Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin

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.’

      Without checking to see if she was following, he took the stairs two at a time, pausing only when he was outside the room Mrs Peterson had seen fit to give to Alice. It was a generously proportioned bedroom with a view over the farm and to Sydney in the distance. Furnished with a bed, wardrobe and writing table, it was homely and comfortable—no wonder Mrs Peterson took offence when Alice refused to settle herself in.

      ‘You’re right, there’s no lock,’ George said, ‘just as there isn’t a lock on my bedroom door, or any of the bedrooms. Not...’ he held up an admonishing hand ‘...that I’m inviting you to find out. I find a chair wedged under the handle like this...’ with a flourish he closed the door, took the back of the chair and propped it under the handle, demonstrating that the door could not be easily opened ‘...does the job.’

      Alice was staring at him, blinking every few seconds as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

      ‘I understand you don’t trust me, Alice, and I don’t think anything I can say will reassure you that I didn’t bring you here for nefarious purposes, but my father always used to say that deeds spoke louder than words. Hopefully with time you will come to trust me.’ He paused, wondering exactly what had happened to the young woman in front of him to make her quite so distrustful. ‘Can I give you a word of advice, though? I wouldn’t say anything bad about me to Mrs Peterson. For some strange reason she thinks I’m more virtuous than all the saints combined. If you want to have a moan about me, find someone more neutral.’

      He turned, resisting the urge to delve into Alice’s past. Perhaps one day she would want to tell him a little about what had brought her to this point in her life, or perhaps not.

      ‘Sorted?’ Crawford asked as George walked back into the room.

      ‘Who knows?’ George shrugged, wondering if Alice would be climbing out the window,