He realised he was still wearing only a towel. He slipped behind the screen again, in case it was Sarah who answered the bell, and began to pull on underwear. He heard the door open.

‘Champagne before we go out to dine!’ he called. ‘Tell Grange the Château Pommery. And a bottle for the staff tonight too!’

A silence on the other side of the screen, as if Sarah had never heard of such a thing — good champagne for servants — except, of course, for the leftovers the upper servants accepted as their due. Possibly she and Flora were exchanging smiles at the ignorance of a colonial, or the joy of a new papa.

A child. His father dreamed of heirs, but Clancy imagined a small boy sliding down the Rosemere banisters; kite flying in the park; a daughter, beautiful as Flora, on her first pony.

He wished he could write to his father and Maria tonight, but a letter might take six weeks or even longer to reach them, as it would have to wait till someone was travelling that way from Drinkwater. He might be back there only a few weeks after a letter could reach them. No, he thought, he would wait until he could tell his father in person, so he could see his pleasure. He stepped back from behind the screen as Sarah left the room, drew his wife to him, this precious, fragrant woman who had made their lives a joy.

‘She’s finally breeding!’ Ezekiel Clancy looked up from his roast stuffed shoulder of mutton, crisp potatoes, baked pumpkin and buttered cabbage, then reached over the dining room table to shake his son’s hand. ‘Well done, boy. When’s it due?’

‘March.’

‘Excellent.’ Ezekiel sat back. ‘I’ll send a note to Marks,’ he added. ‘A diamond bracelet, eh? That’s what you give for the birth of a grandson.’

‘It might be a girl, Father.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. Of course it will be a boy. The first of many, now she’s finally got going.’

Clancy glanced at Maria. ‘A baby,’ she said softly. She smiled, that crooked smile he was so used to. ‘I’ve been saving lamb’s wool since your marriage. Mrs Fagan down at Drinkwater spins it. Your child will have the softest layette in New South Wales.’

‘Can’t wait to tell old Drinkwater next time I go into town,’ chortled Ezekiel, picking some cabbage out of a gap in his teeth. ‘Him and that young wife of his and no young ’uns yet. I’ll have a grandson before he even gets that girl up the spud.’ Ezekiel rose from the table, yawned and stretched. ‘Better hit the hay. Another early start tomorrow.’

Clancy nodded. The sheep were gathered in the channels that gave Overflow its name. Like most properties, Overflow had few fences — Ezekiel’s fortune had been founded on free convict labour, where even the men’s clothes and rations had been handed to him by the colonial authorities. But now that stockmen needed to be paid — the white ones at least and Ezekiel did not trust black faces — Overflow too was slowly being fenced. The channel paddock that held the sheep for shearing had been the first to be enclosed. Scattered showers had delayed shearing for a week now — wet sheep could not be shorn. The channel grass had meant that at least they hadn’t needed to be hand fed.