like a donkey or a horse to stroke than a dog, but as she stood there petting the animal Alice felt a peculiar peace come over her. A peace she hadn’t felt for a long time.
‘Shall we check on the little one we found earlier?’ Mr Fitzgerald asked as the kangaroos hopped off to find some shade.
It was a strange offer, but she was fast learning Mr Fitzgerald was a strange man. By rights they should be worlds apart, he a wealthy and respectable landowner and she a convict worker, but he spoke to her as though she was a house guest rather than a maid. She could understand it more if he’d come from the same beginnings, but unlike a lot of men who owned land in Australia Mr Fitzgerald wasn’t an ex-convict, he hadn’t ever lived the life she lived. It made his compassion even more perplexing.
Don’t be a fool, she told herself silently. It wasn’t compassion. It wasn’t anything more than trying to gain her trust.
She watched as he vaulted back over the fence, noticing not for the first time the strength in his arms and the chiselled contours of the muscles of his torso. Mr Fitzgerald was an attractive man, the sort of man she would have once lost her head over.
‘Come on,’ he said, looking back over his shoulder with a wide smile, the sun glinting off his bright blue eyes and making the neat-trimmed beard on his face appear golden.
This time he waited on the other side of the fence, standing back to allow her to climb over herself. Alice winced in pain as the skin on her back stretched and immediately he stepped forward, but one pointed glare was enough to stop him from touching her.
Leading the way back to the kitchen, he softened his steps as they crossed the threshold. Alice hadn’t noticed the small bundle in the corner on her way out, but now they crossed quietly over to it.
‘Looks peaceful, doesn’t he?’ Mr Fitzgerald said, crouching down and motioning for her to join him.
‘Will he live?’ Alice asked as she tentatively reached out a hand to stroke the soft brown fur.
‘I think so. He looks about five months old, so not so young he can’t survive without his mother. Hopefully with a little milk and a few days to adjust he’ll start to thrive soon.’
The little kangaroo looked up at her with blinking eyes and Alice felt a rush of affection for the animal. They’d both been saved this morning.
Carefully Mr Fitzgerald reached down and scooped the young joey into his arms and held him out for her to hold.
‘He won’t bite.’
Alice still hesitated.
‘He’s lost his mother. A little affection will go a long way.’
Placing the bundle in her arms, Mr Fitzgerald took a step back and Alice found herself wondering why this man in front of her didn’t have a wife and a brood of children. Looking down at the kangaroo in her arms, she felt a tug of regret at the loss of her own family. Not for Bill, the good-for-nothing scoundrel who had led her into trouble in London, but for her parents and her sisters. People who she would probably never see again.
‘Have the gentlemen, your friends, left?’ she asked, grasping for a subject of conversation to distract herself from her maudlin thoughts.
‘They have, although I’m sure I will see them again before the week is out.’
‘You seemed very close,’ she murmured, knowing she was being presumptuous, but Mr Fitzgerald’s easy manner was hard not to emulate.
‘They’re like the brothers I never had. Friendship is a wonderful thing...’ He paused, looking at her in that perceptive way of his. ‘I’m sure you’ve found that during your time in Australia.’
Alice looked away, blinking to try to disguise the tears in her eyes. There should have been comradeship between the female convicts, but it just wasn’t the case. Many of them had suffered atrociously on the transport ship and as soon as they’d arrived had set about looking for a man to protect them. Alice hadn’t wanted that and that had made her stand apart from the rest of the women.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It hasn’t been like that.’
He regarded her for a moment and not for the first time Alice felt as though he was seeing past the hard exterior she projected to the world. The thought made her uncomfortable.
‘I should go and see if Mrs Peterson needs any help,’ she said quickly, rising to her feet and placing the baby kangaroo back in Mr Fitzgerald’s arms.
Hurrying off, she chided herself for being a coward. It was herself she was running from, the strange urge she had to relax, to allow herself to let down her guard when she was with Mr Fitzgerald. She didn’t know if it was the cheerful smile, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes or the kindness he’d shown her, but something made her heart beat faster whenever he accidentally brushed against her, even though his interest was the last thing she wanted. Shaking her head, she tried to put him out of her mind. She would do better to remember the trouble men had brought her in the past and continue in her mistrust, even if Mr Fitzgerald was relentlessly kind.
‘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
