She had once, as a girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, seen the wife of the new Governor. The Governor had been in the colony just a few months and the whole district had come out to see his wife (for the last Governor’s wife had been killed at Parramatta when her carriage had overturned in the driveway of old Government House—a thing of wonder still, all these years later). The wife of the new Governor had come to open a garden fete, or some such occasion, at the wharf in Balmain. Eleanor had seen her through a crowd of people, fleetingly, a figure slight and slender and elegant in a gown of purest sapphire blue beneath a white parasol that someone held above her head. She had laughed a little and inclined her head and the people had gazed upon her as they might a queen or a deity. Eleanor had gazed at her. After a short time the Governor’s wife had left in a carriage and the sun, which had been unrelenting all afternoon, had dipped behind a cloud.

Eleanor placed the plum-coloured hat just so on her head. She looked at herself. She was no longer red-faced and hot. She was quite pale. She was, she realised, a little frightened.

Alice stood in the doorway. ‘If you please, madam, Mr Dunlevy is enquiring if you are almost ready yet.’

Eleanor turned and regarded the maid, who had clearly been sent to hurry her along.

‘You may tell Mr Dunlevy I am quite ready, thank you, Alice, and shall be down directly … Is there something else?’ For the maid hesitated.

‘Will you be out all day, madam?’

‘Yes, I have already informed Mrs Flynn we shall not be back until late afternoon. It is not an excuse to slacken off, Alice.’

‘No, madam,’ said Alice, and she left at speed.

Eleanor stood up but she did not immediately depart. It was warm outside—she had got Alice to open her bedroom window—but Penrith was thirty miles inland and at the foot of the mountains and it was sure to be cold. She wrapped a possum fur about her shoulders and took up a muffler and left her room without a backwards glance.

Alasdair would not look at her. He stood at the front door, impatient and tapping his cane against his leg, his hat already on, gloves in his hand, and Mr Greensmith stood wretchedly at his side. The letter or telegram brought by the secretary was in Alasdair’s hand and, as Eleanor now appeared, was thrust wordlessly into his pocket.

‘Our train departs at ten o’clock,’ Alasdair said. His lips hardly moved as he spoke and he addressed the door, his cane, the wretched Mr Greensmith.

‘My dear, I believe you informed me it departs at eleven.’

‘No. I certainly did no such thing.’