Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas

She inclined her head once again and allowed him to guide her along the street, the most unlikely of couples.

Chapter Two (#uef6f9197-e834-5700-805f-472a8ebe85bb)

‘It doesn’t need to be anything fancy—just a shirt and trousers will do. Anything’s better than that shredded old dress.’ Alice listened to the voices outside the door for a moment before sinking fully under the water, revelling in the warmth and watching the bubbles rise to the surface in a neat little stream. It had been agony for the first few seconds in the bath, the open wounds on her back throbbing and stinging as the water came into contact with them, but she knew the importance of getting them clean. Open sores like that could fester. She’d seen more than one person’s wounds start swelling and weeping after a whipping on the transport ship on the way over to Australia and that could be fatal.

Now though, after her body had got used to the sensation of the water against her open flesh, the bath was soothing and she silently gave thanks for having the opportunity to bathe before the journey ahead.

Rising up to the surface, Alice could hear the argument still going on outside the door.

‘I’ll not dress a woman in a shirt and trousers. It’s not right. It’s not Christian.’

‘Whatever you can find,’ said the deep voice in reply. Her saviour. Mr Fitzgerald. A man with kind eyes, eyes that it would be all too easy to trust. Alice snorted—she wouldn’t be trusting him any time soon.

With a sigh, she rose up out of the water, letting it drip from her body before she stepped out of the bath. She grabbed the towel from where it had been hung within easy reach and began to pat down her body, grimacing as she laid the soft material against her back. Six lashes, that was all she’d had, and the guard had made sure every single one would leave a scar. He’d ripped open her back with the first lash and continued the damage with the next five. It wasn’t the first time she’d been whipped, but it was the most painful.

Alice heard the door click open and the landlady slipped in, brandishing a dress that was going to be much too large. Her own coarse grey sack of a dress lay shredded on the chair, stained with her blood and ripped past repair. However, looking at the garment the woman was holding in her hand, Alice wasn’t sure this would be much better.

‘It’s a little large, my dear,’ the woman said, her deep Yorkshire accent making Alice think of home. ‘But it’ll protect your modesty well enough. Now let’s have a look at that back of yours.’

With a series of tuts and sighs the landlady helped her dress, leaving the material loose at the back so it wouldn’t stick to the open wounds. Alice peered in the steamed-up mirror, noting the wet strands of hair hanging around her face, the pink skin on her sunburned nose and the freckles that had appeared on her cheeks these last few months. The dress hung off her, inches too long at the bottom and sitting all wrong around her hips. She looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothing.

‘You’ll do, child,’ the landlady said, looking at her with her hands on her hips. ‘I’m sure Mr Fitzgerald will sort you out with something that fits once he gets you home.’

Home. The very word sent a slither of dread into her core. This was exactly what she’d been avoiding for the nine months she’d been in Australia. Most of the other women she’d been transported with, and many who’d arrived after her, were settled with a man by now. Either the free-men, landowners, workers—any of the men who had the right to select a convict woman to be theirs, as a wife or something more lurid—or with other convicts, men who promised to look after them in this frightening new life.

Alice had resisted both. Her life was little enough her own as it was, she didn’t want a man controlling what few choices she did have. She’d made that mistake in England, saddled herself with a man who’d promised her the world, slowly reduced her to a shadow of her former self, then led her into the situation that had resulted in her arrest and transportation.

Now it would seem that she didn’t have a choice. Of course she was grateful to Mr Fitzgerald for stepping in when he did, but what would be the price?

‘Come, dear, he’s waiting for you. Eager to get back home, I would think.’

Alice smiled weakly, allowing the landlady to usher her out of the room. Mr Fitzgerald had insisted she get cleaned up and a change of clothes before they headed for wherever it was he lived. Alice was grateful; she felt much more human now she’d washed the blood from her back and the dirt from her hands.

As she descended the stairs she saw him sitting in the corner of the tavern, feet up on a stool and hands behind his head. There was no one else in the room, it being so early in the day, but even if there had been he would have commanded attention. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and strong arms. Arms that hadn’t hesitated in defending her.

She saw the moment he noticed her, watched the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he took in the dress made for a woman three times her size. Suddenly she felt self-conscious. She looked a state with her sunburned skin and her loose and tousled hair, but then she rallied. Perhaps he would be less inclined to force her into his bed if she continued to look quite so unattractive. For a moment Alice wondered if she was being uncharitable with her suspicions, but she couldn’t help it. Time and time again since her sentencing men had tried to take advantage of her—she couldn’t trust Mr Fitzgerald even if he had been kind to her.

‘Are you feeling fit enough to travel?’ he asked, standing. His movements were lithe and fluid, despite his size, and Alice was surprised to find him in front of her before she could blink.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, looking at the ground. She was in a fix, there was no denying it. It would be foolish to run off here, with so many guards patrolling the city overseeing the work gangs of convicts. One shout from the man in front of her and she’d be dragged back to the whipping post. Still, the idea of leaving everything she’d known for the past nine months behind made her feel queasy.

‘After you.’ He took a step back and extended his arm, inviting her to go ahead of him. Alice blinked a couple of times, unused to anyone displaying manners like this, then stepped forward.

‘I’ll call in next week and settle the bill,’ Mr Fitzgerald called over his shoulder to the landlady. She nodded graciously and Alice wondered what kind of influence he must have if he could walk away with just the promise of payment some time in the future.

Outside there was a cart, loaded up with a couple of large trunks and space up front for two. Mr Fitzgerald paused in front of it, holding out his hand to help her up. Alice brushed past him, ignoring the hand, and hauled herself up on to the seat. Once she was settled she squeezed herself over as far as she could go, but the seat was small and as he climbed up his body brushed against hers. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to let the panic of being in such close proximity to someone overwhelm her.

‘Comfortable?’ he asked, looking at her shrewdly.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked, trying to focus on the road in front of them rather than the man sitting next to her.

Mr Fitzgerald shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by her brusqueness.

They set off through the streets of Sydney, heading west at a sedate pace. The sun was high in the sky even though it was still an hour or two before midday and it beat down relentlessly. If their journey lasted any longer than half an hour no doubt she would turn pink on any exposed bits of skin. She’d been in Australia for a few months shy of a year now, but this was the hottest month yet. In England at the end of November they would be getting ready for snow, but here the temperatures just kept creeping up. It would be strange to have Christmas in the sweltering heat rather than the dull coldness of a December in England.

“Will you tell me your name?” he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them.

“Alice,” she offered. “Alice Fillips.”

‘Tell me about yourself, Alice,’ Mr Fitzgerald said as they made their way out of Sydney. The road ahead was dusty but clear and he had relaxed back into the seat next to her, holding the reins casually in one hand.

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. Although many of the men she’d met on the transport ship and since arriving in Australia weren’t this subtle, there had been a couple. A couple of men who’d tried to trick her with kindness, to make her let down her guard so they could slip in and take advantage.

‘What would you like to know, sir?’ she asked, her voice flat.

‘Do I detect a Yorkshire accent?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Yes, sir. I grew up in Yorkshire, just outside of Whitby. I moved to London when I was sixteen.’ She kept her answer short, her voice terse, trying to discourage any more questions.

For a moment she felt a pang of homesickness, not for the crowded streets of the capital where she’d spent her years as an adult, but for the carefree life she’d left behind in Whitby. At the time the rolling Yorkshire countryside had seemed dull and Alice had been eager for any opportunity to get away; now she would give almost anything to be back there safely with her sisters.

‘And how long have you been in Australia?’ he asked, glancing over at her. Alice shifted. Of course he would want to know about her crime. Whatever his motivation was for rescuing her from the whip and taking her into his home, he would want to know what kind of woman he’d taken on.

‘Nine months,’ she said. ‘I spent a year of my sentence in gaol in England, then nearly a year on board the transport ship. I have just over two years left to serve.’

He nodded and Alice waited for the inevitable query as to her crime. The seconds ticked past and it didn’t come. Mr Fitzgerald was just sitting there, surveying the road ahead, and by the expression on his face he couldn’t care less what she’d been convicted of.

‘Don’t you want to know what I did, sir?’ she asked, her tone challenging.

He shrugged. ‘If you want to tell me.’

She frowned. Everyone wanted to know what crimes had brought people to this country: the woman she’d worked for in the laundry, the stern couple who’d provided her lodgings. It was expected that she divulge her crime over and over again and now this man didn’t seem overly bothered by what she’d done. It was unsettling.

‘You’re taking me to your home, but you don’t want to know what crime I committed?’ she asked eventually. It felt wrong, suspicious.

He looked at her, a smile fighting to gain control of his lips. ‘Five years,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If they only sentenced you to five years, it couldn’t have been anything too terrible.’

It was true the murderers and the violent criminals weren’t often the ones who found themselves aboard the transport ships to the other side of the world, and especially not for a mere five-year sentence. Most of Alice’s fellow convicts were thieves, pickpockets or men who’d stolen from their masters or forged documents. They still could be violent and cruel, but the crimes were not often the most heinous.

‘I like Yorkshire,’ Mr Fitzgerald said after a few minutes’ silence. ‘Very dramatic scenery. The moors, the cliffs.’

‘You’ve been?’ Alice cursed herself for the instinctive question. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage conversation. She wasn’t even sure why she was surprised. Most people in Australia hadn’t been born there. The man next to her could have started life anywhere in England.

‘Recently. I’ve just got back from my very first visit to England. I travelled a lot—given the distance, it might have been my only opportunity.’

It felt strange to be sitting next to this man making small talk. Although she wasn’t a slave and had some rights, she had been given to him as a convict worker, required to follow his rules and do what he said or risk the harsh punishments dealt out to those convicts not seen to be toeing the line. Still, she could use the opportunity to get some information on the man who’d rescued her. It always paid to know those you were forced to be close to.

‘You sailed to England?’ she asked, feeling her heart hammering in her chest. It seemed impossible—although ships did leave for England, no one she knew had ever been aboard one. Probably some of the guards went home after their stint in Australia was up, but even most of those chose to stay and make a life for themselves in the colony. And the convicts... Well, everyone dreamed of going home, but a passage was far too expensive. That was the harshest part of the sentence they’d received for their crimes. Five years in prison for theft was one thing if your family and friends were waiting for you when you were released, but once you’d been transported to the other side of the world it was likely you’d never make it home again.