Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin
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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.
Alice watched as Mr Fitzgerald leaned over the well, supporting himself on his forearms and leaning out far more than could be safe