by Laura Martin
Alice smiled her blandest smile. ‘Of course.’ She wasn’t about to fight with the older woman, who was, in her own way, right. Mr Fitzgerald was her employer, nothing more. Even if Alice already knew how his blue-green eyes dazzled in the sun and how his face lit up when he spoke about anything to do with nature. She might know these things, but she had no right to.
This response seemed to throw Mrs Peterson and with Alice’s meek manner the older woman lost some of the fire in her eyes.
‘You’ll find your way, dear,’ she said a little more kindly. ‘It just will take a while to settle.’
A while to settle. Right now she found it hard to think beyond the next few days, weeks at the most. For so long she’d been focused on survival, she hadn’t spent any energy getting to know her surroundings, getting to know Australia.
‘Don’t be long,’ Mrs Peterson said. ‘Mr Fitzgerald is downstairs looking like a creature who’s spent all day wallowing in the mud.’
Alice nodded, allowing herself thirty more seconds of relaxation in the warm water before standing and beginning to dry herself.
‘You’ll need to be careful of those wounds,’ Mrs Peterson said, eyeing Alice’s back dubiously. ‘All that mud can’t have been good for them.’
‘At least they’re clean now.’
‘Hmmm.’
The older woman slipped out of the bathroom, mumbling something to herself that Alice couldn’t hear. As she patted herself dry Alice tried to strain and look over her shoulder at the healing gashes on her back, but she could only see a hint of red; she wasn’t flexible enough to make out more.
* * *
‘A bath a day, I’ve never heard such a thing,’ Mrs Peterson grumbled as she poured the last of the hot water into the tub, motioning for Alice to step in. Ever since Alice had ridden out with Mr Fitzgerald and ended up caked in mud in the half-dried-up pond he had insisted she have a bath every day to clean the wounds on her back. She’d only half-heartedly protested, saying it was too much trouble, but in truth she was pleased to sink into the warm water every day as she was petrified of the wounds festering.
* * *
‘Now let me have a look at that back of yours,’ Mrs Peterson said.
Alice was used to little privacy. Growing up, she’d been the middle sister, there was always someone to share your bed, always someone to know every aspect of your life. And since her conviction privacy had been stripped away as completely as if the judge had condemned her to a life to be lived without it. Still, she craved it. Craved a knock on the door before someone entered, a request rather than an order to show her wounds.
Knowing that was an impossible dream, she leaned forward, wincing as the water dripped down and the air began to dry the wounds across her back.
Mrs Peterson tutted and shook her head, and out of the corner of her eye Alice saw the woman’s concerned expression.
‘They look like they might be festering,’ she said, biting her lip.
For a moment Alice closed her eyes and blocked the rest of the world out. A festering wound was the worst possible outcome—when a wound putrefied it could take your life. She’d known strapping men felled by what at first had seemed only a small injury, their health quickly ebbing away as the fever took hold.
‘It’ll be that mud. You really shouldn’t have got them dirty.’
Alice opened her eyes. She didn’t know what to say. There was a chance the woman was wrong, but she felt panicked all the same.
‘Get out of the bath,’ Mrs Peterson said, ‘Get dressed, but leave your back open. I’ll get Mr Fitzgerald to look at it. He will know what to do.’
Alice nearly spluttered out loud at the idea. He had seen her back ripped and bare immediately after she’d been whipped, but then she’d been in no fit state to protect her dignity. Now she couldn’t let him see her exposed and vulnerable. It was out of the question.
‘I can’t...’ she said.
‘Hush,’ Mrs Peterson said. ‘It’s only a back. And yours isn’t particularly pleasant to look at. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
Before Alice could protest further Mrs Peterson was out of the door, closing it softly behind her.
Standing, she let the water drip from her body, trying to twist to look over her shoulder at the wounds at the same time. It was impossible and after a few moments Alice abandoned the contortions and set to drying herself off.
* * *
It was two hours later that Alice uncomfortably loosened the ties of her dress and shrugged the fabric from her shoulders. She kept hold of the front, ensuring the dress didn’t slip down entirely and completely destroy her dignity, but still she felt the warm air hit her bare skin and felt very self-conscious.
She heard footsteps behind her, two pairs, but kept her head facing the wall in front of her.
Even without looking she knew the moment he entered the room. There was a subtle shift in the air, a faint scent of his soap, and then the soft footfalls as he moved towards her.
Alice felt as though all the air had been sucked from her lungs as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She knew his eyes would be on her skin, looking at the ugly wounds criss-crossing her back, and she had the urge to wrench up the fabric to hide it from his eyes.
‘Oh, Alice,’ he murmured, his voice filled with concern.
‘Is it bad?’
‘Have you seen it?’ he asked.
She shook her head. She was torn between wanting to know the damage and feeling too scared to look.
Reaching out, he took the small mirror from the wall where it hung by the door. It was only the size of a dinner plate, but the glass was clear and of good quality and looked as though it had been recently polished. He held it up by her shoulder, angling it downwards so if Alice turned her head she would be able to look at her back.
He must have seen her hesitating for he placed a reassuring hand on her arm, squeezing gently.
With a deep breath Alice looked back, taking in the red, raw wounds that criss-crossed her back, and she had to stifle a cry. She took a moment, closing her eyes and breathing deeply before she looked again.
The very top wound, the one that came up to her shoulder blade in a deep diagonal line, was redder than the others. The surrounding skin looked swollen and angry and the wound itself had a thin yellow crust around the edges.
‘It’s festering,’ she said, her voice completely flat.
‘I think so,’ Mr Fitzgerald agreed quietly.
They both knew what that meant, what risk a wound like this carried. Things would go one of two ways. Either her body would fight it, would find the strength to prevail, or some time in the next few days she would become feverish and rapidly decline.
‘Send for the doctor,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, gently taking the mirror away.
‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Peterson nodded.
Alice felt a hint of surprise, although from what she’d seen of her employer these past days she shouldn’t have expected anything less. Many of the men who employed convict workers didn’t see the convicts as human beings, more like numbers on a sheet of parchment or animals to be worked to the breaking point. Of course there were exceptions, but even the kinder ones would mainly baulk at the expense of calling the doctor out for a worker.
There had been no hesitation on Mr Fitzgerald’s part, though, and she felt the tears spring to her eyes. The past few years her luck had gone from bad to worse, first when she’d been taken in by Bill and his promises of a wonderful life in London, and then things had gone rapidly downhill from there. Now was the first time in years she felt that something positive was happening to her and she couldn’t quite believe it was real.
‘Thank you,’ she said, turning her head to look over her shoulder at Mr Fitzgerald.
‘We will get you better,’ he said with more conviction than she felt. With gentle fingers he pulled
up the fabric of her dress, making sure he didn’t graze any of the wounds. Alice wanted nothing more than to sink into his arms, to bury her head in his shoulder and allow him to wrap her up safely, but she knew that couldn’t happen. He was kind to her, but it was in the same way he was kind to the stray animals he found. There was no ulterior motive underneath it. In some ways that made Alice glad—it was oh, so nice to have her faith in human kindness restored—but in many other ways it made her pine for what she knew could never be.
Slowly she turned to face him, smiling nervously. He was still standing close, closer than he should, and she wanted to reach out and draw him to her.
As they stood there facing one another, he raised his hand, his fingers reaching out as if he were about to cup her cheek, but when he was about halfway through the movement he paused, a momentary uncertainty flashing across his face. Then his hand dropped back to his side and he stepped away.
Alice felt the hope and confusion flare within her and quickly suppressed it. He was looking to reassure her, nothing more, and had decided the movement was inappropriate. Probably because of her outbursts when she’d first arrived, the accusations she’d made towards him.
Closing her eyes at the shame of the memory, she bit her lip, trying to use the pain to bring her back to the present. She’d been so scared, so worried that she might have finally ended up in a situation where she was entirely at a man’s mercy, she hadn’t stopped to find out what sort of a man he was.
‘Two weeks ago, when I first arrived...’ she said quietly ‘...when I accused you of trying to take advantage of me...’ she swallowed, not daring to look up ‘...of trying to force your way into my bed, that was unacceptable. I’m sorry. I was scared and I lumped you in with all the other men I’d met, all those that did try to take advantage. It was wrong of me.’
He smiled at her and she saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘No need to apologise, Alice. I can’t imagine what these last few years have been like for you.’
‘I know you’re not like that,’ she said, her eyes meeting his, trying to convey all the emotions that were hurtling through her in a single look.
Without another word he turned and left the room, leaving Alice staring morosely after him, wondering at the feelings he had awakened in her. Feelings that she thought she was incapable of experiencing ever again after her last failed foray into a relationship.
Chapter Nine
George paced up and down the hall, unable to undo the frown that he knew was darkening his face. Upstairs the doctor he’d summoned from Sydney was examining Alice. He was a man George had seen on a couple of occasions before. Once when his mother had taken ill and died a few weeks later, and again when his father had begun coughing up the blood that had signalled the start of the illness that would claim his life. All in all, not very cheerful meetings. Now he was afraid the medical man was about to deliver more bad news.
There was a sudden knock on the door, the unexpected noise making George spin around sharply. He strode over to it and flung it open with more force than he meant to.
‘Whoa there,’ Crawford said from his position on the doorstep.
‘My apologies,’ George said, retrieving the door from where it had bounced off the inside wall. ‘I was distracted.’ He motioned for his friend to enter and led the way into his study, the room he felt most comfortable in.
‘What’s got you so distracted?’ Crawford asked, his expression shrewd.
‘Alice, the convict worker I picked up in Sydney,’ he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. For some reason he didn’t want his friend knowing just how much she’d got under his skin these last few days. ‘I told you she was being whipped when I found her? Well, the guard was not sparing any force and her skin was ripped to pieces, and now it looks like the wounds are festering.’
‘Poor girl,’ Crawford murmured. They all knew how serious a wound like this could be and George knew Crawford had been whipped when he was serving his sentence for theft.
‘The doctor is with her now.’
‘Hmm.’
George shared Crawford’s sentiment. Doctors were useful for certain ailments and their potions and powders had their limited uses, but for something serious, something like an inflamed wound, there was little they could do.
Looking at his friend, George tried to forget what was going on above his head and focused on the man in front of him.
‘Was today a social call?’ he asked.
‘I was ordered here,’ Crawford said with a smile. ‘My lovely wife has instructed me to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening. Nothing formal. Just me and Frannie, Robertson and Georgina and you, of course.’ He paused, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair for a moment. ‘Why don’t you bring your Alice?’
‘My Alice?’
Crawford grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Your Alice,’ he repeated.
He let it go, knowing any protest would only play further into Crawford’s hands. ‘Wouldn’t your wife mind?’
Although both Crawford and Robertson were both ex-convicts, their wives were from rather a different stock. Lady Georgina was the daughter of an earl and Crawford’s wife, Francesca, had been the widow of a viscount and lined up to marry an earl before she’d run off with Crawford.
‘Frannie? Not at all.’ He grinned. ‘She can’t exactly have a problem with convicts. She married one after all.’
‘A rather uncouth one at that.’
‘True. So what do you say? Will you bring your Alice?’
‘I’ll ask her. She’s a little strong minded, so I doubt I’ll be able to convince her if she doesn’t want to. And I’ll get an earful from Mrs Peterson for it.’
‘Ah, dear Mrs Peterson,’ Crawford said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Still as protective of you as your own mother?’
George nodded. Mrs Peterson had been their housekeeper when Crawford and Robertson had first been taken in by his father. The woman had initially been cool towards the two scruffy convict boys, but their charm had soon won her over. Now she fussed over the grown men as if they were still half-starved little lads. It was George, however, whom she had always had the softest spot for and he knew that she would always see it as her place to protect him from the world. Even though he was now thirty-one, over six feet tall and could probably lift the older woman with one arm. He smiled indulgently. He knew he was lucky to have her, even if her temper could be fierce if she thought someone was doing him wrong.
‘She watches Alice like a hawk,’ he said.
‘Perhaps not a bad thing. What do you know about the girl?’
‘Not much. She’s not very forthcoming on her origins, but that’s hardly surprising. When I first brought her here she was rather prickly, but that’s subsided pretty quickly. I think she was just scared I would turn out to be like all the men who’ve tried to take advantage of her over the past year or so.’
Crawford grunted and George noted the faraway look in his friend’s eyes. Neither Crawford or Robertson spoke much about their time on the convict ships or the first few years of the sentences that they spent digging roads in Sydney, but George had gleaned a little here and there and it hadn’t sounded pleasant at all. He knew Crawford would be thinking of that now, probably sympathising with the woman upstairs who had been through it all so much more recently.
‘She’s pretty,’ Crawford said. ‘From the little I saw of her, I could tell that.’
‘She is,’ George agreed. It was no use denying it. Alice was pretty, especially once she’d washed the grime from her skin and lost a little of the haunted look from her eyes. Probably in a few weeks when she’d had a sustained period of three healthy meals a day and gained a little softness, she’d be even prettier.
Crawford regarded him for a second, then shook his head ruefully. ‘Robertson and I were certain you’d come back from England married.’
‘Really?’ George was surprised. Of course there had been women he’d spent time with in England, but marriage hadn’t ever entered his head despite his two friends coming back from the other side of the world with brides on their arms. ‘Well, don’t start getting any ideas about Alice. We’re not for each other,’ he said with a finality that must have made its mark as Crawford just nodded amiably.
He knew he was an anomaly. To anyone looking in at his life he should be married. He was wealthy, influential and knew he had a face that was pleasant enough. What was more important to women out here was the ability to provide, a reassurance that they would finally be looked after, and he was certainly in a position to give that. Yet he was still single.
George grimaced. Of course he’d like a wife, a woman to share his life with, a woman to fall into bed with at the end of the long day. An image of Alice curled up, her head resting on the pillow next to his, popped into his mind uninvited and George had to quickly push it away.
What so many people didn’t understand was the unique position he held here in Australia and as such the difficulty in meeting someone he would feel comfortable sharing his life with. As a free settler he was in a position of power over so many, a position that could so easily be abused, and George had been so desperate not to do just that that it ruled out well over half of the female population in one swoop. Of course there were the daughters of the landowners, robust farm girls who were pleasant enough, but despite their fathers’ best efforts to align their daughters with the man who owned the largest cattle farm in Australia, no one had caught his interest.
Shaking his head, he knew that wasn’t the only reason. Once he had thought the most important thing in life was finding the right woman to spend it with. He’d looked up to his parents’ seemingly happy marriage and wanted to emulate it. Just as he had wanted to emulate his father in so many ways. That was until he’d realised it was all a lie. His father, the man who everyone knew for his generosity and virtue, had begun an affair with their female convict worker. He’d destroyed the partnership he’d shared with George’s mother and also dashed the respect George had felt for him.
