‘I’m sorry, pet. I am sure your Aunt Maria will find you lots of flowers. No, there is one flower left, right in the middle. See?’

Clementine stood on tiptoes and grinned. ‘Yes, I can see it! It’s so big, Mama.’

Flora stared at the single waterlily flower in the middle of the pool, its once pure whiteness yellowing now, and brown at the edges.

‘We’ll be able to see proper rose gardens in Sydney soon. You will love them, Clementine! So many flowers on one bush and such lovely colours. Would you like a dress with roses on it? When we are in Sydney, you can choose the fabric yourself. And a bonnet with flowers too.’

Her daughter looked at her uncomprehendingly. Of course Clementine did not know the pleasures of an emporium, of silks and satins, Indian cottons, threads and ribbons and real lace as well as machine made . . .

Clementine sat next to her on the smooth rock, while Flora showed her how to chop watercress into the sandwiches. They ate them together. Flora leaned back against a boulder, in the welcome shade of the thick-leaved trees. The rock seemed to breathe out a strange warmth, quite different from the sunlight stored in stone walls or bricks. She was glad they had come to this pool, on their last day at Overflow. She could at least remember the property had one place of beauty, and Clementine would remember it too.

And one day, she thought sleepily, it would rain again, and the place would prosper. Ezekiel would remember all his once longed-for pretensions. Perhaps Overflow might even become the country estate she had assumed it would be. One day too Clancy would be master of Overflow, and the meanness of Ezekiel’s experience and expectations would vanish from the world . . .

‘Time for a nap now, Clementine.’

‘I want to pick flowers! You are so happy with flowers, Mama! Do you think there might be more up there?’ She pointed up the gully.

‘No, darling, it’s too steep for another pool, and anyway, you might tear your stockings again. Come, have a nap with Mama.’

Flora held out her arms. The small far-too-tanned limbs cuddled into hers, and the small blonde head. She shut her eyes. Such a precious child. She had not known, when Maria and Rose cared for her daughter, how much joy there was in cradling your own child, even getting up in the night when she cried.

She would not let servants separate them again. She would be there for every breakfast, every supper, a walk or other play every afternoon, as well as the children’s hour before dinner when their nanny or governess would bring Clementine down, freshly bathed and in her nightdress and dressing gown, to kiss her good night, with those small soft lips . . .

‘. . . want to pick you a flower . . .’ muttered Clementine stubbornly. Flora heard the words vaguely, from far away.

She slept and dreamed of happiness.