Morning was still as grey as the workmen’s shirts when a horse plodded into sight, evidently ridden all through the night, picking its way by moonlight. The dark-skinned rider dismounted. He took the horse behind the house, evidently seeing to its comfort before he walked back to her. ‘Morning, missus. I’m Sampson.’

Sampson. The swimmer, she remembered. ‘Good morning, Sampson,’ she croaked. ‘I will get . . .’

‘Sampson!’ It was Clancy, already dressed, a hunk of damper and cheese in his hand, a mug of cold tea in the other. He handed both to the native. ‘Up this way,’ he said shortly, striding around the house.

She didn’t follow them. Why should she follow, when the men would soon bring Clementine back to her? She must go and make sure there was fresh damper ready for her, and milk to heat, for Clementine’s throat might be sore after being out all night. At least she should not have caught a chill.

Bread and milk with honey, she decided, or sugar if the honey pot was empty. If the ants were in the sugar again, she would dissolve it in a little milk and strain them out, for if you left them too long, they made the liquid bitter and Clementine would not drink it.

‘Come, Mama, come!’ They should have been leaving this place today. They would leave tomorrow . . . no, perhaps the day after, Clementine would need to rest.

She fetched water in the bucket, washed her face, used the dreaded latrine — Mrs Taylor had not even refused to empty their chamber pots, simply looked at Flora with incredulity when she reminded the woman they were under the beds. She changed her dress, for that was what one did.

And then she waited. She did not need to wait long. For there was Sampson, striding towards the house, and Clancy, carrying their daughter.

Safe! She could not stand, could not even cry out with joy, the happiness was so overwhelming. Her little girl, asleep in her father’s arms. No harm had come to her. Even her dress was not torn or dirty.

Her dress. Clementine’s wet dress. Her wet hair. Her head limp against her father’s chest. She did not move.

Nor did Flora, not even when they laid the child on Maria’s bed and shut her soft blue eyes.

She did not undress her. She did not tend Clementine, for that was not her daughter. She simply sat on the veranda. Her daughter was . . . somewhere else, waiting for her. They would go to Drinkwater soon, and Maria’s, and then to Sydney, and Clementine would be safe. Clementine would wear white silk and lace for her debutante year, and Flora’s pearls. Neither brain nor body would admit the possibility of any other future.