She ate; sponged him; fed him spoonfuls of liquid again. Once again he seemed to half wake. This time he drank more eagerly, so she propped him up, still with his eyes shut, and held a cup to his lips. He drank a cup of the meat liquid, another of sugar water, one of plain water, then of his own accord nuzzled back into the pillows.

She sponged again. She was feeling uncomfortable pleasure watching, touching his body: physical discomfort, moral discomfort and shame too that a creature like herself could look like this at a man who was whole, even if swollen, shiny red and unconscious.

It was midnight, perhaps, when she fell asleep herself, not a doze this time, but a deeper sleep. The cuckoos’ dawn call woke her. She opened her eyes and found him watching her.

She gave a cry and reached for her veil. ‘No need.’ The voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘I’ve been watching you for a while. I remember you too. You’ve been tending me quite a time.’

‘Two nights. My brother found you.’ She averted her face.

‘Don’t look away. Yes, your face is a shock at first. I suppose most people recoil. But I was too weak to, and so I looked, and I saw kindness and beauty too.’

She sat speechless.

He added, ‘I seem in desperate need of a chamber pot, but I do not think I could stand up for one.’

She brought him a ginger beer bottle. He managed to hold it himself, then handed it back to her. Its warmth was an intimacy that made her blush, as did the knowledge that he was naked under the sheet and he must know she knew it, had been touching him for two days.

Did he think she was a frustrated spinster? ‘I apologise for any intrusion,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was necessary to cool you down.’

‘I know.’ He’d shut his eyes again. ‘He stole my horse, my bags, my purse, even my shirt and boots.’

‘Who?’

‘No idea.’ His voice was growing slower with weariness. ‘He had a gun.’

A bushranger, she thought. There were fewer now that the gold had finished. Maybe just a swaggie taking what he could, though swaggies rarely carried firearms.

‘You should sleep,’ she said.

‘I don’t need to sleep yet. Just keep my eyes closed. It is good to talk . . .’

She tried to find a topic of conversation. ‘What were you doing out here?’

‘I’ve been staying at Drinkwater. They said the next property was Overflow, so I headed in that direction.’

‘You are at Overflow now.’

He must have taken in the small room, the shabbiness, the lack of servants. ‘Really?’ Then quickly, ‘I’m sorry. You have been so kind.’

‘You have business with my father or brother?’