by Laura Martin
For a moment she thought she was back in her childhood room, the one at the top of the house with the big windows that was always filled with light. She’d shared it with her two sisters and there had always been a warm body pressed up against her on one side or the other when she’d woken in the mornings.
Only as her vision cleared and the room took shape before her eyes did she remember where she was. Mountain View Farm. Australia. Her thoughts were sluggish and her main preoccupation was the dryness of her mouth and the pounding in her head, so much so that it took her nearly a minute to register the arms wrapped around her body.
Alice stiffened, her whole body on edge as she slowly turned her head.
Of course it was Mr Fitzgerald. Who else would it be? As she looked into his peaceful face she felt some of the panic that had threaten to overwhelm her seep from her body. His head was resting against the metal headboard, twisted to the side at an uncomfortable angle. He held her loosely, his arms wrapped around her middle and she realised she must have slept with her body resting against his chest.
Trying to remember why he was there, she felt the fog descend again. Her thoughts were fragmented, her senses dulled, and before she could summon the energy to speak she felt herself slipping back into the darkness, once again consumed by the fire that burned on her skin.
* * *
George awoke to the sound of a door opening downstairs and felt panic instantly begin to well up inside him. It would be Mrs Peterson, arriving from her little cottage to start work for the day, getting the breakfast ready and the kitchen scrubbed and shining. He had to suppress a groan at the thought of her finding him here with Alice.
Of course it was all innocent. He’d comforted Alice in her delirium, that was all, but it didn’t look that way. Not with his arms wrapped around a scantily clad woman while they half-reclined in her bed. Mrs Peterson might be his housekeeper, his employee, but the woman had a strict set of morals and values, despite her shady past, and wouldn’t hold back from giving him a piece of her mind if she thought something was wrong. She wouldn’t look kindly on him spending time in Alice’s bedroom whatever the motivation and probably would find some way to blame Alice for it.
Carefully he shifted, laying Alice down on the bed, seeing her eyelids flutter open, but the effort was too much and she fell back into a restless slumber. With soft steps he padded over to the door, watching as she pushed the golden-red locks from her forehead in her sleep, before he slipped out in the darkness of the upstairs hall.
He was back in his bedroom before Mrs Peterson started bustling around downstairs and had pulled on his clothes within thirty seconds.
* * *
‘Alice is burning up,’ he said without any preamble as he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later. ‘She’s delirious.’
‘You’ve seen her?’ Mrs Peterson’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
‘She was crying out in her sleep so I went to check on her,’ he said, leaving out the details of how he’d held her warm body all night, his embrace the only thing keeping her demons at bay during the worst of the fever. ‘I’m going to take her some water, see if she can drink something.’
‘I should come, too,’ Mrs Peterson said, wrapping her apron strings around her waist and resolutely stepping forward.
‘I’m not going to take advantage of the poor girl, especially when she’s in such a state,’ George said with a frown.
‘I know that, Mr Fitzgerald,’ Mrs Peterson said with an earnest expression. ‘It’s not you that I’m worried about.’
‘Alice can hardly jump on me in her present condition, not that she’d want to anyway.’
‘You’ve never been good at seeing the bad in people,’ Mrs Peterson mumbled. ‘Or the good in yourself. You’re probably the most eligible man in Australia and you’re nice to boot. Of course a down-on-her-luck convict girl is going to see if she can snare you. What has she got to lose?’
George didn’t bother arguing. Mrs Peterson had been in his life for almost as long as he could remember and he knew she viewed him like the son she never had. It was only natural for her to be protective of him.
He patted her on the shoulder, picked up the glass of water and made his way back upstairs, hearing his housekeeper’s determined footsteps shadowing his.
Softly he knocked on Alice’s door, not expecting a response. Already he dreaded going inside and finding her in a worst state than when he’d left her only a few minutes ago. Fevers were unpredictable. One minute someone could be seeming to recover, their mind clear and their body strong, the next the fever had taken over again, plunging then back into confusion and pain.
Inside, the room was already hot from the sunlight streaming in and George could see the beads of sweat forming on the exposed skin above Alice’s nightgown, ready to trickle down beneath the cotton.
‘Alice,’ he called softly, not wanting to startle her. Her eyes flickered open, but there was no recognition behind the look. The normally sparkling blue of her irises even looked dulled, as if the fever was affecting every little part of her.
Crossing to the bed, he sat down, looping an arm around her waist and helping her into a sitting position. She reacted to his touch just as she had the night before, first stiffening and then relaxing into him.
‘Come away, sir,’ Mrs Peterson said, her voice tight. ‘It’s not right, not with her just in her nightgown.’
Ignoring his housekeeper’s words and disapproving expression, George lifted the glass of water to Alice’s lips and gently coaxed her to open her mouth a little, pouring some of the cool water inside. She swallowed, the sip seeming to revive her slightly, and opened her mouth for more.
‘So hot...’ she murmured after the third mouthful of water.
‘It’s the fever,’ George said, using his free hand to sweep the thick hair from her shoulders in a bid to cool her even slightly.
‘Mr Fitzgerald...’ Mrs Peterson said.
He turned to her and shook his head, an admonishing expression on his face. ‘The poor girl is ill, Mrs Peterson. And it is not like she’s got her mother to nurse her, or some other well-meaning female relative.’
‘Mr Fitzgerald...’ Alice croaked, and for the first time since he had slipped into her room the night before her eyes seemed to focus as they came up and met his. He saw the relief in her eyes and in that moment he vowed he would stay with her until she recovered. He was the reason she was in this state, the reason she’d slipped and slid in that muddy pond, so he would be the one to stay by her bedside until he knew she was recovering. It was the least he could do.
‘Hush, Alice, you’re safe,’ he said as gently as he could.
She held his gaze for a few seconds before her body relaxed and she drifted back to a feverish sleep.
‘I’ll get some water in a bowl and a sponge,’ Mrs Peterson said, her face unreadable, but her voice a little softer than before. ‘A freshen up will make her feel better, I’m sure.’
Left alone once again with Alice, George looked down at her sleeping form. He’d only known her a short while, time that had slipped by so fast, and so much was still a mystery about her, but he felt a connection with this young woman. They might be on opposite sides of the wheel of fortune, him riding the top and her stuck at rock bottom, but there was an affinity between them, something that seemed to transcend their circumstances. He thought of her slipping and sliding in the mud to come and rescue him after he’d become trapped in a particularly muddy spot. About her determination and strength when he’d first met her, sore from the whipping, but still resolved to stand on her own two feet. About the slow trust she was beginning to show him, the glimpses of her true personality she’d kept suppressed for so long, but was gradually allowing to come out.
‘Get better for me, Alice,’ he murmured, leaning forward and planting a soft kiss on her forehead. ‘You’ve got so much life to li
ve yet.’
Chapter Eleven
Alice felt as though she were living in a nightmare. Days seemed to pass in a blur, with occasional moments of lucidity, but mostly filled with nightmares and hallucinations. People she knew couldn’t be there appeared by her bedside. Sometimes her mother and sisters, welcome visitors who made her feel an acute homesickness even in her dreams. Sometimes more unwelcome visitors. Bill appeared a few times, that charming smile on his face that had once made her go weak at the knees, but now she knew hid a multitude of sins. Mostly she remembered him as he was during their time in London together. Smooth talking, charming to anyone outside looking in, but with an undercurrent of violence.
Once he appeared in an altogether different form. More disturbing even than the Bill that had stolen her dreams and her future. He’d appeared bloated and black, his eyes unmoving and glassy and a vibrant red ring around his neck from the noose that had killed him. Then she’d shouted out, screamed as his foul body had come towards her, only to be pulled back to reality by strong arms and soothing words.
She couldn’t understand why Mr Fitzgerald was spending so much time on her. He wasn’t there every time she opened her eyes, but he was at her bedside a lot. Some time in the last few days he’d moved one of his comfortable armchairs from his study up to her bedroom and spent much of his time sitting there beside her, ready to offer her a sip of water or pull her from the worst of her hallucinations. Alice didn’t know any other employer who would be quite so caring, but even in their short acquaintance she had begun to realise Mr Fitzgerald was the rarest of men.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said as she shifted in the bed.
‘Afternoon,’ she managed to croak. Her throat felt as though it had been stuffed with sand and her tongue felt too big for her mouth.
Carefully he brought the glass of water to her lips and let her take a long sip. It felt wonderfully cool and refreshing.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked after giving her a moment to gather her thoughts.
‘Awake,’ she said, feeling foolish at the answer. But it did describe exactly how she felt. After sleeping for days on end she finally felt ready to be awake. ‘Properly awake. Not just drifting into consciousness.’
He grinned, that smile that even in her weakened state managed to make something inside her tighten and squeeze.
‘You’ve had me worried, Alice, but I think you might just have broken the fever.’
‘What day is it?’ she asked.
‘Tuesday.’
Five days. Five whole days that had just passed in a blur.
She looked down at her hands resting on the clean white bedsheet, then at the freshly laundered nightgown she was wearing. Definitely not the same one she’d put on a few days ago when the fever had first caught hold.
‘Mrs Peterson,’ Mr Fitzgerald clarified, holding out his hands as if to ward off an attack as he watched the direction of her gaze. ‘She helped you get changed yesterday and changed the sheets at the same time, I presume.’
‘I shall have to thank her.’ She felt the blush of embarrassment colour her cheeks at his reaction. Of course he would not be the one to change her, to bathe her body.
Thinking of bathing, she raised a hand to her hair and grimaced as she felt the matted locks. Five days of feverish tossing and turning wouldn’t have done much for her appearance.
Why do you care? the little voice in her head asked and she glanced involuntarily at the man sitting beside her. The man who had taken time out of his busy schedule to stay with her when she was at her most vulnerable.
‘I must look terrible,’ she said, pulling the sheets up to almost her chin to cover herself.
‘No,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, shaking his head, ‘Not terrible. Surprising when you’ve been so very unwell.’
‘Do you think...?’ She trailed off, unable to finish the question.
‘That the fever has really broken?’
She nodded her head. Alice knew that her life had hung in the balance the past few days. It had taken all her energy, all her strength, to fight the fever. Her body had been unable to function in any other way, but now she was awake and lucid and felt cautiously optimistic.
‘I think so,’ Mr Fitzgerald said slowly and she saw the relief in his expression. She appreciated his concern for her, really she shouldn’t matter to him, being just a convict worker, but she knew he truly wanted her to recover and not just so she could get back to work. ‘I shall send for the doctor today—he can have a look at your wounds.’
Alice nodded. He wouldn’t be able to do anything, but at least the man would be able to give an opinion on whether the infection was improving.
‘Now I should leave you to rest. You’ve had a draining couple of days.’
He stood, hesitating for a moment, before reaching out and giving her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I’m happy you’re recovering, Alice. You gave us all a scare.’
Alice looked up at him and gripped his hand just a little harder, stopping him from pulling away immediately.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For staying with me. I know you didn’t have to, but it gave me comfort.’
He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight, ‘Just don’t tell Mrs Peterson, she thinks you’ve ensnared me somehow and I’ve been spending too much time with you.’
‘She’s right.’ Alice reddened and quickly corrected herself. ‘Not about the ensnaring, but you shouldn’t have spent so much time in here, I’m sure you’ve got much better things to be doing.’
‘What could be more important than looking after someone who draws comfort from you?’ he asked.
Alice felt a little pang of sadness. His words confirmed it; he saw her as one of his stray and injured animals, needing rescuing and nursing back to health. Soon he would be ready to set her back into the wild.
Chiding herself for the vague hope she was repressing that there might be something more to his care, she smiled at him and let his hand slip from hers. It wasn’t just their stations in life that separated them, there were so many other reasons he would never see her for anything more than a girl who’d needed his help. With anyone else she would embrace the lack of interest, but Mr Fitzgerald was a hard man not to care about and Alice knew she would have to guard her heart very carefully if she didn’t want to get hurt.
* * *
George paused outside Alice’s door, balancing the tray in one hand as he knocked quietly. Since waking this morning Alice had been much more alert, sleeping for some of the time, but her waking moments were lucid and clear. The doctor had visited and declared her to likely be over the worst, but needing to rest and recuperate to build up her strength.
‘Come in,’ Alice called, her voice sounding stronger than it had done earlier in the day.
George opened the door and felt his breath catch in his chest. Alice was propped up in bed, her hair draped over one shoulder, a book open in her lap. The late evening sun streamed through the window, bathing everything in a golden light and picking out the red tones of Alice’s hair so it glinted and shone. She was looking over to him with a genuine smile, one that widened when she saw what he carried on the tray.
‘I brought dinner,’ he said, shutting the door behind him.
‘I’m starving.’
‘I thought you might be. Five days without any food and anyone would be hungry.’
‘You’d think you’d get used to hunger,’ Alice said, shaking her head. ‘On the ship we were always hungry, always fighting for scraps of food. But even after all those months of hunger I’m still not accustomed to it.’
George was surprised at her candour and the unasked details of her past. Everything else he knew about her was from his questioning; Alice didn’t offer much up voluntarily.
‘Mrs Peterson brought me something at lunchtime...’ she said, trailing off, her eyes flickering to the bowl t
hat sat beside the bed.
‘Let me guess...a nice hearty bowl of broth?’
‘I couldn’t stomach it.’
George pulled a face. He remembered the broth from his childhood, the thin soup his diet every time he was ill. ‘For some reason she thinks it speeds recovery.’ He grinned. ‘I used to get creative in where I’d empty the bowl out when I was a lad. Killed a potted fern my mother was particularly keen on once. I think it was the salt.’
‘What have you got there?’ Alice asked, her eyes straining to see what he had on the tray. ‘Not more broth?’
‘No, I sneaked a few little bits past Mrs Peterson.’ With a flourish he brought the tray closer and showed her the plates of bread and cheese with a few cold cuts of meat.
‘That looks heavenly.’
Placing the tray on the floor by the bed, George dragged over the little writing desk to act as a table, then set about making Alice a plate up. He watched as she took her first mouthful, her eyes closed as she savoured the taste.
‘Much better than broth.’
‘Just don’t let Mrs Peterson hear you say that.’
Alice took another bite before speaking. ‘When I was unconscious,’ she said slowly, ‘I had awful dreams—hallucinations, I suppose.’ Her eyes came up to meet his and he saw the fear there. George began to reach forward, to pull her into his arms, but remembered himself just in time, changing the movement to reach out and take a slice of bread. ‘There was no one else here besides you?’ she asked.
‘No one.’
He saw the tension seep from her shoulders, the relief flood her face.
‘You did talk a lot, though,’ he said.
Her eyes flickered up to meet his and he saw the panic rekindle.
‘Mainly about someone called Bill. I got the impression he wasn’t a particularly nice man.’