‘Nothing. Just bring her here, please.’

  The girl said something angry and incomprehensible.

  Clancy appeared in the stained moleskin trousers and faded shirt he wore these days until he changed for dinner — and then only into what the middle class called ‘Sunday best’, not eveningwear. ‘Flora, my love, what’s wrong?’

  She smiled at him, suddenly seeing not just something to do, but something that should be done. ‘There’s a native girl, a child. She was almost stamped to death by that great horse, and it seems that she is quite alone. Please have Flanagan bring her inside.’

  Clancy glanced out the window at the child, struggling and trying to bite Flanagan’s arm, then at Flora, bewildered. ‘Why?’

  She smiled at him with the first true joy she’d felt since brief moments after Clementine’s birth. ‘I’ll train her to be a lady’s maid. I’ll save her, Clancy. Natives can be taught. I’ve seen native servants up in Sydney — and especially if you start with one as young as this one. She’s what? Twelve years old? Perhaps a little older?’

  ‘But Father . . .’ Ezekiel Clancy did not like black faces on his property. He would be even less amenable to one in his house. But Flora could also see when Clancy determined to give her this, at least: the girl, a project to absorb her.

  ‘I will speak to my father,’ said Clancy.

  Chapter 14

  Salve for chapped lips, nappy rash and other discomforts

  Melt 8tsp beeswax in 8tsp almond oil with 50g fresh lavender flowers. Strain and bottle.

  OVERFLOW, 1877

  FLORA

  The child quietened once she was indoors, so much so that Flora nodded to Flanagan to let her go. Immediately the girl ran for the door and fumbled with the doorknob.

  Flanagan grabbed her again, not gently. The child screamed, either in pain or anger or both. She kicked. Flanagan swore. ‘You’ll need to tie her up, missus, if you want to keep her.’

  ‘But . . .’ Flora stopped. She hated the thought of a bound child, but the man was correct. Even if she soothed the girl now, bribed her with bread or boiled Indian corn — Maria said the natives adored corn — she would escape in the night unless she was placed in the small stone gaol behind the house that had once held convicts who’d proved to be incorrigible, and now cooled the cheese and milk and butter.

  But that was not suitable for a child. ‘Bring a mattress to my room, and rope. Oh, Mrs Logan,’ she called as the woman hurried from the kitchen, still with floury hands. ‘Isn’t she adorable?’

  Mrs Logan did not reply.

  The girl kicked Flanagan again. He pulled her hair, hard. The child subsided.

  ‘I’m going to call her Rose,’ said Flora.

  A woman came looking for the child that afternoon. By then the girl had been bathed and dressed in an old pinafore of Maria’s. Flora had tried to brush her hair into a respectable maid’s bun, but she could hardly dress her own hair, much less manage to remove a lifetime of tangles. Eventually Maria cut the girl’s hair short, curling about her face. She was a pretty child, despite the native features.

  Suddenly a burst of jeering and laughter came from outdoors. Flora peered out the bedroom window. A woman — Rose’s mother, presumably, or even aunt — stood, eyes on the ground, pleading with Clancy in what must be an incomprehensible tongue, though her meaning was clear. Clancy gestured towards the house, then walked swiftly up the steps. The woman waited, still looking down. One of the men — Rogers — laughed again and made a joke that luckily she couldn’t hear.

  Clancy looked uncomfortable. ‘Flora, the child’s mother is here. Or I think she is her mother. The girl isn’t lost or abandoned. Her family clearly want her back.’

  Flora gazed at him, puzzled, this badly shaved man who had once seemed a well-informed gentleman. ‘But she will be far better off away from the natives, learning how to be civilised, even to earn her own living.’

  ‘But that woman is her mother.’

  ‘That is neither here nor there. We must think of what is good for the child, Clancy.’ How could he possibly think a native’s wishes could counter those of the Honourable Flora of Buccleuch? Or that he knew better than her, who had been patron of so many commitees in Sydney for the advancement of the unfortunate.

  Flora would have liked to assure the woman that she was giving Rose the most splendid opportunity. But the native woman of course would not speak English, nor indeed have any inkling of just how lucky the girl was.

  Flora turned away just as the woman screamed. Fred Four Fingers had his arm about her waist and was trying to drag her to a shed as the woman kicked and yelled. Over by the men’s quarters Taylor and Rogers laughed.

  Flora leaned out the window and cried, ‘Let her go!’ just as Clancy strode back into the yard. She heard his voice, sharp and in command. No woman would be made sport of while her husband was around. She watched as the woman scrambled to her feet, took one last angry glance at the house and yards and ran into the trees.

  The girl sat perfectly still during the commotion, refusing to look up. Only her fingers fumbled urgently as she worked at the knots in the rope.

  ‘You mustn’t be scared,’ Flora told her gently.

  Still the girl did not look up. Flora relaxed. The child probably had no idea of what had happened out there. The native families she knew in Sydney — the civilised ones — cared for their children. But people who wore only string — a woman like this girl’s mother, who would display herself naked to men, who lived like an animal with neither house nor proper social order — probably felt little more than animals do. The woman would have forgotten the girl by the next day.

  Flora glanced at the girl again, still impassive, still staring down. Of course this was best for her. ‘I will get you some food,’ she said gently, miming putting food into her mouth, rubbing her stomach.

  The girl ignored her, but her hands stilled momentarily, so Flora knew that she heard.

  She stepped out to the kitchen shack, its walls of small branches bound together by mud . . . mud! . . . and attached to the main house by a breezeway in case it caught fire, as kitchens often did.

  Incredible to live in a house that had no bell system to call servants. Even more extraordinary that almost certainly no servant would even know to come when a bell jangled. ‘Bring some food for Rose, please, Mrs Logan.’

  ‘Rose, Mrs Clancy?’ asked Mrs Logan. At least she spoke respectfully, unlike Mrs Taylor, who did not even bother to use her mistress’s name when she addressed her.

  ‘The native girl. I am going to instruct her. Civilise her.’ Flora smiled. ‘Who knows? She may even make a lady’s maid, or a children’s nurse. I have seen natives who have made excellent servants or gardeners. I think some sandwiches from whatever meat we have in the meat safe. A piece of the currant pudding Miss Clancy made for last night too, if there is some left.’

  Mrs Logan’s expression showed clearly what she felt about wasting food on a native wild cat or, possibly, instructing a native girl when her own son had no book learning. But she just said, ‘Yes, Mrs Clancy.’

  Flora walked back and sat on the bed, speaking to the girl in a calm, even voice. ‘My name is Mrs Clancy. Can you say that, Rose? Or you could call me mistress.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Mistress.’

  The girl stayed silent.

  Flora pointed to the girl. ‘Rose. That’s your name now. I’m sure you can say it, if you try.’

  It was as if she spoke to the trees.

  ‘Here are the sandwiches, Mrs Clancy. I brought a cup of water too,’ said Mrs Logan, eyeing the child.

  ‘That was thoughtful of you. Thank you, Mrs Logan. Here, Rose. This is food and this is water.’

  The girl suddenly reached up, held back by the rope. Flora held the plate and cup out of her reach. ‘Say “mistress”.’

  The girl muttered something, in a language that was not English, and certainly not the word ‘mistress’.

  ‘Thank you, mistress,’ said Flora clearly, offering the sandwiches and water again.

  The girl eyed the food and especially the water. At last she said, surprisingly clearly, ‘Mistress.’

  ‘Good girl! I knew you could do it! Now say, “Please, mistress.”’

  ‘Mistress,’ said the girl, her enunciation perfect.

  It was enough to begin with. Flora handed her the cup first, and was surprised that the girl knew what a cup was and how to drink from it. She even managed to hold it with both hands, despite her bound wrists. She handed her the plate.

  The girl grabbed at the food like the savage she was, but she ate it all. As soon as she had eaten the last sandwich, she bent to work at the knots again. Flora smiled. Yes, this girl could be trained.

  A small roar erupted from the room next door. Clementine needed feeding and changing. Flora waited for Mrs Logan or Maria to see to her. But Maria must be on one of her strange long walks in the bush, and Mrs Logan seemed not to see so much of the work a proper servant would automatically do. Flora stood to tend to her daughter herself.

  Maria arrived back mid-afternoon, her arms full of some strange weed — it wasn’t even blooming — just as Clementine finished her goat’s milk. Maria put the plants down and took the baby, burping her expertly.

  ‘We have a new servant!’ said Flora brightly.

  Maria looked puzzled. ‘But the other stockmen have no wives . . .’

  Flora laughed. ‘No, a native girl. She was nearly trampled by your father’s stallion. I had her rescued. I’ve fed her, and she is tied up in our bedroom.’

  ‘Tied up?’ echoed Maria, startled.

  ‘Only till she is used to our ways and won’t run back to the wild. Don’t worry, I have worked with natives a lot, in Sydney. There is such good work being done by the missions now, placing them in reservations where they can do no harm. Margaret Drinkwater said their attacks on the stock — even on the stockmen — used to be dreadful.’

  Maria said nothing. Flora realised she had been tactless. Maria probably had never met Margaret Drinkwater, would have camped on her single visit to Sydney rather than have to appear veiled at Drinkwater, or worse, glimpsed with her veil off. ‘We will tame her together,’ Flora said kindly.

  ‘I . . . I do not know what Father will say.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will tell him that Rose will cost nothing to feed and will need no wages even when we have trained her.’

  ‘Flora, I don’t think it is right to take the girl from her people,’ said Maria softly. ‘I know Father says they are savages, but I have met native women out on my walks . . .’

  Flora stared at her. Maria had never contradicted her before. ‘I have had far more experience of natives back in Sydney, I assure you. The girl is trainable. It is the only charitable thing to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think we should . . .’ Maria stopped at the sight of Flora’s face.

  ‘Who is the mistress here?’ asked Flora quietly. For this must be established, and now. Maria might have kept house for Ezekiel, but Flora was his son’s wife.

  ‘You are, of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Flora. She added, ‘I will expect you to help train the girl.’

  Maria went to see the girl then. Flora did not interrupt them. Maria too could have no idea of how well a native might be trained, specially if caught young enough. At last Maria went back to the kitchen to supervise the evening meal.

  Flora left the girl alone until it was time to change for dinner. The girl sat in a different pose. Flora looked more closely. She had managed to get the rope around her legs undone, though her hands were still bound, and the rope that still tied her to the bed was in place also.

  Flora hesitated. The girl seemed quiet, but would surely manage to get the other rope undone by dinnertime.

  Clancy entered, smelling of sheep and sweat.

  Flora pointed to the loose rope. ‘I am afraid she will manage to undo the others too. There are chains in the old dairy, aren’t there? The ones for the convict workers?’

  ‘Only ones who caused trouble.’ He stared at her. ‘Flora, you can’t chain a child!’

  ‘But Mrs Fairfield in Sydney told me that natives who will not work are often chained if there is no safe place to imprison them. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘The girls and women too.’

  He nodded, still clearly unwilling.

  ‘Clancy, show some sense. Should we place her in the old gaol instead?’

  ‘No, of course not. But the convict chains are far too heavy for a child.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to walk in them, or even lift them,’ Flora coaxed. ‘Just one short chain around her ankle that she can’t undo, then we can leave all her other limbs free. She will even be able to lie down in comfort then.’

  Clancy looked at her wordlessly, then at the girl. For once the child met his gaze. For the first time Flora saw her anger and defiance. Then the look was gone. The child looked down again.

  ‘I’ll get the manacle,’ said Clancy quietly.

  The manacle did seem large and heavy on the child’s ankle, but at least she could not undo the lock that bound her to the leg of the bed. Flora realised there was another advantage to this new venture — Clancy would scarcely press his attentions on her when he might be observed by a child.

  She changed quickly into a low-cut silk dress as she would have worn for a family meal at the Abbey, then waited for Clancy to do up the buttons. She smiled to herself, for he did not kiss her, which he might have attempted if the child had not been there, then walked into the excuse for a dining room, silk swishing about her ankles.

  Shoulder of kangaroo tonight, but made palatable with lemon and herb stuffing, yet another of Maria’s receipts cut from the Ladies’ Own Companion. It was served, inevitably, with roast potatoes, roast pumpkin, even the carrots roasted too, with the gravy congealing at the edge of the boiled cabbage. Maria it seemed had not had time to make a soup tonight, or a fish course. Flora had just eaten half the meat, the stuffing, a mouthful of potato and one of cabbage — all that she could stand — when a shot rang out down from the house.

  The men stood, napkins falling and chairs teetering with the suddenness of their movements. ‘Stay here,’ Clancy ordered the women as he and Ezekiel headed to the front door. But they soon returned and settled back in their places.

  ‘What was it?’ demanded Maria.

  ‘A man, looking for the girl,’ he said shortly.

  ‘How do you know? He might have been after the corn . . .’

  Clancy hesitated. ‘John O’Hara speaks some of the native lingo.’

  ‘And how does he know how to do that, I wonder?’ demanded Ezekiel Clancy.

  Clancy took a mouthful of his now-cold meat, swallowed, then answered. ‘O’Hara took up with a native woman. But that was long ago,’ he added to his father.

  ‘Ha! A man does something like that once, he’ll do it again. But not if he wants to keep his job here.’ Ezekiel chewed another mouthful of meat. ‘Time we had another round-up, if the natives are camping this way again. I’ll take Flanagan and Taylor out tomorrow. O’Hara can see to anything that needs doing here, and Rogers can watch the channels.’

  Flora said nothing. What was a round-up? Had the shot been to scare the man? Or had they wounded him? Or . . .

  She did not ask. Would not ask. Surely they were rounding them up to take them to one of the missions, but, still, it was best not to ask. Some things should be left to men. But when, in the cold night, she heard the child crying on her mattress, she slipped from her bed and held her gently, comforting her, till at last the child clung to her and sobbed as Flora stroked her hair.

  Chapter 15

  How to dry figs for the table

  Pick perfect figs; thread onto a string.

  Dip into boiling salted water (1¾pt water to 5oz of salt) for one minute. Hang to dry in the sun. Take indoors when dark or damp. In a hot summer, they will be dry in two weeks.

  OVERFLOW, 1877

  FLORA

  Rose learned English quickly, speaking with an accent that was so worthy of the ‘Upper 600 of British society’ that Clancy grinned each time he heard it till at last he and the rest of the household were used to the clarity of her vowels and perfect enunciation.

  Indeed, if one shut one’s eyes, Rose might have been an English girl of good birth. She even accepted washing herself in the basin each morning, brushing her hair and, by the end of the first week, ate with a spoon and fork, at least when Flora was watching. She was not yet trusted with a knife.

  But she soon seemed truly docile. The natives had moved — or been moved — further away. Perhaps the girl knew they were no longer within easy reach, for when Flora tentatively left her unchained one night, the doors bolted and a bell attached to them, to wake them if she tried to escape, she was still on her mattress in the morning.

  By then Clancy had finally objected to a third occupant in their bedroom. A wattle and stringbark skillion was constructed next to the kitchen, and a bed of poles and rope, a ticking mattress and a chest in which to keep her clothes, the dresses Sarah had worn altered for the maid Rose had become: black dress, white cap, black shoes, white apron, so you hardly saw the darkness of the skin.

  Rose learned how to brush and plait Flora’s hair at night. She might not contribute to the decision of what dress was suitable each morning — indeed, at Overflow that hardly mattered — but she understood when Flora asked, ‘Please lay out my green dress, Rose,’ or held out her foot for her shoes to be buttoned.

  It was all, Flora thought, working extremely well. In a few years’ time, perhaps, the girl might even be as excellent a maid as Sarah, once she’d had lessons in hairdressing and other skills in Sydney. Flora imagined Rose, in twenty years’ time, or forty, a loyal retainer, who knew how much she owed to her employer, her rescuer, who would stay with her and tend her with more loyalty than Sarah, who deserted her for higher wages and the comfort of town.