Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas

‘Are you feeling fit enough to travel?’ he asked, standing. His movements were lithe and fluid, despite his size, and Alice was surprised to find him in front of her before she could blink.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, looking at the ground. She was in a fix, there was no denying it. It would be foolish to run off here, with so many guards patrolling the city overseeing the work gangs of convicts. One shout from the man in front of her and she’d be dragged back to the whipping post. Still, the idea of leaving everything she’d known for the past nine months behind made her feel queasy.

‘After you.’ He took a step back and extended his arm, inviting her to go ahead of him. Alice blinked a couple of times, unused to anyone displaying manners like this, then stepped forward.

‘I’ll call in next week and settle the bill,’ Mr Fitzgerald called over his shoulder to the landlady. She nodded graciously and Alice wondered what kind of influence he must have if he could walk away with just the promise of payment some time in the future.

Outside there was a cart, loaded up with a couple of large trunks and space up front for two. Mr Fitzgerald paused in front of it, holding out his hand to help her up. Alice brushed past him, ignoring the hand, and hauled herself up on to the seat. Once she was settled she squeezed herself over as far as she could go, but the seat was small and as he climbed up his body brushed against hers. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to let the panic of being in such close proximity to someone overwhelm her.

‘Comfortable?’ he asked, looking at her shrewdly.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked, trying to focus on the road in front of them rather than the man sitting next to her.

Mr Fitzgerald shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by her brusqueness.

They set off through the streets of Sydney, heading west at a sedate pace. The sun was high in the sky even though it was still an hour or two before midday and it beat down relentlessly. If their journey lasted any longer than half an hour no doubt she would turn pink on any exposed bits of skin. She’d been in Australia for a few months shy of a year now, but this was the hottest month yet. In England at the end of November they would be getting ready for snow, but here the temperatures just kept creeping up. It would be strange to have Christmas in the sweltering heat rather than the dull coldness of a December in England.

“Will you tell me your name?” he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them.

“Alice,” she offered. “Alice Fillips.”

‘Tell me about yourself, Alice,’ Mr Fitzgerald said as they made their way out of Sydney. The road ahead was dusty but clear and he had relaxed back into the seat next to her, holding the reins casually in one hand.

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. Although many of the men she’d met on the transport ship and since arriving in Australia weren’t this subtle, there had been a couple. A couple of men who’d tried to trick her with kindness, to make her let down her guard so they could slip in and take advantage.

‘What would you like to know, sir?’ she asked, her voice flat.

‘Do I detect a Yorkshire accent?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Yes, sir. I grew up in Yorkshire, just outside of Whitby. I moved to London when I was sixteen.’ She kept her answer short, her voice terse, trying to discourage any more questions.

For a moment she felt a pang of homesickness, not for the crowded streets of the capital where she’d spent her years as an adult, but for the carefree life she’d left behind in Whitby. At the time the rolling Yorkshire countryside had seemed dull and Alice had been eager for any opportunity to get away; now she would give almost anything to be back there safely with her sisters.

‘And how long have you been in Australia?’ he asked, glancing over at her. Alice shifted. Of course he would want to know about her crime. Whatever his motivation was for rescuing her from the whip and taking her into his home, he would want to know what kind of woman he’d taken on.

‘Nine months,’ she said. ‘I spent a year of my sentence in gaol in England, then nearly a year on board the transport ship. I have just over two years left to serve.’

He nodded and Alice waited for the inevitable query as to her crime. The seconds ticked past and it didn’t come. Mr Fitzgerald was just sitting there, surveying the road ahead, and by the expression on his face he couldn’t care less what she’d been convicted of.

‘Don’t you want to know what I did, sir?’ she asked, her tone challenging.

He shrugged. ‘If you want to tell me.’

She frowned. Everyone wanted to know what crimes had brought people to this country: the woman she’d worked for in the laundry, the stern couple who’d provided her lodgings. It was expected that she divulge her crime over and over again and now this man didn’t seem overly bothered by what she’d done. It was unsettling.

‘You’re taking me to your home, but you don’t want to know what crime I committed?’ she asked eventually. It felt wrong, suspicious.

He looked at her, a smile fighting to gain control of his lips. ‘Five years,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If they only sentenced you to five years, it couldn’t have been anything too terrible.’

It was true the murderers and the violent criminals weren’t often the ones who found themselves aboard the transport ships to the other side of the world, and especially not for a mere five-year sentence. Most of Alice’s fellow convicts were thieves, pickpockets or men who’d stolen from their masters or forged documents. They still could be violent and cruel, but the crimes were not often the most heinous.

‘I like Yorkshire,’ Mr Fitzgerald said after a few minutes’ silence. ‘Very dramatic scenery. The moors, the cliffs.’

‘You’ve been?’ Alice cursed herself for the instinctive question. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage conversation. She wasn’t even sure why she was surprised. Most people in Australia hadn’t been born there. The man next to her could have started life anywhere in England.

‘Recently. I’ve just got back from my very first visit to England. I travelled a lot—given the distance, it might have been my only opportunity.’

It felt strange to be sitting next to this man making small talk. Although she wasn’t a slave and had some rights, she had been given to him as a convict worker, required to follow his rules and do what he said or risk the harsh punishments dealt out to those convicts not seen to be toeing the line. Still, she could use the opportunity to get some information on the man who’d rescued her. It always paid to know those you were forced to be close to.

‘You sailed to England?’ she asked, feeling her heart hammering in her chest. It seemed impossible—although ships did leave for England, no one she knew had ever been aboard one. Probably some of the guards went home after their stint in Australia was up, but even most of those chose to stay and make a life for themselves in the colony. And the convicts... Well, everyone dreamed of going home, but a passage was far too expensive. That was the harshest part of the sentence they’d received for their crimes. Five years in prison for theft was one thing if your family and friends were waiting for you when you were released, but once you’d been transported to the other side of the world it was likely you’d never make it home again.

‘I did. I’d only just disembarked the ship this morning when I heard you screaming.’

Alice shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The wounds on her back were throbbing and as the temperature rose little beads of sweat were forming and trickling down into them, making the pain worse.

‘But you said it was your first visit to England?’

‘It was. I was born here. My parents made the journey while my mother was pregnant.’

‘But they weren’t...’ Alice hesitated—most people settled in Australia were ex-convicts or guards, but a few families had decided to make the colony their home out of choice ‘...convicts?’

Mr Fitzgerald laughed and Alice saw the way his eyes crinkled, the flash of white teeth and something tightened inside her. Pushing away the feeling, she looked down at her hands, focusing on the chapped skin, cracked from all the time spent working in the laundry.

‘No, not convicts, just dreamers,’ he said fondly. ‘My father believed Australia to be the land of opportunity and for him it was true.’ He paused, looking at her with a broad smile. ‘You’re very adept at that,’ he said.

‘At what?’

‘Deflection. I still know next to nothing about you.’

Alice hadn’t even realised she’d done it. Keeping as much of herself private as possible had become second nature to her over the past few years. The less people knew about you, the less ammunition they had to hurt you with.

She opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off by Mr Fitzgerald pulling on the reins and abruptly jumping down off the cart. She peered after him, trying to work out what had made him stop so suddenly. Inside her chest she could feel her heart hammering and a coil of icy dread snaking through her stomach.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice shrill.

‘Come here,’ Mr Fitzgerald said quietly.

She glanced at the reins, wondering how far she would get if she grabbed them and rode off. There was no reason for Mr Fitzgerald to stop the cart out here in the middle of nowhere. No good reason.

Alice shuddered as she remembered the men on the transport ship, the arms holding her down, the warm breath on her neck. She would never let another man have the opportunity to attack her again, even if it meant committing another crime to get out of the situation.

Mr Fitzgerald glanced back at her, frowning slightly, but then turned away again, his attention focused on something at the side of the road. Alice hesitated. It could be a ploy, a way to distract her, but as he moved to one side she saw him crouch down next to something brown and furry.

Carefully, trying not to open the wounds on her back any more, Alice stood and climbed down from the cart, too, crossing to where Mr Fitzgerald had knelt down by the side of the road. They’d left Sydney behind them and were now on a dusty road winding through farmland on the Sydney plain. It was the furthest Alice had been from the city since her arrival in Australia and as she walked across the road she was struck with the beauty of the land sprawling out in front of her.

‘She’s injured,’ Mr Fitzgerald said as Alice crouched down beside him. ‘Looks like the work of a dingo.’

‘A dingo?’

‘Large native dog. They’re a pest to livestock, vicious, too, and they love kangaroo meat.’

Peering over his shoulder, Alice saw the kangaroo. It was large and would have been almost comical looking if it wasn’t for the blood matted in its fur. She could see it wasn’t breathing, there had been no movement since they’d hopped down from the cart, and she wondered what exactly Mr Fitzgerald was hoping to achieve by stopping.

‘Come here, little one,’ he murmured, leaning forward and lifting a brown little bundle out from the kangaroo’s pouch.

‘A baby?’ Alice asked in surprise.

Mr Fitzgerald nodded, handling the small animal with care as he stroked its furry little head.

‘It’s all right,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve got you. We’ll keep you safe.’

Alice watched as he stood and shrugged off his jacket, wrapping the baby kangaroo in it before holding the bundle out to her.

‘I c-can’t...’ she stammered.

‘Of course you can. I’ve got to drive the cart.’

‘What if I hurt it?’

‘Did you have any animals growing up?’ he asked.

Nodding, she remembered the beautiful collie her older sister had brought home one day. ‘A dog.’

‘And did that dog ever have puppies?’

‘A couple of litters.’

‘Think of this just like a puppy. He just needs a little love and attention, handle him carefully but he is a sturdy little joey.’

Alice reached out and took the little animal, feeling its warmth through the fabric of Mr Fitzgerald’s jacket. Carefully she set it on her lap once she’d climbed back aboard the cart and gently stroked its fur. At first she could feel him trembling, but after a few seconds the kangaroo seemed to relax under her touch and snuggled in deeper on her lap.

‘Time to go home,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, urging the horse forward. His hand brushed against her thigh as he rested the reins down and Alice stiffened. She glared at him, trying to work out if it had been deliberate or not, but he seemed oblivious, staring out into the distance as if he were soaking up the view for the first time.

Chapter Three

‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ Mrs Peterson’s delighted voice called out from the doorway of his house and George could see the older woman had to hold herself back to stop running to embrace him.

‘You are a sight for travel-weary eyes, Mrs Peterson. I am glad to be home.’

‘We’ve missed you, sir. We’ve missed you sorely.’

George hopped down from the cart just as the lumbering form of Mr Peterson rounded the corner, a bright smile lighting up his face.

‘You should have sent word. I’d have been at the docks to meet you if I’d known you were coming.’

The couple had been convict workers assigned to his father’s farm many years ago. They’d served out their sentences, found companionship in one another, and stayed on as live-in servants for well over twenty years. When George’s parents had passed away, there had been no question of the Petersons going elsewhere, and for the past eight years they had looked after his home and him with devotion.

‘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 have 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.’