though she might, Emma couldn’t keep a straight face when she turned to see Nelly’s lively eyes and homely face all crumpled with laughter. ‘Oh, Nelly!’ she said, trying hard to suppress the merriment already spreading from her heart. ‘What will I do with you?’
‘Get me outta this bleedin’ dark hole for a start!’ came the reply. And, because of her new status, together with the fact that she had only just come from the Governor, where her pleas on Nelly’s behalf had been accepted – with a warning that ‘should it happen again, I’ll probably throw away the key!’ – Emma was able to secure the hapless Nelly’s release.
The two women were a strange yet familiar sight as they made their way from the Convict Depot and along William Street. Emma looked exceptionally smart and respectable, dressed in black boots, bonnet and cape, with the long, flouncy, dark-blue skirt softly swishing with her every step. There was an air of elegance about her, and an absolute confidence that only social standing and the promise of prosperity can bring. Nelly looked the worse for wear, having been deprived of the pretty white blouse and brown skirt that Emma had got her for the wedding, and dressed by the authorities in a plain grey frock, which hung on her narrow frame like a sack from a carcass.
‘When we get back to the store, you’d best put yourself in a tub of hot water, and the rags from your back into the rubbish bin!’ Emma told her. ‘Make no mistake about it, Nelly . . . it’s been the devil’s own job talking you out of this one. If you don’t curb that temper of yours, Lord only knows what’ll become of you.’ Emma was anxious that Nelly fully understand the seriousness of her short temper and complete lack of respect for authority. ‘You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Nelly?’ she asked.
‘O’ course I do!’ retorted Nelly. ‘Stop bleedin’ well nagging me. Look here, Emma darlin’ . . . if I was ter promise yer that I won’t be goaded into fighting again, will that do?’
‘It’d be a start at least,’ conceded Emma, ‘as long as it doesn’t go the way of all your other promises of a similar nature.’
‘Oh, stop worrying, Emma,’ Nelly chided, ‘it’ll be all right, you’ll see. When I feel meself heading for trouble, I’ll count ter ten . . . how’s that, eh?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but launched into a tuneful whistling of a bawdy tavern-song. Emma shook her head in exasperation. It was no use! Nelly was her own master, and wouldn’t be shaped by any other hand, however loving and well meaning it was. ‘Come on,’ Emma hurried along, ‘let’s get you home before the preacher hears what tune you’re whistling.’
‘The divil himself can hear what tune I’m whistling,’ replied Nelly, ‘and it won’t bother me none at all!’ Whereupon she resumed the bawdy tune with even more gusto.
As it happened, ‘the divil himself was listening, in the form of Foster Thomas. It was still very early in the morning, the hour when most folks were only just beginning to stir on to the streets. An hour that Emma had chosen well for her errand, because the last thing she wanted was for Nelly to be paraded along the street and to be subjected to people’s unkind stares. There had been enough talk as it was: with Nelly choosing to roll about in the dust with Rita Hughes, and to attack her with a pitch-fork, in full view of those guests who were loyal enough to Roland Thomas to attend his wedding. It was planned that it should be a quiet affair, which, in spite of the fracas later caused by the caustic remark made by the blacksmith’s daughter combined with Nelly’s short temper, had been carried off extremely well. It had delighted Emma to learn that both she and Mr Thomas had a number of genuine supporters.
Little had changed since Emma had been made Mrs Thomas, and subsequently, a ‘free’ woman. She wore a gold band on her finger; she entered
‘Get me outta this bleedin’ dark hole for a start!’ came the reply. And, because of her new status, together with the fact that she had only just come from the Governor, where her pleas on Nelly’s behalf had been accepted – with a warning that ‘should it happen again, I’ll probably throw away the key!’ – Emma was able to secure the hapless Nelly’s release.
The two women were a strange yet familiar sight as they made their way from the Convict Depot and along William Street. Emma looked exceptionally smart and respectable, dressed in black boots, bonnet and cape, with the long, flouncy, dark-blue skirt softly swishing with her every step. There was an air of elegance about her, and an absolute confidence that only social standing and the promise of prosperity can bring. Nelly looked the worse for wear, having been deprived of the pretty white blouse and brown skirt that Emma had got her for the wedding, and dressed by the authorities in a plain grey frock, which hung on her narrow frame like a sack from a carcass.
‘When we get back to the store, you’d best put yourself in a tub of hot water, and the rags from your back into the rubbish bin!’ Emma told her. ‘Make no mistake about it, Nelly . . . it’s been the devil’s own job talking you out of this one. If you don’t curb that temper of yours, Lord only knows what’ll become of you.’ Emma was anxious that Nelly fully understand the seriousness of her short temper and complete lack of respect for authority. ‘You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Nelly?’ she asked.
‘O’ course I do!’ retorted Nelly. ‘Stop bleedin’ well nagging me. Look here, Emma darlin’ . . . if I was ter promise yer that I won’t be goaded into fighting again, will that do?’
‘It’d be a start at least,’ conceded Emma, ‘as long as it doesn’t go the way of all your other promises of a similar nature.’
‘Oh, stop worrying, Emma,’ Nelly chided, ‘it’ll be all right, you’ll see. When I feel meself heading for trouble, I’ll count ter ten . . . how’s that, eh?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but launched into a tuneful whistling of a bawdy tavern-song. Emma shook her head in exasperation. It was no use! Nelly was her own master, and wouldn’t be shaped by any other hand, however loving and well meaning it was. ‘Come on,’ Emma hurried along, ‘let’s get you home before the preacher hears what tune you’re whistling.’
‘The divil himself can hear what tune I’m whistling,’ replied Nelly, ‘and it won’t bother me none at all!’ Whereupon she resumed the bawdy tune with even more gusto.
As it happened, ‘the divil himself was listening, in the form of Foster Thomas. It was still very early in the morning, the hour when most folks were only just beginning to stir on to the streets. An hour that Emma had chosen well for her errand, because the last thing she wanted was for Nelly to be paraded along the street and to be subjected to people’s unkind stares. There had been enough talk as it was: with Nelly choosing to roll about in the dust with Rita Hughes, and to attack her with a pitch-fork, in full view of those guests who were loyal enough to Roland Thomas to attend his wedding. It was planned that it should be a quiet affair, which, in spite of the fracas later caused by the caustic remark made by the blacksmith’s daughter combined with Nelly’s short temper, had been carried off extremely well. It had delighted Emma to learn that both she and Mr Thomas had a number of genuine supporters.
Little had changed since Emma had been made Mrs Thomas, and subsequently, a ‘free’ woman. She wore a gold band on her finger; she entered
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