Mrs McKenzie grinned and put more batter in the pan, then handed the platter she’d just made to Clancy. He helped himself, honey instead of jam. Four drop scones and half a mug of tea later, topped up with milk from the new kerosene refrigerator, he said, ‘Rose says it’s going to rain in spring.’

‘Drought’s going to break?’ asked McKenzie cautiously.

‘Yep.’

McKenzie looked at his wife. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you forget I grew up in Sydney, you old fool. I don’t know much more than you about the weather here.’

‘But still . . .?’

‘I think we need to buy cattle,’ said Mrs McKenzie. ‘And sheep for Overflow. We’ve got about a hundred and forty pounds. Reckon we can get a lot of cattle for that. People are almost giving them away this year. What about you?’ she asked Clancy.

‘About four hundred pounds left. I’m going to mortgage Overflow. We don’t just need money to buy stock — we’ll need to buy feed for them till it rains.’

McKenzie stared. ‘Can’t buy hay for love or money, no matter how much you’ve got.’

Clancy shrugged. ‘Feed ’em pumpkin, corn, Granny Smith apples from Tasmania, whatever we can buy. Hire more men to cut kurrajongs and she-oaks.’

Which would mean if it didn’t rain, he’d lose everything. He threw away the crumb of doubt. This was Rose’s land. She knew it.

‘Not much stock around these days,’ said McKenzie. ‘And they’ll be too weak to walk fast. Need to feed and water ’em on the way too.’

He stood, grabbing his stick. ‘Better get my boots on, woman. Better get yours too. We’re goin’ drovin’ again.’

The McKenzies bought cattle first — McKenzie’s contacts were mostly cattlemen. He went to Sydney for the sheep, taking Clancy with him and leaving Mrs McKenzie at Overflow.

‘The wife worries when I’m Sydney,’ he explained as the two men let their horses find the best way through the trees. ‘Bad memories.’

‘I thought she’d have liked working at Government House.’

McKenzie stared at him. ‘You got bats in your attic? They made her eat scraps on the doorstep.’ He had boasted she’d been a cook, not a kitchen maid, but Clancy did not remind him. Mrs McKenzie’s cooking was undoubtedly better than any the official cook prepared.

‘That’s where they found her,’ McKenzie said shortly. ‘Mob of footmen, gardeners maybe. Drunk, probably. They grabbed her one night, dragged her down in the gardens. When they’d finished, they left her in an alley. Probably thought she was dead.’

‘But . . . Government House?’

McKenzie shrugged. ‘When she was missed, someone would have said, “Oh, them natives, always going walkabout.” That’s where I found her, in the alley.’

‘And you looked after her?’