The sweltering heat continued without any break and the cloudless sky still promised no rain. George had taken to rising early, to getting out on his land for a few hours immediately after the dawn, then returning home for the heat of midday before heading out as the coolness of dusk approached. He was worried—not that he’d voiced his concerns out loud yet—as the wells all around his properties were drying up and the land was becoming cracked and hardened. The cattle were having to travel further to find anywhere suitable for grazing as the land became dusty and barren.
‘You look serious.’ Alice’s voice startled him from his reverie. George had been looking out of the dining-room window at the dusty enclosure where the kangaroos hopped in the shade of a few trees around the perimeter. It was past ten o’clock, but he was still finishing his breakfast, having risen before five to ride out to a patch of grazing land a few miles east of the house and returned as the sun rose higher in the sky.
‘Should you be up?’ he asked, eyeing her with concern.
‘If I look at those four walls of my bedroom for any longer, I swear I’ll go mad.’
George knew the feeling. He couldn’t bear to stay inside for any length of time, let alone the week Alice had been recuperating after waking up from her delirium. By this point he’d be climbing the walls.
‘Come join me,’ George said, motioning to the seat beside him.
‘I shouldn’t...’
‘Nonsense, sit down.’
She hesitated for a moment longer before giving him a hesitant smile and sitting down beside him.
‘Tea?’ he asked. ‘Or perhaps some toast?’
She glanced longingly at the thick slices of toast set neatly in the rack in the centre of the table with the block of butter alongside.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘I’m not your guest.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he agreed. ‘You work for me. I own this house, I buy the bread and the butter, I can invite whomever I like to sit at this table and share my meals.’
She blinked and he knew he had been a little too forceful. She was right, of course, her place wasn’t at the table beside him, it was working in the kitchen or cleaning the house. Although nothing like as strict as England, even here in Australia the social order was important to people. Convict workers shouldn’t sit at their master’s tables, sharing their master’s food. Still, George had never felt comfortable with the divide. Both Robertson and Crawford had been convict workers when they’d come to the farm. After the fateful afternoon when they’d saved his life his father had welcomed them into the Fitzgerald home as if they were members of the family. Perhaps it was this example that meant he had never been able to rule with an iron fist like some landowners who took on convict workers. Or perhaps it was just his nature.
‘The toast does look good,’ she said, sliding into the seat next to him. He watched as she buttered a piece of thick toast and took a bite. ‘Delicious. So why did you look so serious before I disturbed you?’
‘I was thinking about the farm. We still haven’t had any rain while you’ve been convalescing.’
‘Is it normally this hot?’ Alice asked, looking out of the window, following his gaze from minutes before.
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘Everyone thinks of Australia as this hot, desert-ridden country, but they’re wrong. It’s so big it has a multitude of climates. In the centre it’s hot, with rolling dunes and red earth, but the south of the country is cooler, much more like England. And here we get the warm summers, the hours of sunshine, but it isn’t tropical or arid by any means.’
‘You’ve been to the centre of the country?’ Alice asked, her eyes widening.
‘When I was younger. My father loved this country, even back then when it was just a fledgling colony. He thought it was important for me to experience not just this small pocket of Australia, the area the English have claimed as their own, but to explore further afield. To see what it was like before we settled here, to understand the land and its people.’
George thought back to the six months they’d spent travelling deep into the interior, a time when he’d still respected his father, held him in awe even. Before that he’d not thought much about the country he lived in, having spent his entire life in Australia, but after that trip he had realised why his father never wanted to return to England. There was something captivating about the ever-changing landscapes and the tribes as different as people from England and Russia were to each other.
‘Wasn’t it dangerous?’ Alice asked.
George shrugged. ‘The people were mainly very peaceful. Cautious of us more than we were of them. The Bathurst War was still very fresh in their minds and we were given a wide berth even though we were venturing deep into their territories.’
‘You love this country, don’t you?’ Alice asked softly.
‘I do. One day I’m sure you will, too.’
‘I don’t know. It’s different when you’ve been forced to live somewhere. My life was in England. My home, my family...’ She paused, popping the last of the toast into her mouth as she got lost in her memories. ‘I suppose I’ll find out. It’s unlikely I’ll ever go back to England.’ She smiled, although there was sadness in her expression. ‘Perhaps ask me in twenty years, when I’ve had time to forget the harshness of my journey here and the first few months. Perhaps then I might feel differently.’
‘You could go back to England. Some do.’
‘Very few. The price of a ticket is so expensive. And it seems that even those who are determined to save up take so long to do so that by the time they’ve gathered enough funds they’ve made a life for themselves here. People they don’t want to leave behind.’
They fell silent. George could see Alice was contemplating the uncertainty of her future. It must be strange not to know even vaguely what your life would be like in five, ten, twenty years. Even though he wasn’t sure of the smaller details, George knew the general direction his life would take, he always had. In twenty years’ time he’d be running his farm, expanding it slowly over time. He’d have a wife, a brood of children, hopefully strong and eager to take on some of the more physical aspects of running a large farm. Alice didn’t have any of that certainty. She was stuck in a country she would never have imagined she would end up in, her future nothing like the dreams she would have had as a child.
‘I don’t want to think about the future,’ Alice said suddenly. ‘A week ago I was lying delirious in bed—things could be so much worse.’
It was wonderful to watch Alice slowly relax into herself. When he’d first brought her back to Mountain View Farm she had been negative all the time, thinking the worst in people. Now he was beginning to see flashes of positivity.
‘Would you care to take a little stroll around the garden?’ George asked. ‘If you’re feeling strong enough.’
‘That would be lovely. You can show me all the native plants.’
She stood, leaving the room for a few seconds to retrieve her bonnet that had rested on a hook in the hall since their last trip out together. That fateful afternoon when they’d ended up slipping and sliding through the mud.
‘Shall we?’ he asked, offering her his arm.
She hesitated for just a second, looking around her as if to check no one was watching, no one judging her too presumptuous for slipping her delicate hand into rest in the crook of his elbow.
Outside it was sweltering, the sun high in the sky and giving off a brilliant white light. They walked quickly across the small exposed area until they were under the shade of the trees.
‘This is a eucalyptus tree,’ George said, pausing to take one of the leaves between his fingers and stroke it gently. ‘See how the leaves hang down towards the ground. All species of eucalyptus trees do that—it is an easy way to recognise them.’
They moved on, with George pointing out rather beautiful specimens of gymea lily and banksia.
‘This is one of my favourites,’ he said, pausing beside a delicate flower made up of a stem and six bell-like flowers drooping from it. ‘They’re called Christmas bells,’ he said. ‘My mother planted them many years ago and the hardy little flowers have flourished, despite their delicate appearance.’
‘You really love all of this, don’t you?’ Alice asked quietly, a look of wonder on her face.
‘I know it probably seems terribly dull...’
‘No,’ she said forcibly. ‘Not dull. Being passionate about something is never dull.’
‘Even when that something is botany?’
‘My father used to collect coins. He would search in curiosity shops and go to house clearances. The look of excitement on his face when he found a coin to add to his collection was heart-warming.’
‘What is your passion, Alice?’ he asked.
A darkness passed over her face and George regretted the question. Of course she hadn’t been allowed to indulge her own interests these past couple of years and it was cruel of him to remind her of the fact.
‘I don’t think I have one,’ she said, resting her hand on the bark of another eucalyptus tree, her fingers caressing the rough surface.
‘One day you will, Alice, once this is all over. I know it seems like your sentence lasts for ever, but in ten, twenty years’ time it will just be a distant memory, a small part of an otherwise happy life.’
‘That’s a very nice way to look at it,’ she said softly, her eyes coming up to meet his. George felt the ground lurch under his feet as she held his gaze. She looked beautiful in the sunshine, her hair curling in red-gold waves around her shoulders and her skin flushed in the heat. His eyes flickered to her lips, rosy and full and so inviting. In that moment he wanted to kiss her more than he’d ever wanted anything before in his life.
He saw her lips part ever so slightly, saw the subtle sway of her body towards him and he knew that she was thinking the same thing, feeling that irresistible pull.
George stepped forward, knowing there were a hundred reasons he shouldn’t reach out and touch Alice, but knowing he would do it all the same. He took her hand in his own, his eyes never leaving hers, and their bodies swayed together in unison. There was only a hair’s breadth between them now. It would be so easy to gather her in his arms, so easy to cover her mouth with his own and taste the sweetness of her lips.
Closing his eyes, George took control of himself. This was Alice. The one woman in Australia he shouldn’t be having these sort of thoughts about.
‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ Alice said quietly, reminding him of the position of power he held over her. Immediately he dropped her hand as though he’d been burned.
Quickly he turned away. He’d come so close to doing something foolish. So close to being the man Alice had feared he would be.
‘I’m sorry, Alice,’ he said, his voice unusually gruff, ‘I was caught up in my thoughts.’
Even as he stepped away he saw the flush to her cheeks, the increased rate of her breathing and knew that on some level she wanted him.
That doesn’t matter, he told himself. Alice was vulnerable, afraid and alone. He would not take advantage of that.
‘You should get back inside, Alice,’ he said as kindly as he could. ‘This heat will do nothing for your recovery.’
For a moment he thought she might refuse, might demand an explanation from him, but after a few seconds she just nodded and turned away, heading back towards the house.
George watched her leave, watched the subtle sway of her hips as she walked away, unable to tear his eyes from her.