in his mind as to whether he was judging his son too harshly. Time would tell, he thought, time will always tell.
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
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
Similar Books
