He glanced at the keyboard with its limited octaves and nodded gravely. ‘I suppose not.’ He straightened and turned to face his congregation. The little church was packed with miners, spruced up for the day in their best clothes. Some had families with them, thin, work-worn wives and children in faded and darned clothes and cracked shoes. Their little smocks might be faded and darned, but they were clean. Across the valley at St Mary’s Catholic Church, Father O’Hanlon would be exhorting his flock to live a Godly life, as would the Reverend Macdonald in the Presbyterian Church, and Pastor Nichols with his Noncomformists, who met in the Mechanics’ Institute.

Adelaide opened her 1861 copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern, found the first hymn, and set her feet to pumping the harmonium. The congregation shuffled to its feet and began belting out the familiar and comforting words of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ with enthusiasm.

The Reverend Johnson concluded the service by wishing his congregation a joyous Christmas Day and the flock filed out of the church, dutifully shaking Johnson’s hand and chatting among themselves.

Adelaide pumped out the closing bars of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ then rose from the stool and began to pack away her music.

The Reverend, freed from the last departing parishioner, joined her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greaves. The music was delightful today. There is something special about Christmas music.’

‘I was thinking the same thing, Reverend,’ Adelaide said. She glanced at the door of the church. Netty would have taken Danny and gone home as soon as the service ended to start on the lunch. Tucking her music folio under her arm, she walked out into the bright sunshine with the Reverend, who paused to lock the church behind him.

He turned to face the valley and made a gesture that encompassed the length and breadth of Maiden’s Creek. ‘A good congregation today. Indeed, they dutifully attend church on Sundays, Mrs Greaves, but the rest of the week God is not on their minds.’ He sighed. ‘May I walk with you?’

They strolled in companionable silence, the smell of roasting fowl reaching them as they turned down the path to the front door of the post office residence. The parlour was deserted but the sound of voices came from the kitchen at the far end of the hallway. Removing her hat, Adelaide left the Reverend in the parlour and hurried down to the kitchen to fetch water and see how lunch was proceeding.

Caleb Hunt sat at the kitchen table in his shirt sleeves with his leg propped on a stool. He and Danny were peeling and chopping vegetables while a perspiring Netty, her sleeves rolled above her elbows, laboured over the boiled Christmas pudding.

Their rowdy banter stopped as Adelaide stepped into the room and, with a pang, she realised that this was often the effect she had on people.