmic snores breathing into the darkness like the beating of his own heart. As he waited a moment longer, listening for any sound from the stores below or perhaps a footstep on the stairs, he wondered who was this ‘Marlow’ whom Emma had called out to. How soft and loving her voice had been, almost a caress of his name. He would not forget the name either: as Foster Thomas emblazoned Marlow’s name on to his memory, a terrible hatred crept into his black heart.

The tender feelings which had smothered him were now tempered with a fury that, even in her subconscious, Emma should cry out some other man’s name! But this ‘Marlow’ wasn’t here, coveting Emma’s nakedness, while
he
was! For the moment, at least, he was pacified, and in that moment when his whole being flooded with his need for Emma’s heart and soul, he placed his mouth over hers, and gently probed himself towards her. Then with such a tide of ecstasy rushing through him that he thought his heart would burst, he thrust his way deep into Emma, his great excitement causing him to cry out.

Emma cried out also, but it was a strangled and terrified cry of the kind made by a nightmare which caused her to thrash out at those who would hurt her. In her ill and confused mind, she knew only that she must escape; she must flee from the pain and horror which hounded her, and which had already pushed her over the line between nightmare and reality. When it seemed that in her anguish Emma might betray him, she was cruelly silenced by her assailant’s clenched fist. Being so intent on satisfying the cravings of his own body, Foster Thomas cared not for his unconscious victim’s helplessness, for, in the throes of his madness, he was frantic to gratify only the base primitive instincts which drove him. Gripping Emma into him again and again, he smothered her with his vile body and kissed her nakedness, all the while telling her how she was
his
now . . . and could never belong to any other.

Of a sudden, there came another scream as Nelly woke to the horror of what was happening. Almost at once, there was a rush of footsteps into the room and the darkness was penetrated by the light which Roland Thomas carried high before him. With a cry of ‘You filthy bastard!’ he sprang forward, dropping the lantern to the floor and clawing at his son’s bare flesh, his nails digging so deep into it that the blood spurted out like a crimson shower to fall in spattered drops along his back and shoulders. With the might of a demon, he yanked him from the bed and from Emma, who was as still and white as death.

‘Oh God! Emma, will yer forgive me, will yer ever forgive me, darlin’?’ Nelly had recovered the lamp which, in his rage, Roland Thomas had dropped to the floor and she had placed it on the bedside cupboard. Having drawn up the bedclothes over Emma’s violated body, she was cradling her dear friend’s head to her bosom and sobbing as though her heart would break. ‘Will yer ever forgive me, darlin’ Emma,’ she cried over and over, ‘for I’ll never be able ter forgive meself!’

It was a night that no one there would ever forget. For although he was an older and slower man, Roland Thomas’s fury and disgust knew no bounds as he thrashed his son unmercifully. First throwing him down the stairs, he took a bull-whip from the stores and, without heed of his cowardly son’s cries for mercy, he brought it down again and again across his bare back and shoulders, the tip of it lashing over his face and neck and cutting so deep that he would carry the scars for the rest of his miserable life. Afterwards Roland Thomas flung Foster out on to the porch, with his clothes and belongings in a heap beside him. ‘You’re a no-good bastard!’ he told his son in a voice that still trembled with rage. ‘Your own mother’s to be buried this day, and you bring nothing but shame on our heads. Let the devil take you, Foster Thomas, because
I
want nothing more to do with you!
Never
set foot near me again . . . stay out of my sight. You’re no son of mine. From this day on, I have no son!’ He watched the crumpled figure begin to stir on the porch, and he knew that his words had been heard. It was enough.

In the darkness, Roland Thomas’s terrible words had also been heard by many of the startled neighbours, who had been roused from their beds by the worst upheaval they had ever been witness to. No one knew what dreadful reason could have provoked such an amiable and mild-mannered man as Roland Thomas, the well-liked and respected trader, to cast his own son from his house, and to issue such strong and awful words that made them tremble. Yes, it was true that Foster Thomas was not the man his father was . . . nor the man his father might have wished him to be, for he was both weak and wasteful. It was also true that the confrontation between them had been a long time brewing. But, so terrible and final, and on the very day in which poor Mrs Thomas was to be laid to her rest? It didn’t bear thinking about. All the same, they were intrigued to know what awful thing had triggered off Roland Thomas’s fury. But, as the trader stormed back into his store, and the son spat in the dust behind him with a look of deep hatred on his bleeding face, something told them that they might never know the truth of what had happened that night, for the old one was too proud to disclose it, and the other too cowardly.