Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin

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