‘But that woman is her mother.’

‘That is neither here nor there. We must think of what is good for the child, Clancy.’ How could he possibly think a native’s wishes could counter those of the Honourable Flora of Buccleuch? Or that he knew better than her, who had been patron of so many commitees in Sydney for the advancement of the unfortunate.

Flora would have liked to assure the woman that she was giving Rose the most splendid opportunity. But the native woman of course would not speak English, nor indeed have any inkling of just how lucky the girl was.

Flora turned away just as the woman screamed. Fred Four Fingers had his arm about her waist and was trying to drag her to a shed as the woman kicked and yelled. Over by the men’s quarters Taylor and Rogers laughed.

Flora leaned out the window and cried, ‘Let her go!’ just as Clancy strode back into the yard. She heard his voice, sharp and in command. No woman would be made sport of while her husband was around. She watched as the woman scrambled to her feet, took one last angry glance at the house and yards and ran into the trees.

The girl sat perfectly still during the commotion, refusing to look up. Only her fingers fumbled urgently as she worked at the knots in the rope.

‘You mustn’t be scared,’ Flora told her gently.

Still the girl did not look up. Flora relaxed. The child probably had no idea of what had happened out there. The native families she knew in Sydney — the civilised ones — cared for their children. But people who wore only string — a woman like this girl’s mother, who would display herself naked to men, who lived like an animal with neither house nor proper social order — probably felt little more than animals do. The woman would have forgotten the girl by the next day.

Flora glanced at the girl again, still impassive, still staring down. Of course this was best for her. ‘I will get you some food,’ she said gently, miming putting food into her mouth, rubbing her stomach.

The girl ignored her, but her hands stilled momentarily, so Flora knew that she heard.

She stepped out to the kitchen shack, its walls of small branches bound together by mud . . . mud! . . . and attached to the main house by a breezeway in case it caught fire, as kitchens often did.

Incredible to live in a house that had no bell system to call servants. Even more extraordinary that almost certainly no servant would even know to come when a bell jangled. ‘Bring some food for Rose, please, Mrs Logan.’

‘Rose, Mrs Clancy?’ asked Mrs Logan. At least she spoke respectfully, unlike Mrs Taylor, who did not even bother to use her mistress’s name when she addressed her.

‘The native girl. I am going to instruct her. Civilise her.’ Flora smiled. ‘Who knows? She may even make a lady’s maid, or a children’s nurse. I have seen natives who have made excellent servants or gardeners. I think some sandwiches from whatever meat we have in the meat safe. A piece of the currant pudding Miss Clancy made for last night too, if there is some left.’