Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin

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      ‘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.

      ‘I did. I’d only just disembarked the ship this morning when I heard you screaming.’

      Alice shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The wounds on her back were throbbing and as the temperature rose little beads of sweat were forming and trickling down into them, making the pain worse.

      ‘But you said it was your first visit to England?’

      ‘It was. I was born here. My parents made the journey while my mother was pregnant.’

      ‘But they weren’t...’ Alice hesitated—most people settled in Australia were ex-convicts or guards, but a few families had decided to make the colony their home out of choice ‘...convicts?’

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