She would miss Flora, Clementine, her brother, but they could visit her. In her own house, with her own guests and her own husband, lover, friend, companion showing Clementine the tiny vesicles in eucalyptus leaves with the microscope she had never hoped to possess.

She would miss Overflow, but she would not go back there nor, she knew, would Ethelred help Overflow financially. Her father’s exclamation of disgust had seen to that. Nor did she want him to. The marriage settlement for her, arranged by Mr Halibut in Sydney and Ethelred’s father’s man of business in England (presumably glad this marriage would keep the potential embarrassment of his illegitimate son safely in the colonies), contained a condition that none of the monies entailed on her could ever be used for the debts, comfort or enrichment of Ezekiel Clancy.

There were so many strange tastes these days: hope and love and happiness. And now she knew there would be more.

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Stir-fried Chilli Cabbage and Baked Beans: a student recipe

Chop cabbage finely. Fry in oil with garlic and onions till it begins to soften. Add a dash of soy sauce, chilli to taste, then a can of baked beans. Cook till the beans are hot.

Can be eaten by itself or with brown rice.

SYDNEY, 1980

SCARLETT

She heard William’s key in the lock just after two am. She slipped out of bed and pulled on a brunch coat, but didn’t bother with slippers. The feel of the floor beneath her feet made it easier to balance. ‘William?’

‘Yes.’ He hadn’t turned the light on, didn’t look at her, but there was enough light to see his shape from the streetlights. ‘I apologise about before.’ He began to walk to his own room, across the living room from hers.

‘I thought you might have hitchhiked back to Drinkwater,’ she said.

He turned to face her then. ‘I stopped running away from things two years ago.’

‘Good.’ She walked carefully over to the sofa between him and his room and sat. ‘Stop running now. You said you’d dreamed of a house we might share, and children. Do you want to . . . marry me?’

‘That is irrelevant,’ he said tightly.

‘Why? Because you think my condition might be hereditary? It’s possible, but not probable. I intend to have children, if I can.’

He sat, his big hands in his lap. ‘Scarlett, you can’t marry me. It would be crazy. I have no money, no prospects of being able to support a wife for at least six years, and my reputation is clouded, to say the least, which alone may stop any architectural firm from accepting me for my prac year. And I am black.’