He waited till his father had left — limping a little, for shearing time was a strain on him, not that he’d admit it — then turned to Maria. ‘Will you come to Sydney for the last month and stay for the confinement? Flora will need family with her.’

‘I . . . I’m sure she has her own friends.’

‘But you are her sister. She says so often.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ Maria hesitated. ‘Some say that . . . deformity . . . may affect an unborn child.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘Is it? How can we know? And Flora may think so, even if she loves you too much to object.’

Maria was right. Flora would say nothing, if that was what she felt. Instead he said, ‘Will you come to Sydney after the child is born, then?’ There were public lectures on scientific matters too that he suspected Maria might enjoy, though neither he nor Flora had ever been to one. But perhaps a veiled woman would cause comment in public, even risk some ruffian lifting her veil and shaming her by exposing her disfigured face for all to see. He should not have asked . . .

‘Of course I will visit, for a short while. I . . . I long to hold a baby.’

He tried to think what else to offer her. ‘Flora told me she would love to visit Overflow too. She had been waiting for an invitation from you.’

‘From me? I never thought . . .’ Maria laughed. ‘English society must be so very prim and proper, mustn’t it? Now would you like jam roly-poly and custard for afters, or bottled plums?’

The roar hit in the pre-dawn darkness. Clancy was out of bed before he realised he was awake, fumbling for the safety matches to light the lantern. Earthquake? The ground shook beneath his feet. But the noise grew louder, crashing, slashing, while the vibration stayed a shiver in the floorboards.

He ran outside, barefoot in his nightshirt. The sound came from the river, no, closer than the river. He raced towards it, vaguely aware of bindiis piercing his feet, then stopped. It must be an earthquake, for the ground below the house moved, shaking, shivering. A sheep floated by, still alive, screaming, and then the wreckage of what must have been a shed . . .

Not an earthquake. Flood. But there had been no rain for three days . . .

Upstream, he thought, a downpour upstream, a hundred miles away, perhaps, or more. Would it rise higher, take the house, take them all? But even as he looked by lamplight he could see the water was falling.

A lantern bobbed behind him.

‘Father?’

‘Aye.’ The old man watched the thunderous water in silence. Other lanterns had joined theirs now, the men from the shearers’ quarters, some of the stockmen. Clancy prayed all had been out of reach of the flood. Maria appeared, running across the rough grass in her nightdress, her lantern held outstretched from long practice, so it showed the way ahead but not her face. ‘How bad is it?’ she called, above the roar of water.