‘That’s all right then.’ Nelly settled back in her chair to sip leisurely at her tea. She felt pleased with herself at having cajoled the reluctant Emma into a long conversation. All the same though, she would have liked to tell Emma about Molly and the child. Yet she dared not; her instincts warned her that Marlow was right. Young Bill was too fresh in Emma’s heart for her to accept that a strange child had been enjoying his things. Nelly dared not take a chance in telling her. Perhaps later, sometime in the not-too-distant future.

‘I think I will go to my room for a while, Nelly… until Marlow comes home.’

‘Aye, well… yer do look worn out. It’s all that trudging about in the park. I’ve telled yer afore, my gal… we none of us ain’t as young as we were!’ She watched as Emma began her way across the room. Suddenly she was on her feet, calling her back. ‘You’d best tek this bit o’ jewellery up with yer,’ she told Emma, who paused by the door at Nelly’s words and was looking at her in a curious way: Emma was never a lover of jewellery, and she was intrigued by Nelly’s remark. ‘Yer must ’ave dropped it afore yer left fer Australia, gal,’ Nelly said, coming towards Emma with out-stretched palm that displayed a tiny gold clasp which she had retrieved from the drawer. ‘Yer lucky it weren’t lost, my gal… or trod on. I found it on the carpet soon after you’d gone, so I picked it up and kept it safe in the sideboard… though I can’t see how yer could ’ave worn the necklace that it come from… not with its clasp missing.’ She placed the clasp into Emma’s hand. ‘D’yer know, gal, I’ve scratched me brain ter think which piece o’ jewellery it came from. Yer don’t have that much, do yer? And I swear I can’t recall seeing it afore. But it must be yours, Emma, gal… ’cause it ain’t mine. And I’m sure it can’t belong ter none o’ the staff, ’cause by the look o’ the markings on it, that there clasp is worth a tidy sum.’

Nelly’s voice ranted on. But Emma had stopped listening. At first, when Nelly had put the tiny clasp into her hand, Emma’s instinct had been to give it back, saying that it was definitely not hers. Now, as she turned it over and over in the palm of her hand, her blood ran cold. The feel of the gold clasp against her skin was like a series of shocks going through her. She was confused and trembling, afraid and hopeful all at once. THE CLASP WAS HERS.

On close examination of it, Emma soon realized that it belonged to the tiny timepiece that her father had entrusted to her many years ago, just before he passed on. Her feverish thoughts sped back over the years. She recalled the twilight hours when she and Nelly were hurriedly bundled into the waggon which would take them to the convict ship. In her mind’s eye, she could see it all. The same sensations that she suffered then rampaged through her now: terror, pain and anger. She could almost feel the prison warder dragging her towards the waiting waggon, merciless in his duty, even though she was already in the throes of giving birth. She remembered how Nelly had pleaded on her behalf, and how, in that cold, darkened alley, she had given birth to a most beautiful baby girl, whose dark eyes haunted her still.