‘I want to tell the story of Australia,’ Jed said at last. ‘The real story. History books are mostly dead white men in towns and cities. I want to write books that tell the women’s history, the bush history, all the important parts that haven’t been told.’

‘Flora is part of that history too. If it hadn’t been for Flora, Gran might never have survived, much less married Granddad. Women like Flora are as much a part of our history as Gran.’

Jed said nothing, her hand still in Sam’s. One day I will be sitting here and he’ll open his eyes, she thought. He’ll smile at me and . . .

Suddenly she could pretend no longer. She let the tears come.

‘Jed . . .’ Nancy’s arms were comforting. ‘Jed, darling . . .’

‘Sam’s not going to wake up, is he?’

‘Possibly not. But you knew that . . .’

‘Not really. I told myself I did, but hearing you say now that it’s possible to love more than one person . . .’

‘You no longer feel you have to spend your life in a hospital room? One day you might even fall in love again?’

Jed moved back slightly. ‘Okay, maybe it is possible to fall in love more than once. But if there is just the slightest chance Sam knows I’m here, I’m not leaving him alone.’

‘And we’re not leaving you alone to sit with him,’ said Nancy quietly, sitting down again. ‘Not me and Michael, or Blue and Joseph or any of your friends, or Sam’s. We’re here for you. Always.’

‘I know. Thank you.’

‘Now may I tell you the story of Clancy of the Overflow? Even if it’s not the one you expected?’

Jed managed to smile. ‘Yes. I’m a fine one to talk, aren’t I, saying I want to write the truth then objecting when you try to tell it to me?’

‘All right then. It was love at first sight, just as I said . . .’

Chapter 3

To clean a corset

If a fresh chemise is worn under the corset, a light sponging once a month is all that is necessary. Wipe the silk with a damp cloth, both inside and out, then leave in an upright position to dry. Never wash a corset, or it may stretch out of shape and the metal eyelets rust.

SYDNEY, 1869

FLORA

Her heart sang as Horatio Clancy walked her to the carriage, then tipped the porter who would bring her trunks to the house later. She dismissed Sarah, ignoring her maid’s slight look of shock that her mistress would be alone in a carriage with a man, even if that man were her fiancé.

But Flora spoke as firmly as any eighteen-year-old who knew that from now on she was the mistress of a grand household. ‘Wait here and come after us with the porter who is bringing our trunks. I don’t want any left behind.’

Flora’s trousseau had been bought in Paris, thanks to Ezekiel Clancy’s largesse. The girl from Buccleuch Abbey loved every single ruffle, every silk petticoat and whalebone corset.