by Laura Martin
For a long time he hadn’t been able to look at his father in the same way. George hated him, for how he hurt his mother and for the seeming double standards. After years of preaching about equality and kindness, he had abused his position of power and treated the convict worker poorly.
He would not make the same mistakes. It had made George distrust relationships, made him realise that even the seemingly strongest unions had flaws when you got close.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Crawford said, standing and making his way to the door. ‘I need to ride over to Robertson’s to extend the invitation and I’m sure you’re anxious to hear what the doctor has to say about your Alice.’
‘Until tomorrow evening,’ George said, following his friend out of the room and pushing away the thought of his father at the same time. Neither Crawford nor Robertson knew about the affair with the convict worker—both still thought George’s father to be a saint.
He watched Crawford ride off into the distance, a cloud of dust billowing behind his horse and giving George a stark reminder of just how dry the land was. Although his farm had survived while he was away, it hadn’t exactly prospered and with the drought they could be looking at harder times ahead. In the next few days he would have to get out further afield and see things for himself. Mr Williams had visited him a couple of times, giving him a detailed overview, but there was nothing like being out on the land yourself.
Once Crawford had disappeared over the horizon George went back inside, heading directly for the stairs and taking them two at a time. He paused outside Alice’s room, hearing the deep voice of the doctor, wondering if he should go in, but resisted the temptation to knock. Privacy was one thing Alice would have lacked these past few years. It was the least he could afford her now.
* * *
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Alice said as she pulled on her dress.
The doctor was an elderly man with a shock of white hair, a thick beard and moustache that drooped down over his lip like a wilted leaf. He spoke with a soft drawl that Alice had heard once or twice before, from people who came from Devon or Cornwall, somewhere in the west of England, although his was hardened as if it had soaked up the rougher accents of the coarse convicts hailing mainly from London and the south.
He barely acknowledged her, packing up his bag and letting himself out of the room even before she was fully dressed. Resting her forehead in her hands, she took a deep breath, trying to take in everything the medical man had told her. Then she rose and made her way to the door. It would be pointless to sit and stew on his words, what would be would be and spending the next fortnight worrying would not help matters in the slightest.
‘I’d send her back,’ Dr Whittaker was saying, his voice void of any concern for his patient.
She waited to hear Mr Fitzgerald’s answer, curious to find she didn’t feel apprehensive at all. It wasn’t that she didn’t mind if she stayed or was forced to return to Sydney, to the laundry and the guards and the awful life she’d led—of course she minded. It was that she was quietly confident that Mr Fitzgerald wouldn’t even contemplate that as an option.
‘He’s one of the few good men in this country,’ she murmured to herself. And he was. In just a short time he’d restored her faith in humanity. He’d shown her that not everyone was out for what they could take from you, not everyone was selfish and cruel.
‘That’s not an option,’ Mr Fitzgerald said calmly and she could just imagine his cool, confident stare and unwavering determination as he spoke.
‘Then you’ll have to wait and see. One of the wounds is inflamed, but only mildly so at the moment. Either her body will fight it and she’ll survive or a fever will take hold.’
‘Is there anything we can do to improve her chances?’
There was a pause before the doctor spoke again. ‘Rest, good food, a little light exercise, nothing strenuous. These would be the things I’d be advising for a normal person. But the patient is a convict worker and I am a realist. You won’t be wanting to rest her and lose out on money. So just work her as usual and either she’ll survive or she won’t.’
Alice felt the sadness well up inside her and manifest as a thick lump at the base of her throat that made it hard to swallow. So many people were like the doctor, so many people saw her life as worthless now, just because of one mistake she’d made as a foolish nineteen-year-old girl.
She heard Mr Fitzgerald murmur something under his breath, then the chink of coins as he paid the doctor for his time. Slinking back into the shadows, she waited for the medical man to leave before she quietly knocked on the door to the study.
‘Come in,’ Mr Fitzgerald’s voice called. He was standing by the window, looking out over the fields as she entered, turning only after a couple of seconds. As he spun to face her the light from the window bathed him in a golden glow, glinting off his hair and beard and making him seem other-worldly for an instant.
‘The doctor told you what he saw?’ Alice asked quietly.
‘He did.’
She nodded, trying to fight back the tears. A few months ago she hadn’t cared if she’d lived or died, but now she felt as though she were coming out of the darkness. Now she wanted to live.
Wordlessly Alice bit her lip, knowing the tears might begin to fall if she tried to say anything more.
Mr Fitzgerald stepped forward and gently took her hand, holding it as softly as he might a china doll, and waited for her to look up at him before he spoke.
‘You will survive this, Alice,’ he said, with a quiet conviction in his voice that almost persuaded her on the spot. ‘A little rest, some good food and careful bathing and those wounds will get better every day. You’re young and healthy, there’s no reason this will get the better of you.’
‘You should send me back,’ she said quietly, knowing she was pushing for a reassurance he shouldn’t need to give her, but wanting it all the same.
‘I meant what I said earlier. You have a home here for the remainder of your sentence, whether you are up to working or not.’
‘I should work, no matter what the doctor said.’
He smiled at her, a flash of something in his blue-green eyes that Alice was beginning to recognise whenever he was making a plan.
‘I have a very important job for you,’ he said, letting go of her hand and stepping away to his desk. Alice followed him, wondering what it could be. ‘Tell me, back home did you celebrate Christmas?’
Memories of the family gathered around the fire on cold Christmas Days, merry and laughing, exchanging presents and singing songs, assailed her. It was memories like this that made her realise how foolish she’d been wanting to escape the monotony of country life. Her couple of Christmases with Bill in London had been much more grim, not occasions to celebrate.
‘We did,’ she said, forcing her thoughts to the happier times at home with her parents and sisters.
‘Carols and good food and the exchanging of gifts?’ he asked.
‘All that and more. My sisters and I would decorate the house with mistletoe and sprigs of holly and my father would save up all year for the finest joint of meat from the butcher.’
‘You have fond memories?’
She nodded, revelling in the warmth she felt as she remembered her mother’s smile at the family being gathered together on Christmas Day each and every year.
‘So do I. It was one of the traditions my parents were keen to bring over with them from England. We always celebrated. We’d go to church, of course, but we’d have a family celebration as well. My mother would decorate the house and we would all exchange gifts. Mrs Peterson would always cook a feast of a Christmas dinner. Christmas time holds some of my happiest memories.’
‘What job do you want me to do?’ Alice asked, intrigued.
‘I want you to prepare the house for a wonderful Christmas celebration. Decorate the drawing room, c
onsult with Mrs Peterson on the menu, see what elements of an English Christmas you can bring into this stifling Australian December.’
‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ Alice said softly, ‘that’s not work. You should be setting me about polishing the furniture and changing the sheets, not enjoying myself preparing the house for a Christmas celebration.’
He looked at her with mock-admonishment. ‘Who is the master of this house?’ he asked. ‘If I want to set my convict worker to finding an Australian substitute for holly, then who is anyone to protest?’
Alice smiled, she couldn’t help it.
‘The doctor said to rest. This way I still get some work out of you, but you’re not doing anything too strenuous,’ he said more seriously. ‘And I like Christmas, it’s one of my favourite times of year.’
‘If you’re sure...’
‘I’m sure. You’ve got four weeks until Christmas. Four weeks to prepare the house and recuperate from your wounds. After that I promise I’ll let you attack the dust on the furniture.’
Alice felt a thrill of anticipation at the idea of her job for the next few weeks. Mr Fitzgerald had said it was one of his favourite times of year—the very least she could do was make it as special as she could for him.
‘You have an invitation,’ he said nonchalantly as she turned to leave.
‘An invitation?’
‘Crawford and his wife invited me to dinner and asked if you would come along.’
She blinked, lost for words. Surely they knew she was a servant, even lower than a servant. Convict workers weren’t invited to dinner by wealthy landowners, it just didn’t happen.
‘I... You... I...’ Alice stammered, unsure what to say.
‘It’s your decision,’ he said with a shrug, picking up some papers on his desk. ‘If you feel up to it tomorrow, then let me know.’
Alice knew she should take her leave, but was so astounded by the invitation she felt rooted to the spot.
‘Do they know I’m a convict?’ she asked eventually.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
‘You don’t have to decide now,’ he said with a smile. ‘Think about it and let me know tomorrow.’
Nodding, Alice left the room, utterly perplexed as to why Mr Fitzgerald’s friends would invite a lowly convict worker to dinner, and unsure whether she should accept or politely decline.
Chapter Ten
George awoke suddenly. He had been sleeping fitfully, his body not yet adjusted to the sweltering heat of the Australian summer, and twice already he’d made his way downstairs for a glass of water. It wasn’t thirst that awoke him this time though, but a low, keening wail, a noise that sent shivers through his body.
Sitting up, he listened intently, waiting for the sound again, wondering if it had been a fleeting figment of his dream. Thirty seconds ticked past, then a minute, the silence of the middle of the night pervading the room, and then suddenly the wail started up again.
At first he thought it might be an injured animal. Perhaps some predator had got into the enclosure where the kangaroos were kept or even a wild animal had been attacked out on the farm, but as he listened intently he realised with a sinking heart that the noise was coming from inside the house.
He sprang out of bed and was halfway to the door when he remembered he was completely naked. Normally this didn’t matter. The Petersons had a little cottage half a mile away they retreated to every evening so he was used to being the only occupant of Mountain View House. But not any longer.
Quickly he pulled on a pair of trousers, leaving his top half bare as he heard the low wail again and hurried from the room.
He hesitated outside Alice’s door, wondering if she had placed the chair underneath the handle as he’d suggested on her first day in his home. With a shrug he knocked, not expecting an answer. There were two reasons Alice could be making such a noise as the one that had woken him. The first, and most preferable, was that she was in the middle of a bad dream. The second, which he was fearing, was that the wound on her back had festered and she was feverish and delirious.
There was no answer. George tried the door, surprised when it opened easily, no sign of a chair to keep unwanted interlopers out. It was dark in the room, but the moonlight shone in through the window, giving just enough light for him to see Alice’s silhouette curled up on the bed.
‘Alice,’ he called out, not wanting to startle her if she was just having a bad dream.
She mumbled something incomprehensible under her breath, falling silent for a few seconds before the low moan started up again.
‘Wake up, Alice,’ he said, stepping closer.
There was no reply. Quickly he crossed the room, laying a hand on her shoulder and feeling his heart sink as his hand came away slick with sweat. She was burning up, her skin on fire, and even in the darkness of the room he could see her eyes were half-open and unfocused as she succumbed to her delirium. He felt the crashing weight of worry and guilt, the knowledge that it was his fault her wounds had festered, his fault she was now fighting for her life.
‘Please, Bill, no,’ she muttered, thrashing her head from side to side.
‘Hush, Alice,’ he murmured, crossing to the window and throwing it open. Although the night outside was sweltering he could feel a slight breeze through the open window and knew it would cool her skin a little. It wouldn’t be enough, though.
‘I don’t want to do it,’ she called out. ‘Please don’t make me.’
‘You’re safe, Alice,’ he said, wondering if he was speaking the truth. She might be safe from Bill, whoever he was, but she had a new enemy now. The fever that had taken over her body in such a short time.
Carefully he peeled back the sheets that covered her, trying not to notice the way her nightdress clung to her and instead keeping his eyes on her flushed cheeks and half-open eyes.
‘No, Bill.’ She was shouting now. ‘Please don’t. We’ll find the money another way.’
‘Hush,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking her into his arms. Gently he stroked her hair, murmuring soothing noises in her ear as he rocked her backward and forward as if she were a small child frightened by something out of her control. At first she was stiff and unyielding in his arms, but slowly she softened, sinking into him and seeming to take comfort from his presence.
The mutterings subsided as she fell into a fitful sleep, but every so often she would stiffen and whimper in his arms.
‘Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly, lavender’s green. When you are king, dilly-dilly, I shall be queen. Who told you so, dilly-dilly, who told you so? ʼTwas my own heart, dilly-dilly, that told me so.’
He sang quietly, the words of the song his mother had sung to him as a boy whenever he’d been ill or injured low and melodious. It seemed to have a calming effect on Alice and her intermittent whimpers quietened as he sung and her body relaxed further. After a few repetitions he felt her breathing deepen and become more regular as she fell into a restful sleep.
* * *
George had sat perfectly still, his arms wrapped round Alice’s warm body, for half an hour until he felt his eyelids begin to get heavy and his head start to droop. He was in danger of dropping off with her in his arms so he slowly tried to extricate himself, cradling her body to him for a few seconds before gently placing it down on the bed.
As soon as her skin touched the sheets and he pulled away she began to moan again, her eyes flickering but unseeing in the darkness, her head thrashing slowly from side to side.
‘Hush,’ he said, stroking her hair back from her damp forehead.
‘Please don’t do that, Bill. I didn’t mean to...’ she muttered, the words coming out in a gush. He was beginning to dislike whoever this Bill was and wondered if he was someone from her life back in England or one of the men who’d made her so distrustful since receiving her sentence.
George shook his head ruefully as he realised how little he knew about Alice. She’d given so little away about her background, her life before Australia. Perhaps this Bill was a lover or a friend or a brother. Whoever he was he sounded like trouble.
The idea of Alice having a lover sat uncomfortably with him and he had to remind himself that he should have absolutely no interest in Alice’s personal life. He’d involved himself in her welfare, promised to keep her safe for the remaining few years of her sentence, but further than that he shouldn’t care if she had a string of lovers.
As he stood he watched Alice begin to toss and turn again on the bed, the sheet becoming tangled around her within a couple of seconds and making her movements even more frenzied. Carefully he pulled it to one side, eyeing the door before sitting down back on the bed and scooping her once again into his arms. This time it took five repetitions of the soothing song to calm her, and when she drifted into a deeper sleep George rested his head back against the headboard and allowed his own eyes to close. He would just rest his eyes for a few minutes, then when Alice had become calmer he could slip out before she awoke. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up in his arms and think he was as bad as she’d first feared, ogling her while she was dressed only in her nightgown.
* * *
Alice’s first thought was of fire. It felt as though her whole body was aflame, her skin prickling with heat. It was unbearable and even before her mind was fully conscious she felt a low groan escape from her lips.
Uncomfortably she shifted, wondering why she was quite so hot, then forced her eyes to flicker open. Sunlight streamed into the room, blinding her momentarily and forcing her eyes to half-close until she adjusted to the light, and even when she did so everything remained blurry for a few seconds.