‘But Father . . .’ Ezekiel Clancy did not like black faces on his property. He would be even less amenable to one in his house. But Flora could also see when Clancy determined to give her this, at least: the girl, a project to absorb her.

‘I will speak to my father,’ said Clancy.

Chapter 14

Salve for chapped lips, nappy rash and other discomforts

Melt 8tsp beeswax in 8tsp almond oil with 50g fresh lavender flowers. Strain and bottle.

OVERFLOW, 1877

FLORA

The child quietened once she was indoors, so much so that Flora nodded to Flanagan to let her go. Immediately the girl ran for the door and fumbled with the doorknob.

Flanagan grabbed her again, not gently. The child screamed, either in pain or anger or both. She kicked. Flanagan swore. ‘You’ll need to tie her up, missus, if you want to keep her.’

‘But . . .’ Flora stopped. She hated the thought of a bound child, but the man was correct. Even if she soothed the girl now, bribed her with bread or boiled Indian corn — Maria said the natives adored corn — she would escape in the night unless she was placed in the small stone gaol behind the house that had once held convicts who’d proved to be incorrigible, and now cooled the cheese and milk and butter.

But that was not suitable for a child. ‘Bring a mattress to my room, and rope. Oh, Mrs Logan,’ she called as the woman hurried from the kitchen, still with floury hands. ‘Isn’t she adorable?’

Mrs Logan did not reply.

The girl kicked Flanagan again. He pulled her hair, hard. The child subsided.

‘I’m going to call her Rose,’ said Flora.

A woman came looking for the child that afternoon. By then the girl had been bathed and dressed in an old pinafore of Maria’s. Flora had tried to brush her hair into a respectable maid’s bun, but she could hardly dress her own hair, much less manage to remove a lifetime of tangles. Eventually Maria cut the girl’s hair short, curling about her face. She was a pretty child, despite the native features.

Suddenly a burst of jeering and laughter came from outdoors. Flora peered out the bedroom window. A woman — Rose’s mother, presumably, or even aunt — stood, eyes on the ground, pleading with Clancy in what must be an incomprehensible tongue, though her meaning was clear. Clancy gestured towards the house, then walked swiftly up the steps. The woman waited, still looking down. One of the men — Rogers — laughed again and made a joke that luckily she couldn’t hear.

Clancy looked uncomfortable. ‘Flora, the child’s mother is here. Or I think she is her mother. The girl isn’t lost or abandoned. Her family clearly want her back.’

Flora gazed at him, puzzled, this badly shaved man who had once seemed a well-informed gentleman. ‘But she will be far better off away from the natives, learning how to be civilised, even to earn her own living.’