by Laura Martin
‘Do you have time for a drink?’ Crawford asked.
George looked up at the sun. It was already getting late, but he wanted nothing more than to spend an hour chewing over the political ins and outs of the country he loved with Crawford.
‘Please do, I am eager to take a stroll with Alice, if you’d care to accompany me. I promise we will stick to the shade,’ Francesca said, smiling sweetly.
Next to him Alice stiffened. She wasn’t used to kindness, to someone showing an interest in her.
‘Of course,’ Alice murmured.
‘Wonderful.’
George stepped down, taking Alice’s hand and helping her from the cart. As she stepped off she stumbled, her foot catching on the hem of her dress, sending her crashing into his chest. George instinctively caught her in his arms, steadying her, holding on for a few seconds until he knew she wasn’t going to overbalance. As he did so he caught a hint of her scent, the honey from the soap she used and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a little jasmine from the flowers in the garden. It made something tighten inside him and he had to set his face into an unreadable expression before he stepped away.
He and Crawford watched the two ladies walk away arm in arm before they continued through the streets to tavern they had frequented for years before their trip to England. Once the cart and horses were safely stowed away they entered, pleased to be out of the sun even though the interior was stuffy.
‘You’re smitten,’ Crawford said as they sat down with their tall glasses of ale.
‘What?’
‘You’re smitten,’ he repeated, no hint of doubt in his voice.
George didn’t reply. Crawford was an astute man and had known him for a long time. Any protestation would sound weak and untrue.
‘She’s pretty,’ Crawford said slowly. ‘Nice smile, lovely eyes, curves where they should be, but we’ve known plenty of pretty young women in our time and I’ve never seen you look like this before.’
George took a slow sip of ale, swallowing the cool liquid before speaking.
‘How do I look?’
‘You look at her like I look at Frannie.’
Crawford had been head over heels in love with his wife for years and it would appear marriage had only increased that affection.
‘I do feel something for her,’ George admitted.
Crawford grinned, clapping his friend on the back. ‘Struck down by love, isn’t it a wonderful feeling. Terrible, of course, but wonderful, too.’
‘I’m not sure it’s love,’ George said slowly. ‘I barely know her.’
Crawford shrugged. ‘You will.’
‘Nothing can happen.’
‘Why ever not? You like her. She likes you. You’re both consenting adults. Sounds pretty straightforward.’
‘When she first came to the farm she was rather jumpy. In fact, the first thing she said to me when I rescued her from that whipping post was that she wouldn’t be my whore. She doesn’t trust men. She doesn’t trust anyone.’
For a moment Crawford’s eyes became distant as they always did when he was remembering his own time on the transport ship as a convict.
‘She wouldn’t have had it easy,’ he agreed, his fingers drumming on the table. ‘But already I can see she trusts you.’
‘Exactly. She trusts me. I can’t break that by doing the one thing she expected of me when we first met—taking advantage of her. She’s had enough people treat her badly.’
‘But you wouldn’t be taking advantage of her,’ Crawford said.
George ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed at the stubble on his face. ‘I would. I’m her employer, she’s my convict worker. It’s not an equal relationship to start with.’ He thought with a pang of nausea of his father and the inappropriate relationship with the convict girl that had destroyed both him and George’s mother, in more ways than one. He didn’t want history to repeat itself. Not that he could tell Crawford that. Both Robertson and Crawford thought George’s father had been a saint and in many ways he had been kind and generous. But he hadn’t been perfect. George wasn’t about to wreck his friend’s memories of the man who’d saved them from a life of drudgery, so the less moral of his father’s actions he kept to himself.
‘You think she would feel obliged to pretend feelings that weren’t there.’
He thought of her fire, her feistiness, the way she’d stood up to him when they’d first met.
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But I find myself not wanting to ruin her opinion of me. I want her to feel safe at Mountain View Farm, to have a refuge there for the next few years. If I push forward and make an advance which is unwelcome, it is hardly a safe haven for her.’
‘But if you don’t you risk losing the woman who could be the one for you.’
He thought of her smile, the way sometimes she fought it as if she didn’t think she deserved to be happy. He thought of those brilliant blue eyes and the way the sun glinted off her red-gold hair. He thought of how she hugged her arms around herself when she was uncertain and how she’d strode into that muddy pond without a second’s hesitation to rescue him.
‘After what she’s been through I doubt she wants any man to touch her again,’ he said with a shake of his head.
Crawford took a long gulp of ale, placing the glass down on the table before speaking. ‘You might look at her as I look at Frannie,’ he said with a smile. ‘But she looks at you like Frannie looks at me.’
George felt the pulse of his blood beat a little faster around his body. He’d noticed the long looks, the soft blushes that coloured her cheeks, the way she sometimes lingered when he touched her, but he hadn’t let himself believe that they were all signs of her desire for him.
‘Perhaps...’ he said, wondering if soon he might be brushing her hair from her face and covering her lips with his own. It was a heady fantasy.
‘Of course there’s the obstacle of how she sees herself to overcome,’ Crawford said, motioning for the landlord to bring them over another ale. ‘Do you remember when Robertson and I were first taken in by your father?’
George nodded. They had been youths, worn down by the relentless grind of the manual labour and the cruelty they’d experienced from the guards and fellow convicts. They’d begun to believe they were worthless, that they didn’t have futures, that they deserved to be punished. It had taken time for George’s father to show them their worth, to make them believe in themselves again, and it would be the same for Alice.
‘I would never have believed I could have the life I do now if you’d told me I would back then. I’d have laughed you from the room.’
‘She doesn’t see herself as anything more than a convict at the moment,’ George agreed.
‘The guards are very good at demoralising you.’ He clapped George on the back. ‘But what man doesn’t like a challenge? Get your Alice to see she is still a woman, still a person worthy of love and affection, and everything else will fall into place.’
‘What did I do without you for almost two years, Crawford?’ George murmured.
‘Probably lived your life with much less interference.’ Crawford shrugged with a self-deprecating smile.
They drank their ales in silence for a few minutes while George contemplated his friend’s advice. They were wise words, all true, and he felt a flicker of hope and anticipation inside him.
For a moment he wondered if his attraction to Alice was just a reaction to his friends both having paired off and found their soulmates. The last thing he wanted to do was force something that wasn’t there because he felt lonely or left behind, but then he thought of Alice’s smile, her quiet contemplation of the problems of the farm and how it felt as though the earth shifted beneath him whenever their bodies came into contact, and knew what he was feeling was very real.
* * *
‘How are you finding Australia?’ Franc
esca asked, linking her arm through Alice’s as she spoke.
‘It is different to back home,’ she said politely, ‘but I’m told everyone gets used to it.’
‘And your new position?’
‘Mr Fitzgerald has been very kind.’
‘What about Mrs Peterson?’ Francesca asked, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
Alice glanced sideways at the woman next to her. She didn’t know what to make of the woman she knew had once been married to a viscount, but was chatting away to her as if they were long-lost friends.
‘She can be a little bit of a dragon,’ Francesca said with a smile. ‘She loves the boys so much, but she still thinks they are exactly that: boys. I know she took a while to warm to both Georgina and myself, and we didn’t have to live with her.’
‘She’s been kind,’ Alice said slowly, wondering how much to reveal. The warmth and kindness coming from Francesca was enveloping her and it reminded her of chatting to her sisters back home. The memory was a comforting one. ‘Although she is rather protective of Mr Fitzgerald.’
‘I suppose she’s even more fond of him,’ Francesca said. ‘Ben and Mr Robertson only arrived at the farm when they were young lads, but Mr Fitzgerald has been there his whole life.’
‘It’s nice he has someone who cares for him, seeing as his parents passed away a few years ago.’
Francesca nodded. ‘That’s very true. Although he is such a wonderful man that I doubt he will ever lack having people care about him.’
‘Did you know him well?’ Alice asked.
‘Not well, not in London. But he was instrumental to me marrying my husband. He pushed for Ben to follow his heart even if society disapproved and to make me realise the same. And of course Ben talks about him all the time. They’re very close, you know, as close as brothers.’
They walked along in silence for a couple of minutes. Alice felt herself relaxing a little. It was hard not to like Francesca. She was open and honest and had a ready smile on her face.
‘I was sorry to hear about your treatment before Mr Fitzgerald took you in,’ Francesca said softly.
Alice winced as she recalled the sting of the whip on her back and the feeling of her skin ripping open.
‘You probably don’t want to talk about it, or about anything else you’ve suffered,’ she continued, squeezing Alice’s arm, ‘but if you do I’ve always got a friendly ear. And plenty of tea.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Alice said, feeling a lump form in her throat. Almost three years she’d been surrounded by cruelty and hardship and now there were all these people looking out for her well-being.
‘Ben, my husband, doesn’t talk much about the convict ship or the first few years he spent building roads in Sydney, but sometimes I look at him and he’s far away with a pained look upon his face...’ she paused and dropped her voice even lower ‘...and it must be worse for a woman.’
Alice remembered the rough hands on her, the ripping of her clothes, the hot breath on her neck and grimaced.
‘Well, the offer is there. And even if you don’t want to talk you must pop by very soon. Mr Fitzgerald isn’t working you too hard, I hope.’
‘Not at all. In fact, I feel a little lazy. He has asked me to arrange things for the Christmas celebration, but aside from planning the menu with Mrs Peterson and searching the garden for the plants I will use to decorate the room, there really isn’t much to be done.’
Francesca clapped her hands with delight. ‘Oh, I do love Christmas. Do you know we never really celebrated much when we were in England? But I understand it was an important time of year at Mountain View Farm when the boys were growing up. Ben loves Christmas and I have to admit some of his enthusiasm has been rubbing off on me.’
‘Mrs Peterson told me they always used to celebrate together, Mr Fitzgerald and his friends.’
‘Yes. Ben has been talking non-stop about finally being back at Mountain View Farm for Christmas. I hope Mr Fitzgerald wasn’t planning on having a quiet celebration this year as Ben has already invited himself round in his mind.’
Alice smiled. It was lovely to hear of the affectionate way Francesca spoke of her husband and the bond between the three men Alice had glimpsed at herself.
‘So what have you got planned?’
‘We’ve got the dinner planned, down to every last detail, and a few days before will be decorating the drawing room with plants and flowers from the garden. I’ve ordered a large number of candles to light up the room as it gets dark and next week I’m going to venture up into the attic to find the music for some carols for the piano.’
Francesca clapped her hands with delight. ‘I’m looking forward to it already. You must let me know if I can do anything to help.’
They were walking down a wide street towards the sea, Francesca’s parasol shading them both from the sun, when Alice stopped abruptly.
In front of them the sea glistened a brilliant blue in the curve of the harbour, but this wasn’t what had made Alice turn pale and stiffen. In the distance there was a ship, large and battered, bobbing on the gentle waves.
Alice knew it was too far away for her to smell the stink of the hundreds of unwashed bodies or hear the pitiful cries of the convicts who were seeing dry land for the first time in months, but she felt every bit of despair and relief all the same.
‘I always wish I could do something to help,’ Francesca murmured as she followed her gaze. There was nothing to be done, though. The convicts were under the control of the guards and would be closely guarded for the first few months. Only once it had been determined who could be trusted and who the troublemakers were would the better-behaved prisoners be allowed to take up positions in the town, with those with a trade often faring better than the unskilled convicts who were set to ship building or road digging.
‘You there,’ a voice called out, hostile and loud, making everyone turn to look.
Alice felt the blood drain from her face as she recognised the guard who had been responsible for the welts on her back. He’d been the one to catch her taking the extra piece of bread, the one to drag her to the whipping post and to wield the whip. Her wounds burned at the memory and for a moment she had the urge to run. It was a primal instinct, one to protect herself, even though she knew it would be futile. There were thousands of guards in Sydney, the town teemed with them. She wouldn’t get further than a few paces without being seized.
Telling herself she hadn’t done anything wrong, she straightened her back and raised her chin a notch. It helped, but only a little, and she felt herself cowering inside as the man approached.
‘What do you want?’ Francesca asked beside her, and for the first time Alice glimpsed the persona of the daughter of the nobility. Her tone was supercilious and her expression impatient.
Alice saw the guard hesitate for a moment as if not used to being challenged.
‘And you are?’ the guard asked, giving Francesca a leery look up and down.
‘Mrs Crawford. What is your name and who is your supervisor?’
The guard stepped closer, as if thinking to intimidate them both with his proximity, and Alice couldn’t believe the expression on her companion’s face.
‘I’ll ask you to step back,’ Francesca said, waving a hand in front of her nose. ‘Your body odour is not something I wish to inhale.’
Alice watched as the guard’s face reddened and he looked around quickly to see who might have overheard the insult.
‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, gripping Alice’s arm tightly. ‘We have unfinished business.’
‘Take your hands off me.’ Alice’s voice was loud and clear, surprising even herself. It felt as though a thousand butterflies were trying to burst out of her stomach and she could feel the minute tremor in her hands, but none of that was visible to the guard.
The guard paused, blinking a couple
of times in surprise, then pulled at her arm again, hard enough to dislodge her from where Francesca was gripping the other arm tightly.
‘You have no right to manhandle me,’ Alice said, trying to keep her voice calm. The guard wasn’t adhering to the rules and Alice needed to make him remember his duty. The guards here in Sydney might be a vindictive bunch, but they were kept in line by their commanders. They weren’t allowed to be violent towards the prisoners unless it was a sanctioned punishment and mainly this rule was upheld. Alice knew in some prisons the guards had free rein to beat and humiliate the men and women they guarded, but it wasn’t the case here. This man could get into trouble, perhaps even lose his job, if he were to drag her off with the intention of hurting her.
‘There’s no gentleman to save you now,’ he said, spitting on the floor, his saliva only narrowly missing Alice’s feet.
‘I don’t need anyone to save me,’ she said, propelling her body forward and using the momentum to swing her fist around, catching the guard on his left cheek. Alice yelped as her knuckles struck bone, the pain travelling all the way up her arm to her shoulder. The guard yelled out, loosening his grip on her arm and allowing Alice to pull away. ‘You have no right to touch me,’ Alice said, taking a step back as she saw the anger flare in the guard’s eyes.
‘You’ll pay for that,’ the man said quietly and Alice felt the first slither of dread bite into her stomach. He looked beyond angry.
Alice continued to back away, only to find herself backing into the wall. The guard loomed over her, reaching out and taking her by the wrist, holding her so tightly she felt the blood pulse against his fingers.
‘This time I’ll whip you until you’ve no skin left,’ he murmured into her ear.
‘Take your hands off her.’ Mr Fitzgerald’s commandeering voice came from a little way away.
Alice felt the relief flood through her, then pulled herself up. She couldn’t rely on Mr Fitzgerald to save her every time she got into a fix. One day he wouldn’t be there any more and she’d be all alone in this country. Then she would have to fend for herself. Still, that was not today, and for now she was just grateful he wasn’t being dragged back to the whipping post.