Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin

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       Chapter Six

      Alice watched as Mr Fitzgerald leaned over the well, supporting himself on his forearms and leaning out far more than could be safe or sensible.

      ‘Are you sure that’s safe?’ she called, not wanting to distract him at a crucial moment, but equally not wanting him to fall down the old stone well.

      ‘It’s dried up,’ was the reply, distant and echoey as he spoke into the well. Instead of standing back up, Mr Fitzgerald proceeded to lean out even further, gripping the wooden strut above his head that had a hook to attach a bucket and rope to.

      ‘If it has dried up, stand up,’ Alice muttered, feeling the unwelcome clamouring of her pulse around her body. She felt nervous of confined spaces and even just imagining the man in front of her plummeting into the narrow well made her feel on edge and out of control.

      ‘This well hasn’t been dry for twenty years,’ he said, leaning so far his feet were almost off the ground.

      ‘For the love of—’ Alice said, her words cut off by the loud crack as the wooden strut Mr Fitzgerald was holding on to splintered. She leaped forward, not knowing what she was planning to do. It wasn’t as though she would be able to hold Mr Fitzgerald’s weight and pull him out of the well, but she dashed to him all the same.

      He’d toppled over, the momentum of his body after the wooden strut had given away flipping him over completely, but as Alice nervously peered into the well she saw his face grinning up at her.

      ‘You should be dead,’ she muttered, eyeing first the snapped wooden strut and then the plummeting depths of the well below him.

      ‘You almost look concerned for me, Alice,’ he said as he started to pull himself up.

      She had been concerned. Although she’d lost some of her humanity during the past couple of years, it would seem her compassion was still burning away under all the fear and desire for self-preservation.

      ‘Do you need a hand?’ she asked. Her heart was still hammering away in her chest even though Mr Fitzgerald seemed unconcerned. And he was the one dangling out over the fifteen-foot drop.

      He flashed her another smile and with an almighty heave pulled himself up over the lip of the well and rolled forward on to solid ground.

      ‘There’s no need to show off,’ Alice said, trying to hide her profound relief that he was out of the well and no longer in danger of falling into its confined space.

      ‘I thank you for your concern,’ he said, standing and brushing himself off. Although he’d saved himself quite spectacularly she was amazed to see he wasn’t more shaken up by the incident. He might have pulled himself from the well easily, but when the wood had splintered and snapped he’d been in real danger of falling all the way to the bottom and ending up a mass of broken bones.

      ‘That was foolish,’ Alice said, knowing she shouldn’t speak to her employer in that way, but unable to help herself.

      He shrugged. ‘Perhaps a little, but I needed to make sure the well itself has actually dried up rather than something falling down and covering the water.’

      ‘And has it?’

      Mr Fitzgerald grimaced. ‘Yes.’

      Alice knew next to nothing about farming. Her father had been a clerk and although they’d lived out in the countryside they had only owned a horse and a couple of pigs. As soon as she’d been old enough Alice had left the rural way of life behind, fleeing to the big city for what she’d hoped was a life of excitement and opportunity. Even since arriving in Australia she’d stayed in Sydney, never venturing into the countryside until Mr Fitzgerald had scooped her up just over a week ago. She didn’t know how serious it was that the well had dried up—if it was a minor inconvenience or a major disaster—but from the look on Mr Fitzgerald’s face it wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

      ‘Surely it’s dry because we haven’t had much rain,’ Alice said quietly. Mr Fitzgerald was staring off into the distance with a troubled expression on his face.

      It was November and back home it would be one of the wettest and coldest months of the year. Alice had always hated November with its grey skies and short, dull days, but now she was stuck in Australia she often found herself daydreaming about the dreariness of the English weather. At least if she was under an overcast November sky it would mean she was back home.

      They both looked up at the cloudless sky. Thinking about it, Alice realised it hadn’t rained for weeks—no wonder everywhere was so dry and dusty.

      ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Although these are old wells, they tap into the aquifers...’ He paused, noting her expression. ‘It means that they don’t rely on the rainwater to fill up.’

      ‘But surely some of the water comes from the rain?’

      ‘It depends if the wells are covered or not. The groundwater, the water you get in the wells, is cleaner, purer, than the water that falls as rain or flows in the rivers. It’s been filtered by the rocks over years and years.’

      ‘I don’t understand why the well would run dry, then,’ Alice said, frowning.

      There was a long pause as Mr Fitzgerald looked out into the horizon. ‘Neither do I,’ he said, ‘but I know someone who might.’