Adelaide hesitated, fiddling with one of the spoons. ‘Assuming we can release that money from father’s estate—and we won’t know that until the lawyers in London have finalised everything—would it work if I were to put up the initial capital? I would give you fifty-one per cent of the shareholding.’ When Caleb opened his mouth to protest, she added, ‘Consider it my wedding gift to you.’

He nodded. ‘What about the other forty-nine per cent?’

‘I will retain that, subject to whatever Penrose can contribute and if he agrees to manage the mine, part-payment could be by way of shares.’

Caleb studied the woman across the table from him, dressed in her austere and outmoded black dress. Her eyes shone in the gaslights and he had never loved her so much.

‘Partners?’ she said.

He smiled. ‘Partners,’ he agreed. ‘Enough talk of business matters. Nothing we can’t discuss with the lawyer tomorrow. We are here, by ourselves, and just this once, I am prepared to swallow my pride and allow you the pleasure of entertaining me. Let’s get ourselves some fancy clothes, stroll the block, whatever that is, go to the theatre, go dancing. Whatever you like—a kind of honeymoon before the wedding.’

Colour rose in Adelaide’s cheeks and she dropped the spoon she had been fiddling with on the floor.

27 February 1872

Adelaide stood in front of the long mirror in her hotel room and fingered the soft ivory silk organza of the elegant peignoir that had been delivered to the hotel. The other purchases, ordered from the finest shops in Melbourne—bonnets and stockings, petticoats and ribbons, and presents for Netty and Danny—were thrown higgledy-piggledy on a bed she had no intention of sleeping in that night.

She turned to view her reflection from a different angle, shaking the lacy ruffles at her wrists to hide her work-worn hands. She had never owned anything so beautiful, or so risqué. The matching silk nightdress, visible beneath the sheer material, shimmered in the light. She shook out her hair, letting the long, dark tresses fall down her back. Audacity? Recklessness? Wantoness? All these words bounced through her mind.

‘Once a fallen woman, always a fallen woman,’ she mused aloud and, with a soft whisper of silk ruffles, turned for the door.

Her heart beat a tattoo as she crossed the carpeted corridor to the room opposite hers. As she stopped before the solid, unyielding polished cedar door of Room 12, the butterflies in her stomach rose in a rabble. She took a shuddering breath and rapped lightly on the door. When Caleb didn’t respond, she knocked again, louder.