Maria looked down at her mutton. It was true, all of it. Suddenly, deeply, she wished that it were not, for if he was a penniless imposter he might have stayed. They could have talked of plants and she’d have cooked for him, and now and then he would have looked at her, truly looked as only her brother and Flora and little Clementine did: without disgust.

‘I am glad to have been given such a good character,’ said Mr Fitzharris, taking up his knife and fork again. ‘It means I can make my request of you, Mr Clancy.’

‘You want me to lend you money, I suppose,’ muttered Ezekiel, picking strings of mutton from between his side teeth.

‘No. I imagine Drinkwater has already sent word to the agent we share in Sydney that I need funds again. They will be sent to Drinkwater.’ He looked at his faded shirt. ‘Halibut — the agent — will then arrange with my tailor for new clothes, to replace the ones stolen from me. No, Mr Clancy, I would like your daughter’s hand in marriage.’

Ezekiel gulped down his hunk of mutton. ‘My word, man, are you insane?’

Clancy stood in anger, staring at his father. Maria gave a cry, of shock, of pain. Was Ethelred laughing at her?

But there was no laughter as he gazed at her father. Instead his hands clenched his knife and fork so tightly the knuckles whitened. ‘Shall we forget you said that, sir? Again, I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. Perhaps this time you would answer me as the gentleman you pretend to be.’

‘Excuse me.’ Maria pushed back her chair, ran to the door, then halted on the veranda, for the night had no moon; nor had she a lantern. The snakes would be hunting in the cool. She heard footsteps behind her, felt a hand placed on her shoulder.

‘You cannot be serious,’ she said, looking out at the night, not him.

He turned her unveiled face gently to face him. ‘But I am.’

‘But why?’ she cried.

‘Because you are kind, and I do not think I will ever find kindness such as yours again. Because I enjoy your cooking and your talk of plants, and so our days may be nicely filled. Because I am an artist, perhaps, and so see all of you, not just what is crooked and which does not seem crooked in any way to me.’

‘But even with all that . . .’ she managed breathlessly ‘. . . what of other people? You cannot go anywhere in society with someone like me.’