Sir John’s white dress shirts, half-frozen on the line, looked like an army of ghosts.

Bedrooms were cleaned on Thursdays, the dining room and drawing rooms on Fridays. Once a week, on Friday mornings, three maids filled the Franklins’ bathtubs with warm water brought by the stable boys, adding oil scented with lavender.

For the first time in her life, Hazel had a steady job. The house was orderly and warm and redolent of lilacs. She liked the sounds of the courtyard: the horses clip-clopping up the drive, the crowing roosters and grunting pigs. She liked the smells of the kitchen: fruit pies cooling on the counter, lamb roasting slowly on the turnspit. She would have considered herself quite fortunate were it not for the fact that Ruby languished in the orphanage, captive behind its walls.

Every day, in the midafternoon, Hazel was permitted to take a quarter-hour break in the kitchen and wrap her hands around a cup of tea sweetened with jam. She’d begun collecting pieces of rags from old clothing and sheets too worn to be used by the Franklins, and in quiet moments she pulled out the scraps she’d cut into small, uniform pieces, and worked on a quilt to bring to Ruby.

One Friday morning Hazel was cleaning the grate in the green drawing room when Lady Franklin came in with Mrs. Crain. Hazel gathered her brushes quickly and stood to leave, but Lady Franklin waved at her and said, “I’d rather you finish your work than leave ashes on the hearth.”

The two women sat at a small round table, discussing plans for the day. A tinker was stopping by with his cart; Mrs. Crain would need to gather utensils that needed fixing. The display cases in Lady Franklin’s quarters required dusting: could Mrs. Crain assign that task to a convict maid? Oh—and she should inform the cook that Sir John had invited another guest to the dinner this evening. “He’ll need a place card. His name is . . . let’s see . . .” Lady Franklin peered at the paper in her hand through a magnifying glass. “Caleb Dunne. Doctor Caleb Dunne.”

Hazel, startled, dropped her brush. Mrs. Crain shot her a glance.

“Sir John met him at a luncheon a few days ago,” Lady Franklin was saying. “He recently moved to Hobart Town and set up a private practice. Apparently, he is unmarried. It’s a pity I can’t think of a young lady with whom to pair him.”

“Miss Eleanor?” Mrs. Crain suggested.

“Goodness no,” Lady Franklin said with a small laugh. “Dr. Dunne is an intellectual. He was educated at the Royal College of Surgeons. Seat him next to me.”

When, later that day, Hazel encountered Mrs. Crain in the courtyard, she offered to stay late to help with the dinner. Mrs. Crain shook her head. “We only employ free settlers at evening events. Lady Franklin doesn’t want the convict maids on the property after dark.”

The next morning, Hazel casually inquired about the party, but all she managed to glean was that the roast was overdone (according to the cook), and the guests polished off the last of the sherry (according to Mrs. Crain). Neither of them had a word to say about Dr. Dunne.