‘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