past eight years they had looked after his home and him with devotion.
‘You know what these ships are like, there’s no telling how long the crossing will take.’ George had split his return journey into shorter voyages, stopping off for a few weeks in various ports along the way to see a little of the world before his return home. He had sent a few letters on ahead of him, but hadn’t specified the date he would be making the final crossing to Sydney.
He watched as the Petersons looked Alice over, taking in her bedraggled appearance and ill-fitting clothes.
‘This is Alice,’ he said, reaching up to take the bundle containing the orphaned joey from her lap before helping her down from the cart. He was pleased to see she didn’t recoil at his touch this time as she had in Sydney, although she did slip her hand from his as soon as she was steady on the ground. ‘She’s had a rough morning.’
Mrs Peterson looked her over, appraising her, then nodded her head. ‘Let’s get you settled, Alice, then in a couple of days we can find you some work to do.’
He watched as the two women moved inside, Alice’s petite figure dwarfed by Mrs Peterson’s. At least she was in safe hands now.
‘Let me take that for you,’ Mr Peterson said, gently taking hold of the bundle and peering inside. ‘Bringing home more waifs and strays, I see.’
George nodded, his eyes following Alice as she moved stiffly through the kitchen. She still looked wary, her eyes darting backward and forward as if always trying to find a way to escape, but he knew he just needed to give her time. Who knew what horrors and degradation she’d suffered on the transport ship from England, or indeed, who had tried to take advantage of her during the nine months she’d been in Australia? He knew life for the male convicts was tough, especially for the first few years of their sentence, but the female convicts were at risk of even more exploitation. It was by far enough to explain her fear and even anger—no one liked to feel helpless.
‘I’ll take care of this little creature,’ Mr Peterson said. ‘You reacquaint yourself with your home.’
Alone, George stood back and took in the view. He’d missed home, missed the picturesque sun-scorched fields and the hazy blue mountains in the distance. Missed his beautiful house with the veranda built in the perfect orientation to enjoy the sunsets. Missed the sense of purpose when he rode out over his land, designating each area for cattle or crops, always on the lookout for new opportunities. He’d enjoyed his trip to England, but he was mighty glad to be home.
After a minute he walked inside the house, using the kitchen door as he always had as a boy. Inside he could hear Mrs Peterson chattering away to Alice, telling her about the farm and their lives here. Turning away from the women, he moved through the house, running his fingers over the furniture, reacquainting himself with the space. He’d lived here all his life—the house had been built by his father when his parents had first settled in Australia almost thirty years earlier. It was large, but still managed to have a comfortable feel about it.
‘Fitzgerald,’ a loud voice called from outside. ‘You’re home, you sneaky reprobate.’
With a grin on his lips George raced through the house and back out through the door, slowing only as he came up to the two men he thought of as his brothers.
He embraced Sam Robertson first, receiving a hearty slap on the back from him before he moved on and hugged Ben Crawford.
‘We had word your ship had docked,’ Robertson said. ‘We’ve been on the lookout for a week, but you managed to sneak through.’
‘It’s good to have you home,’ Crawford said, with a broad smile that must have matched George’s own.
They made their way into the house, the two men flopping down into chairs and making themselves comfortable. Although it was George’s home, both Robertson and Crawford had spent much of their youth there, taken in by George’s father after they had saved George from an attack by a poisonous snake while working on the farm. They had their own homes now, their own vast and successful farms, but they still came back to the Fitzgerald house regularly and George knew they still saw it as the home of their childhood.
‘We were getting worried you were never coming back,’ Robertson said, swinging back on the chair so only the back two legs were on the ground, shifting his weight so it balanced without toppling.
‘It’s a nine-month voyage,’ George said with a mock serious expression. ‘Some of us didn’t want to rush our time in England and set off back home two months after arriving. How is the fair Lady Georgina?’
‘Just plain Mrs Robertson now,’ Robertson said, and George could see the happiness on his face. ‘Beautiful and blooming, we’re hoping for a sister for little James in a few months.’
It felt strange to be talking of wives and children. His friends’ lives had changed so much these past couple of years and here he was back home to the same life. It was a good life, there was no denying it, but George knew his friends had moved on to the next stage while he remained in the same place.
‘And the new Mrs Crawford?’ he asked.
‘Not so new any more. We’ve been married for near on two years,’ Crawford said. ‘And Frannie is expecting again, too.’
‘It seems we have much to celebrate.’
‘How about you, Fitzgerald? You didn’t bring a bonny English lass back home with you?’
George laughed. ‘You two escaped with the two fairest women in England, I wasn’t about to settle for third best.’
From somewhere else in the house George could hear raised voices, stern words getting louder as the argument became more heated. He frowned. Mr and Mrs Peterson bickered, just like any couple who had lived together for so many years, but he’d never heard them argue before.
‘I’d better...’ he started to say, getting up from his chair, but didn’t get any further as Mrs Peterson burst into the room, dragging Alice behind her. ‘What is all this noise about?’ George asked, looking at the two women’s dark expressions. Mrs Peterson’s face was red with fury while Alice’s remained stony.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, I’m sorry for making a scene, especially with your guests here,’ Mrs Peterson said.
‘Don’t mind us,’ Robertson murmured, his eyes flicking from the older woman to Alice, then looking at George with an amused question in his expression.
‘She can’t stay,’ Mrs Peterson said with more dramatic flair than George had seen in the entire time he’d known his housekeeper.
‘I’m sure we can sort this out,’ George said, wishing momentarily for the free life he’d been living while away. He might not have a wife and child, but he did still have responsibilities here.
‘She’s been saying the most terrible things, sir, most wicked.’
He regarded Alice, who was standing up straight despite the pain she must have been feeling from her wounds, resolutely not looking at him, her expression that same mix of anger and fear she’d had ever since he’d helped her up from the ground near the whipping post.
‘Please excuse me,’ George said, a little annoyed to be pulled away from his friends at the moment of their reunion, but curious as to what the
