‘The Clancys do not entertain,’ said Margaret carefully. Of course, Flora realised, Maria could never be a hostess. But now it would be different.

She smiled as she took a tiny macaroon. ‘You will be our guests at our first party. Have you ever played tennis? No? Oh, my dear, it is so much fun. The latest fashion in Sydney and at home!’

Suddenly ideas — a future — gleamed before her. They must build a tennis court at Overflow! And billiards too. All of Sydney — all who counted — would long for an invitation to their house parties. And she would plant roses. Great gardens of roses for guests to walk among. A rose maze, the flowers trellised for guests to wander. Roses grew so quickly in the heat. Even English society might talk of Flora Clancy’s rose maze at Overflow. All the past year’s . . . disagreeableness and disappointments . . . would be forgotten.

They set off as dawn greyed the sky the next morning, Flora now in the cart, Clementine asleep in her basket at Flora’s feet, Clancy driving and his horse and two packhorses on leads behind. She sat with bags of flour and a keg of sugar packed among her luggage, surveying the way in front, for a proper road must be cut now, wide enough for carriages to pass, trees cut and those ruts filled in . . .

The cart had jolted its way along the track. At last Clancy stopped, unharnessed the horses and led them to drink, while Flora retired behind the cart to feed Clementine. Clementine grizzled until her father appeared, held the baby over his shoulder and began to walk her up and down. Miraculously, she gave a large burp and quietened. ‘The tea is made,’ he said.

He’d lit a small fire, with water boiling in a tin and the luncheon the Drinkwater housekeeper had supplied set out on a picnic blanket — almost, she thought, like the picnics we had back in Sydney.

‘The bread is fresh,’ he said. ‘But I could toast it if you’d prefer it more breakfast like.’

‘I’ll toast it,’ she said. ‘It will be an adventure.’ She thrust away memories of toasting forks, crumpets and fires at the Abbey. She took the slice of bread he offered her and stuck it on the end of a long green twig.

‘See?’ she said triumphantly after a short time. ‘Perfectly toasted.’ She spread it with butter and quince jelly and handed it to him, then cut a slice for herself.

He munched it quietly, gazing around. For the first time since they left the mountains she took in their surroundings. The bush had seemed so unchanging that she’d barely looked at it. But here was a large pond, lily covered, though the flowers were evidently not in season. A white sandbank rose behind it, and a glint of what must be the river that formed the main watercourse of both Drinkwater and Overflow. ‘Why wasn’t Drinkwater affected by the flood?’