Mrs Logan’s expression showed clearly what she felt about wasting food on a native wild cat or, possibly, instructing a native girl when her own son had no book learning. But she just said, ‘Yes, Mrs Clancy.’

Flora walked back and sat on the bed, speaking to the girl in a calm, even voice. ‘My name is Mrs Clancy. Can you say that, Rose? Or you could call me mistress.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Mistress.’

The girl stayed silent.

Flora pointed to the girl. ‘Rose. That’s your name now. I’m sure you can say it, if you try.’

It was as if she spoke to the trees.

‘Here are the sandwiches, Mrs Clancy. I brought a cup of water too,’ said Mrs Logan, eyeing the child.

‘That was thoughtful of you. Thank you, Mrs Logan. Here, Rose. This is food and this is water.’

The girl suddenly reached up, held back by the rope. Flora held the plate and cup out of her reach. ‘Say “mistress”.’

The girl muttered something, in a language that was not English, and certainly not the word ‘mistress’.

‘Thank you, mistress,’ said Flora clearly, offering the sandwiches and water again.

The girl eyed the food and especially the water. At last she said, surprisingly clearly, ‘Mistress.’

‘Good girl! I knew you could do it! Now say, “Please, mistress.”’

‘Mistress,’ said the girl, her enunciation perfect.

It was enough to begin with. Flora handed her the cup first, and was surprised that the girl knew what a cup was and how to drink from it. She even managed to hold it with both hands, despite her bound wrists. She handed her the plate.

The girl grabbed at the food like the savage she was, but she ate it all. As soon as she had eaten the last sandwich, she bent to work at the knots again. Flora smiled. Yes, this girl could be trained.

A small roar erupted from the room next door. Clementine needed feeding and changing. Flora waited for Mrs Logan or Maria to see to her. But Maria must be on one of her strange long walks in the bush, and Mrs Logan seemed not to see so much of the work a proper servant would automatically do. Flora stood to tend to her daughter herself.

Maria arrived back mid-afternoon, her arms full of some strange weed — it wasn’t even blooming — just as Clementine finished her goat’s milk. Maria put the plants down and took the baby, burping her expertly.

‘We have a new servant!’ said Flora brightly.

Maria looked puzzled. ‘But the other stockmen have no wives . . .’

Flora laughed. ‘No, a native girl. She was nearly trampled by your father’s stallion. I had her rescued. I’ve fed her, and she is tied up in our bedroom.’

‘Tied up?’ echoed Maria, startled.

‘Only till she is used to our ways and won’t run back to the wild. Don’t worry, I have worked with natives a lot, in Sydney. There is such good work being done by the missions now, placing them in reservations where they can do no harm. Margaret Drinkwater said their attacks on the stock — even on the stockmen — used to be dreadful.’