Читать книгу Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas - Laura Martin, Laura Martin - Страница 14

‘If you don’t hold your tongue, I will come over there and give you a thrashing, open wounds or no.’ Mrs Peterson’s irate voice rang through the house, causing George to pause and put down the papers he was reading. It had been almost a week since he’d returned home, a week since Alice had first stepped over the threshold into the farmhouse, and it had been far from the most peaceful week of his life.

He listened for Alice’s reply, hearing a low murmur, but not the words.

‘I’ve never heard such vile rudeness.’ Mrs Peterson’s voice rose again and with a groan George hauled himself to his feet. There was at least one altercation a day between Alice and his housekeeper. And even in between the sharp words there were long periods of sharp silence.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, striding into the kitchen.

‘She has got to go,’ Mrs Peterson said, crossing her arms in front of her chest and breathing heavily.

‘I’d be delighted to,’ Alice said, flashing a look that contained a challenge in his direction.

‘No one is going anywhere. Alice, join me in my study, please. Mrs Peterson...’ He looked at his fuming housekeeper and gave her his most winning smile. ‘Whatever you’ve got cooking smells delicious.’ It was the truth—wafts of spices and fruit, mixed with the unmistakable smell of gingerbread baking, took him back to the Christmases of his youth.

George turned, not waiting to see if Alice followed, and made his way back into his study, sitting down heavily in the comfortable leather-lined chair behind his desk.

‘Sit,’ he said, motioning to a chair facing him.

Alice sat, looking defiant.

‘I really don’t know how you do it,’ he said quietly. ‘Mrs Peterson can be a bit prickly, but I’ve never actually seen her angry before.’

Alice shrugged, a non-committal gesture that hid a world of pain.

‘I know what you’re doing.’

Her eyes darted up to meet his.

‘You think if you make a nuisance of yourself I’ll send you back to Sydney. The thing I can’t understand is why. It’s comfortable here, the work is easier than the laundry, you’re safe and you’re not under the direct scrutiny of the guards the whole time. Surely here is better than where you were?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Alice said, her voice emotionless.

‘Is there something you’re missing in Sydney? Or someone, perhaps?’

‘No.’ The denial was hard and fast and George was inclined to believe it.

‘I want you to be comfortable here, Alice.’

‘Why?’

‘Because everyone deserves a little humanity and I think you’ve experienced barely any at all these last couple of years.’

‘No one does something for nothing.’

He looked at her, feeling regret that such a young woman had been brought down to feel this way. Once Alice would have been trusting and content with the world—her attitude now was a testament to the suffering she had endured.

‘Let’s make an agreement,’ he said, waiting for her to look up to continue. ‘Give it one month. If you’re still not happy here in one month, then you can return to whatever post they will give you in Sydney. I’ll arrange it. I give you my word.’

She eyed him suspiciously.

‘The only thing I ask for is that you give life out here a chance. You look for the positives, stop riling Mrs Peterson and see if this is somewhere you would like to spend the last few years of your sentence.’

‘And if I decide not to stay, you’ll let me go?’ Alice asked.

‘On my honour.’

She sat thinking for a moment, then nodded. He even saw a hint of a smile under the prickly façade.

‘This is your home, at least for the next month, and if you decide you want to stay for a couple of years, I want you to be comfortable. And I want you to stop provoking Mrs Peterson. Can you do that?’

‘I can try.’

Pulling on the soft leather, George changed his boots for the pair he used when out riding the vast distances around his farms. It felt good to be home and he was eager to get out and continue reacquainting himself with the land he loved so much.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the swish of material as Alice padded silently around the house. He could tell she felt awkward, unsure of her position, but he hoped in a couple of days Mrs Peterson would have found her some work she could take charge of and make her own. There had been an uneasy truce between Alice and Mrs Peterson the last couple of days since he had taken Alice into his study and made the agreement that she would make an effort to see Mountain View Farm as her home for the month before they decided on the longer-term plan.

It felt strange to have another person in the house. For a long while before his trip to England it had been just him and the Petersons and it was odd to wake up and find someone else walking through the otherwise empty halls.

Throughout his childhood his parents had always had at least a few convict workers doing the manual work in the fields alongside the regular workers and the free-men they hired seasonally as the demands of the farm increased. Only once had they had a female convict worker. With a frown George put that memory from mind. He wasn’t his father, he wasn’t the same man and he didn’t have to make the same mistakes.

His parents had enjoyed living a life without too many servants, just a housekeeper and a cook and a maid, and he had happily survived with just the Petersons for the past eight years.

Still, Alice was here now and hopefully before long she would have slotted into life at Mountain View Farm.

As he stood up he saw Alice come walking out of his study with a book open and her eyes skimming over the words. For a second he felt his breath catch in his chest. Today for the first time she was dressed in a dress that more or less fit her. The light blue cotton clung to the curves of her chest and waist before skimming out over her hips into a full skirt. It accentuated her figure and George felt the first stirrings of desire. A very inappropriate desire.

His eyes travelled upwards to the neat curls of her hair. The past week her hair had remained the untamed frizz it had been whipped into after the bath in the tavern in Sydney, which had been followed by a long and dusty cart ride to the farm. She must have begged a bath from Mrs Peterson the night before and the results were astounding. Today her hair looked like spun gold with just a hint of red, smooth waves that fell way past her shoulders.

She looked up, surprise registering in her sparkling blue eyes, and then gave him a tentative smile.

George felt as though he’d been punched in the gut and struggled to make his voice sound normal as he greeted her.

‘Good morning, Alice,’ he said, wondering where the scruffy convict he’d rescued over a week ago had gone.

‘Good morning, Mr Fitzgerald,’ she said, hesitating a moment and then dipping into a little curtsy. Her manner was still often skittish and fearful, but over the past few days a lot of the anger she’d had when she had first arrived had ebbed away. ‘I hope you don’t mind, sir, but Mrs Peterson said I could borrow a book or two.’

‘Of course. No point the books gathering dust when someone wants to read them.’

He glanced at the cover of the book, expecting to see one of his mother’s awful adventure stories, but instead was surprised to find a book about botany in her hands. She was clasping it to her chest and unwittingly George’s eyes travelled from the rough leather of the book to the rather smoother skin that peeked out above the neckline of her dress.

Get a hold of yourself, he silently chastised himself. He was being exactly the lecherous sort of man Alice had been afraid of. Exactly the sort of man he had always vowed never to be.

‘Botany,’ he said, forcing his eyes back up to her face. ‘Are you interested in it?’

She shrugged and he fancied he saw her blush a little, just a hint of colour on her cheeks.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ she admitted, ‘but when I flicked through it looked interesting.’

‘That book there is focused mainly on plants of England, or at least western Europe. There are no comprehensive guides to the flora of Australia yet.’ He thought of the hundreds of samples of plants he’d collected over the years, some dried and pressed and kept meticulously in his study, some planted from seed and nurtured in the private garden around the side of the house. One day there would be a book on the flora of Australia and he meant to contribute to it.

Mrs Peterson bustled out from the kitchen and stopped for a moment, looking between them before smiling.

‘Are you off out, Mr Fitzgerald?’ she asked, reaching for his jacket from the hook on the wall and passing it over to him.

‘Just off to inspect some of the fields, take a look at the cattle,’ he said. ‘Mr Williams is due later today to hand things back over to me. If he arrives before I return, will you make him comfortable?’

‘Of course, sir. I’ve got a lovely batch of biscuits about to pop in the oven. I’m sure I can distract him with a cool drink and a biscuit or two if you’re late.’

Mr Williams was the very capable man he’d left in charge of his farms for the duration of his trip to England. George had been away almost three years and a lot could change in that time and he was eager to start getting control of everything again. He was sure there had been no major disasters—for the past two years Robertson and Crawford had been back home and they would have kept an eye on everything for him. They hadn’t mentioned anything going wrong so he was confident Mr Williams wouldn’t have any terrible news for him.

‘Thank you, Mrs Peterson.’ He took a step towards the door and hesitated. Knowing he would regret the offer, he still couldn’t stop himself. ‘Would you like to come and see some of the farm?’ he asked Alice.

She blinked in surprise and George found himself smiling. He liked how she wasn’t able to hide when something shocked her, her eyes reacted before she had time to take hold of herself.

‘This is to be your home for the next couple of years if you decide to stay with us,’ he reminded her gently. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see a little of where you’ll be living.’

‘That’s very kind, Mr Fitzgerald,’ Alice said, ‘but I wouldn’t want to hamper your progress.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said. She would hamper his progress, of course she would. He doubted a woman of her background would know how to ride, at least not proficiently, but he realised he didn’t regret the offer all the same.

‘I would like to see a little more of the countryside,’ she said, looking at him as if she couldn’t quite believe she was saying the words. He knew she still distrusted him, so for her to agree to ride out alone with him was certainly a step in the right direction.

‘Wonderful.’ He looked at her appraisingly. The dress did much for her figure, but he doubted it would be the most suitable thing for a trip into the countryside. ‘Can you ride, Alice?’ he asked.

She laughed, the first proper laugh he’d heard pass her lips. ‘Of course.’ Seeing his look of surprise, she continued. ‘My family had a horse up in Whitby. We lived a little out of the way so it was necessary for getting into town.’ Alice looked down at herself and shrugged, ‘I can’t ride in that fancy way, though.’

‘Side saddle?’

She shook her head, ‘We only had a normal saddle, so that’s all I can do.’

‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’ He leaned in closer and lowered his voice, ‘One of the best things about Australia is how you can ride for a good couple of hours and not see another soul. No one is going to be judging you.’

They stepped outside, George trying to ignore the disapproving look from Mrs Peterson. She’d been with the family for years, having been transported well over two decades previously for some long-forgotten crime, and she was very protective of him. She was also quite old fashioned in her ways, thinking the servants should stick to below stairs, metaphorically, of course, and the masters above. This sort of mixing was out of the question.

‘Wait,’ Alice said, stopping so abruptly his body almost collided with hers. She turned and rushed back inside, leaving him staring after her. It gave him a moment to get control of himself, to regain his equilibrium and promise himself he would not look at Alice with anything other than mild, friendly interest.

She came back out, brandishing a bonnet.

‘I found it in my room.’ She grimaced ‘I may as well try to protect my skin from any further damage in this sun.’

From her colouring he could tell she should have naturally pale skin, but exposure to the strong Australian summer sun had pinkened her nose and cheeks and there was a smattering of freckles dotted about as well. The ladies of London he’d spent the last couple of years socialising with would be aghast at such colouring, but it wasn’t uncommon among the women here. The summers were hotter and everyone spent more time outdoors, it was no surprise both the men and women of Australia had more of a tan on their faces.

Outside Mr Peterson had saddled a horse and left it tied to a fencepost ready for him and it was the work of a couple of minutes to get another horse ready for Alice. She watched him as he tightened the strap to secure the saddle, before looping over the bridle.

‘Mrs Peterson tells me you’re English nobility,’ Alice said, her eyes following his every movement. ‘I’ve never known an English lord to saddle his own horse.’

‘I’m no lord,’ George said, shaking his head. ‘My father was the younger son of a baron, a destitute baron. He inherited no title and no money. We have ties to the nobility, but I view myself as a farmer, a landowner, nothing more.’

His identity was important to him and he certainly did not feel as though he’d fitted in with the lords and ladies of London society during his recent stint in England. Their customs had seemed too rigid and old fashioned and he’d returned to Australia knowing even more than ever that this was where he wanted to be.

Holding out a hand, he wondered if she would take it. Alice had thawed in her attitude towards him since their initial interactions, but she still seemed skittish and he wasn’t sure if she would allow him to help her up on to the horse.

Stepping forward, she hesitated for a long moment before grasping hold of the saddle and placing her foot in his hand, allowing him to boost her up and then steady her while she found her seat. In the process of mounting her skirt had hitched up and caught around her thighs, exposing one of her calves. Trying not to look, George tugged at the material, covering her up again, his fingers accidentally brushing against her soft skin as he did so. Alice stiffened beneath his touch, brushing him away.

Without another word he turned and led her horse out of the stables to where his was waiting.

‘Good morning, Kareela,’ he said, stopping to stroke the horse’s nose. Three years he’d been gone and there was still recognition in the animal’s eyes. Quickly he mounted, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles he hadn’t used for a long time. The voyage home had taken him an entire year with lengthy stops in various countries and in that time he’d only ridden twice. It felt good to be back on horseback and he urged Kareela forward with a gentle nudge of his heels.

They took the track out that they’d arrived on, George choosing a sedate pace to let Alice get used to riding again after so long.

‘Just over a week ago I was stuck in the laundry all day long,’ Alice murmured, ‘and now I’m here.’

The laundry would be a grim place to work, although not the worst convict job in Sydney by far.

‘Via the whipping post.’

She nodded, flinching at the memory. ‘They were determined to get me somehow,’ she murmured.

George frowned, not understanding the comment.

Alice shook her head and smiled as if determined to put something out of her mind.

‘Did they set you up?’ he asked. Robertson and Crawford had both been convicts and before they’d landed jobs on his father’s farm they’d spent a couple of years doing the backbreaking work of road building in Sydney under cruel and malicious guards. Their stories did not make you feel confident in the humanity of the men sent to guard the convicts and inflict the punishments if someone stepped out of line. George could well believe a particularly nasty guard would set someone up for a whipping for their own amusement.

‘Not exactly.’ She shook her head. ‘I stole the bread I was whipped for.’ He thought she wasn’t going to elaborate for a moment, but then she sighed. ‘Just not for myself. For one of the other women’s sons. He’s only six and has a terrible chest. All skin and bones and his mother was struggling to feed him. So I took a little extra bread to try to feed him up.’

‘And they whipped you for that?’

‘It’s all about control, isn’t it?’ she said with a hint of anger in her voice. ‘They stop seeing us as living, breathing humans with a heart and a history and see us as criminals who shouldn’t have any rights and just need to be controlled.’

‘I think transportation is one of the harshest punishments, aside from hanging, of course,’ George said quietly. ‘They take your freedom, but they take so much more than that. They take your future, or at least the future you’d envisaged. They rip you away from everyone and everything you’ve ever known and ship you to a strange country where even the smallest misdemeanour is seen as a rebellion against the authorities.’

‘But perhaps we deserve it,’ Alice said quietly.

George looked at her, but she’d turned her face away, staring off into the distance. He couldn’t imagine this young woman doing anything so reprehensible that she deserved to be transported for her crimes.

You don’t know her, he reminded himself. He didn’t know anything about her, not other than what she had chosen to tell him. It was a timely warning. She might seem sweet and kind, she might look like an angel from heaven, but something had led her to being convicted and sentenced to transportation and although he knew there were many miscarriages of justice, she’d never protested that this was the case for her.