Her Rags-to-Riches Christmas

by Laura Martin

  ‘You know what these ships are like, there’s no telling how long the crossing will take.’ George had split his return journey into shorter voyages, stopping off for a few weeks in various ports along the way to see a little of the world before his return home. He had sent a few letters on ahead of him, but hadn’t specified the date he would be making the final crossing to Sydney.

  He watched as the Petersons looked Alice over, taking in her bedraggled appearance and ill-fitting clothes.

  ‘This is Alice,’ he said, reaching up to take the bundle containing the orphaned joey from her lap before helping her down from the cart. He was pleased to see she didn’t recoil at his touch this time as she had in Sydney, although she did slip her hand from his as soon as she was steady on the ground. ‘She’s had a rough morning.’

  Mrs Peterson looked her over, appraising her, then nodded her head. ‘Let’s get you settled, Alice, then in a couple of days we can find you some work to do.’

  He watched as the two women moved inside, Alice’s petite figure dwarfed by Mrs Peterson’s. At least she was in safe hands now.

  ‘Let me take that for you,’ Mr Peterson said, gently taking hold of the bundle and peering inside. ‘Bringing home more waifs and strays, I see.’

  George nodded, his eyes following Alice as she moved stiffly through the kitchen. She still looked wary, her eyes darting backward and forward as if always trying to find a way to escape, but he knew he just needed to give her time. Who knew what horrors and degradation she’d suffered on the transport ship from England, or indeed, who had tried to take advantage of her during the nine months she’d been in Australia? He knew life for the male convicts was tough, especially for the first few years of their sentence, but the female convicts were at risk of even more exploitation. It was by far enough to explain her fear and even anger—no one liked to feel helpless.

  ‘I’ll take care of this little creature,’ Mr Peterson said. ‘You reacquaint yourself with your home.’

  Alone, George stood back and took in the view. He’d missed home, missed the picturesque sun-scorched fields and the hazy blue mountains in the distance. Missed his beautiful house with the veranda built in the perfect orientation to enjoy the sunsets. Missed the sense of purpose when he rode out over his land, designating each area for cattle or crops, always on the lookout for new opportunities. He’d enjoyed his trip to England, but he was mighty glad to be home.

  After a minute he walked inside the house, using the kitchen door as he always had as a boy. Inside he could hear Mrs Peterson chattering away to Alice, telling her about the farm and their lives here. Turning away from the women, he moved through the house, running his fingers over the furniture, reacquainting himself with the space. He’d lived here all his life—the house had been built by his father when his parents had first settled in Australia almost thirty years earlier. It was large, but still managed to have a comfortable feel about it.

  ‘Fitzgerald,’ a loud voice called from outside. ‘You’re home, you sneaky reprobate.’

  With a grin on his lips George raced through the house and back out through the door, slowing only as he came up to the two men he thought of as his brothers.

  He embraced Sam Robertson first, receiving a hearty slap on the back from him before he moved on and hugged Ben Crawford.

  ‘We had word your ship had docked,’ Robertson said. ‘We’ve been on the lookout for a week, but you managed to sneak through.’

  ‘It’s good to have you home,’ Crawford said, with a broad smile that must have matched George’s own.

  They made their way into the house, the two men flopping down into chairs and making themselves comfortable. Although it was George’s home, both Robertson and Crawford had spent much of their youth there, taken in by George’s father after they had saved George from an attack by a poisonous snake while working on the farm. They had their own homes now, their own vast and successful farms, but they still came back to the Fitzgerald house regularly and George knew they still saw it as the home of their childhood.

  ‘We were getting worried you were never coming back,’ Robertson said, swinging back on the chair so only the back two legs were on the ground, shifting his weight so it balanced without toppling.

  ‘It’s a nine-month voyage,’ George said with a mock serious expression. ‘Some of us didn’t want to rush our time in England and set off back home two months after arriving. How is the fair Lady Georgina?’

  ‘Just plain Mrs Robertson now,’ Robertson said, and George could see the happiness on his face. ‘Beautiful and blooming, we’re hoping for a sister for little James in a few months.’

  It felt strange to be talking of wives and children. His friends’ lives had changed so much these past couple of years and here he was back home to the same life. It was a good life, there was no denying it, but George knew his friends had moved on to the next stage while he remained in the same place.

  ‘And the new Mrs Crawford?’ he asked.

  ‘Not so new any more. We’ve been married for near on two years,’ Crawford said. ‘And Frannie is expecting again, too.’

  ‘It seems we have much to celebrate.’

  ‘How about you, Fitzgerald? You didn’t bring a bonny English lass back home with you?’

  George laughed. ‘You two escaped with the two fairest women in England, I wasn’t about to settle for third best.’

  From somewhere else in the house George could hear raised voices, stern words getting louder as the argument became more heated. He frowned. Mr and Mrs Peterson bickered, just like any couple who had lived together for so many years, but he’d never heard them argue before.

  ‘I’d better...’ he started to say, getting up from his chair, but didn’t get any further as Mrs Peterson burst into the room, dragging Alice behind her. ‘What is all this noise about?’ George asked, looking at the two women’s dark expressions. Mrs Peterson’s face was red with fury while Alice’s remained stony.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, I’m sorry for making a scene, especially with your guests here,’ Mrs Peterson said.

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ Robertson murmured, his eyes flicking from the older woman to Alice, then looking at George with an amused question in his expression.

  ‘She can’t stay,’ Mrs Peterson said with more dramatic flair than George had seen in the entire time he’d known his housekeeper.

  ‘I’m sure we can sort this out,’ George said, wishing momentarily for the free life he’d been living while away. He might not have a wife and child, but he did still have responsibilities here.

  ‘She’s been saying the most terrible things, sir, most wicked.’

  He regarded Alice, who was standing up straight despite the pain she must have been feeling from her wounds, resolutely not looking at him, her expression that same mix of anger and fear she’d had ever since he’d helped her up from the ground near the whipping post.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ George said, a little annoyed to be pulled away from his friends at the moment of their reunion, but curious as to what the young convict woman could have said to upset his normally unflappable housekeeper.

  He strode out of the room, turning back to see Alice having to be chivvied along by Mrs Peterson. With a shake of his head he wondered what he’d got himself into.

  ‘Would you sort some tea for Robertson and Crawford?’ George asked his housekeeper. She looked momentarily surprised, as if wanting to stay and defend the man who towered over both her and the new convict worker, but then rallied and bustled off down the corridor, murmuring under her breath.

  ‘Congratulations,’ George said after a minute. ‘I’ve never seen Mrs Peterson that irate before.’ He shook his head. ‘And I really tested her boundaries when I was a lad. What did you do?’

  ‘I merely spoke the truth,’ Alice’s reply came tersely.

  ‘I may be a man who seems to h
ave time on his hands, Alice, but I would prefer it if you didn’t talk in riddles and told me straight out what upset Mrs Peterson.’

  ‘I called you a vile lecher.’ There was defiance in her eyes, but underneath George saw an unmistakable flash of fear.

  He nodded slowly, tapping his fingers on the banister. ‘In the six hours that I’ve known you, tell me what is it that I’ve done to be given that label?’

  She looked at him with a stony expression, but just shook her head.

  ‘Was it when I rushed in to save you from a whipping? Or when I volunteered to take you in as a convict worker to save you from a worse punishment? Or when I insisted you get cleaned up before we journeyed out here?’ George’s voice was completely calm, despite the bubble of irritation he felt rising up inside him. He struggled to suppress it. His father had always had infinite patience with those he helped and George knew he could do worse than emulate the man, in his kindness at least.

  ‘Why did you save me?’ Alice asked. ‘Why step in and risk a whipping yourself, or worse? Why volunteer to bring me back to your home?’ There was pent-up emotion in her words and George wondered not for the first time what had brought her to this life. Despite professing not to be interested in her crime during their ride to his home, he did want to know what had led her to the path she was on now.

  He shrugged. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’

  She laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh that cut right through him.

  ‘So I had the good fortune to be saved by the only decent man in Australia? Tell the truth. You wanted a young, willing and grateful woman in your bed, just like every other man in this godforsaken country.’

  ‘Look at me, Alice,’ George said, waiting for her eyes to reach his. Not for the first time he noticed their intensity, the deepness of the sparkling blue, and he realised she must have had it hard being a pretty young woman in a country filled with men. ‘Do I look like I need to force a woman into bed with me?’

  As he watched her eyes flicked over him, taking in first his face and then his physique, until she shrugged rebelliously.

  ‘No one does anything for nothing,’ she muttered.

  ‘Yes, they do,’ he said firmly. ‘Now the problem arose when Mrs Peterson showed you to your room?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s no lock on the door.’

  ‘And you thought that was so I could sneak in at the stroke of midnight and have my wicked way with you?’ He saw her redden at his directness and was pleased to be finally getting a reaction from her that wasn’t suspicion or anger. ‘Come with me.’

  Without checking to see if she was following, he took the stairs two at a time, pausing only when he was outside the room Mrs Peterson had seen fit to give to Alice. It was a generously proportioned bedroom with a view over the farm and to Sydney in the distance. Furnished with a bed, wardrobe and writing table, it was homely and comfortable—no wonder Mrs Peterson took offence when Alice refused to settle herself in.

  ‘You’re right, there’s no lock,’ George said, ‘just as there isn’t a lock on my bedroom door, or any of the bedrooms. Not...’ he held up an admonishing hand ‘...that I’m inviting you to find out. I find a chair wedged under the handle like this...’ with a flourish he closed the door, took the back of the chair and propped it under the handle, demonstrating that the door could not be easily opened ‘...does the job.’

  Alice was staring at him, blinking every few seconds as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

  ‘I understand you don’t trust me, Alice, and I don’t think anything I can say will reassure you that I didn’t bring you here for nefarious purposes, but my father always used to say that deeds spoke louder than words. Hopefully with time you will come to trust me.’ He paused, wondering exactly what had happened to the young woman in front of him to make her quite so distrustful. ‘Can I give you a word of advice, though? I wouldn’t say anything bad about me to Mrs Peterson. For some strange reason she thinks I’m more virtuous than all the saints combined. If you want to have a moan about me, find someone more neutral.’

  He turned, resisting the urge to delve into Alice’s past. Perhaps one day she would want to tell him a little about what had brought her to this point in her life, or perhaps not.

  * * *

  ‘Sorted?’ Crawford asked as George walked back into the room.

  ‘Who knows?’ George shrugged, wondering if Alice would be climbing out the window, risking being caught as a runaway just to avoid spending a night in his house.

  ‘Who is she?’ Robertson asked. ‘And what is she doing here?’

  ‘I ran into her when I got off the ship,’ George said, sitting back down with his friends. ‘One of the guards was whipping her, lashes that were far too brutal.’

  Crawford grinned. ‘You saved her?’

  George rubbed his jaw, remembering the punches he’d received when he’d refused to back down.

  ‘I politely asked them to desist with such a cruel and unnecessary punishment.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Five.’

  Robertson studied his face carefully. ‘Looks like they got a couple of good punches in.’

  ‘I would have been tied to the post alongside Alice if Colonel Hardcastle hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘Our new Lieutenant Governor,’ Crawford murmured. George could hear the approval in his voice.

  ‘Hardcastle agreed to release Alice to me as a convict worker for the farm.’

  George saw Robertson and Crawford exchanging looks and shook his head.

  ‘Just like one of your injured animals,’ Robertson said with a grin.

  ‘Neither of you would have left her there,’ George said with conviction. ‘Not to that brutality.’

  ‘It looks like you’re going to have your hands full,’ Crawford said.

  He wasn’t wrong. George had imagined Alice slotting into the life on the farm, taking up her role as a housemaid, perhaps helping with the kitchen garden, but that seemed a long way off for now. He shrugged. If things didn’t work out, he could just send her to look after one of the properties he owned further afield. Whatever happened, he would be able to rest easy, knowing he hadn’t abandoned her in her hour of need.

  Chapter Four

  Alice padded down the stairs, her footfalls silent on the thick rug that covered the wooden steps. Down below her she could hear the voices of the three men, laughing and talking as they had been for the past two hours. She’d made her peace with Mrs Peterson, apologising for her outburst and promising to keep her opinions to herself from now on. The older woman had been mollified and a few minutes later had brought Alice a few dresses to try on, clothing that fitted her better than the huge sack she’d travelled from Sydney in.

  Now that she wasn’t in fear of her dress falling down to her ankles with every step, she was feeling curious about her surroundings and had decided to explore a little. It wasn’t as though Mr Fitzgerald had instructed her to keep to her room and Mrs Peterson had told her to take a few days to get settled before she started on the work of a housemaid.

  Quietly she made her way down the hall, feeling like a thief as she trailed her fingers over the polished furniture and the collection of ornaments that seemed out of place out here in the middle of the Australian countryside. They would look more at home in an English manor house.

  The kitchen was at the end of the hallway, a large room that still managed to feel homely despite its size. At one end the door was open to the outside and Alice looked around guiltily before placing her foot over the threshold.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s not as though you’re running away.’

  Running away would be the worst thing she could do. Although she felt uncomfortable with her new circumstances, she knew she would be so much worse off if she was branded a convict runaway. Sh
e’d never known another convict woman who had dared. The men who tried to gain their freedom by heading off into the wilds of the countryside were always caught and brought back, their punishments ranging from a hundred lashes to being shipped off to one of the other penal colonies in Australia. Somewhere disease-ridden and much less civilised than Sydney. She shuddered at the thought.

  Outside the sun was so bright it made her blink rapidly as her eyes struggled to adjust and the heat was much more noticeable than in the cool of the house. Over to the left was a little kitchen garden, with a vegetable patch and plants climbing up stakes. She could see Mr Peterson’s bent form as he worked at picking whichever of the vegetables flourished in this climate.

  To the right was a large enclosure with twenty or so cows huddled up one end and a little further away were horses grazing on the patchy grass behind a sturdy fence. With a hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, Alice stopped for a moment and properly appreciated the view. Nine months she’d been in Australia and all she’d seen up until now was Sydney. The ramshackle buildings, the dusty streets, the weary faces. Out here was different. Out here she could see why some people seemed to fall in love with this country.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ a low voice said beside her.

  Slowly she turned, finding Mr Fitzgerald standing a fair distance from her.

  She nodded, watching as he moved closer, wary of his proximity, but noting how he stopped an arm’s reach away. She couldn’t fault his behaviour. Yet. She’d known men who bided their time before.

  ‘I’ve stopped off in many countries on my way back to Australia,’ he said, looking out over the rolling hills in front of them, ‘and none of them is half as beautiful as here.’

  It must be a wonderful thing to have a home you loved so much. Not since she’d left Yorkshire had Alice felt that way. The smog-filled streets of London weren’t exactly inspiring and she hadn’t seen anything but splashing waves and the rocking hull on the transport ship.