He turned back to his son. ‘I got a letter in the last mailbag. Seems Lord McPherson needs more money. Well, he won’t be gettin’ it from me.’ He limped towards the door.

The house sold three days after the article in the Sydney Morning Herald appeared: Tragedy at Grazing Property. Clancy and Flora moved to a rented cottage in Paddington. Once the money for the house and most of the furniture had been banked, Ezekiel allowed them enough for the cottage, the wages of Flora’s maid Sarah, a cook–housekeeper, a daily char to do the rough and rented stabling for their horses.

The cottage had a single bedroom. The servants occupied the attic that stored almost too much heat for them to sleep. Sarah was tight lipped, but did not openly complain.

Flora had taken the news of their ruin well. There had been no hysterics or recriminations, not even tears, or none that he had been allowed to see. He had been overcome with love for her once more, that she did not rail at him, yell that she had been promised a life of luxury if she married so far beneath her and journeyed to the bottom of the world. And, as he assured her, their ‘ruin’ was temporary. The market for wool and fat lambs was excellent. Another few good seasons would set them up again. Five years, maybe.

‘We can plan our own house this time,’ Clancy told her. ‘At Hunter’s Hill, perhaps, or Balmain. The air is healthy there.’ Somewhere she would not be taunted by the sight of Rosemere and its new owners. He hesitated. ‘It would not be as grand as Rosemere. But I am sure you will make it beautiful.’

And Flora smiled, but said nothing.

She said little these days.

Her pains came early in the morning. Clancy himself ran for the midwife and the doctor, but after a brief inspection, Dr Grey assured Clancy that all was proceeding well and to call him only if the midwife felt the matter was beyond her.

He spent the afternoon sitting, hands clenched, listening to Flora scream. The sounds ceased. A baby cried. He ran up the stairs to find the midwife, Mrs Clarke, emerging with a small bundle wrapped in flannel. She smiled at him and pulled the edges of it away.

A wrinkled face looked up at him, the deep blue eyes slightly crossing. ‘Tsp,’ it said.

His son was speaking already! Clancy gazed entranced. ‘Surely babies don’t speak so soon,’ he breathed.

Mrs Clarke smiled. ‘It may take her a year or so to say a word or two you’ll understand, sir.’

A daughter! But she was beautiful. He took the bundle in his arms, so small, so perfect. He couldn’t look away. ‘How is Flora?’

‘Sleeping. You may look in on her, but don’t wake her. Lay the baby in its cradle, if you don’t mind, sir. I need a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich,’ she added wearily.