Caleb leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight, and surveyed his empty plate. Since Netty Redley had started feeding him, he had let out his belt a couple of notches. He would marry Netty just for her cooking.

‘Might I say, Miss Netty, that was the best meal I have eaten in a long time.’

A fetching colour rose in Netty’s cheeks and she smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Reverend Johnson. ‘An excellent repast. Tell me, Mr Hunt, what would you eat at Christmas in America?’

Caleb shrugged. ‘Much the same, although I must confess, plum pudding eaten on a cold, snowy day does sit a little easier.’

Johnson wiped his forehead. ‘If I am to follow my calling, I will have to get used to warmer Christmases than this.’

‘Maiden’s Creek is not your calling, Reverend?’ Adelaide asked.

‘A step on the path, Mrs Greaves.’ His face tightened with sudden fervour. ‘It is my long-held ambition to go the dark centre of this continent and bring the word of God to the heathens. We also need to bring medicine. Sadly, they seem to fall prey to our Western diseases too easily—smallpox, measles, diptheria.’ The man’s fingers grazed his own face, drawing attention to the faint scars that told the story of a childhood brush with death.

Caleb narrowed his eyes. It had been just such diseases that had overwhelmed the Indian tribes of the Shenandoah and, in his short time in Melbourne, he had seen the Aborigines, as the natives of this country were called, living in appalling conditions. Smallpox could be survived but to bring it into a country like this and expose an innocent native population to its ravages was reckless and devastating. It struck him then that the word of the Christian God had done precious little for the plight of those poor people, thrown off their traditional lands and forced into lives of destitution and alcoholism.

‘And how do you intend to do that?’ he asked with icy politeness.

‘I will establish a mission, teach them reading and writing and basic skills that will equip them to lives as servants.’

‘Why?’

Johnson stared at Caleb. ‘Because they must be civilised.’

‘I’m sorry, Reverend, do I understand that you are a proponent of the argument that those with skin of different colours to our own are in some way inferior to us?’ Caleb had difficulty keeping his tone neutral.

At the end of the table, Adelaide straightened and Caleb noticed her tightened lips and furious eyes.

‘Most people believe they are.’ Johnson seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘You are a Southerner, Mr Hunt. As a slave owner, surely you would have firsthand observations—’

‘My family did not own slaves,’ Caleb said with such force that everyone at the table visibly started. ‘In fact, my father was an abolitionist.’

‘But you fought for the South?’ Johnson mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.