The wish to die faded, died. Nor, she discovered, was she shattered beyond hope of mending. That Stephen did not love her was a grief, but she had never thought he loved her; that was an old disappointment. The shape of her sorrow melted, burned away by yet more questions. Perhaps, she thought, I do have the brain to learn, though what the lesson is I do not know. Only that I have spent my life hiding, and I cannot go on hiding. Those who hide are never seen. With that enlightenment, she fell asleep.

When she woke in the morning, Richard had gone. The dishes were washed, the stove top tidy, the kettle steamed, the fire lay in embers, and a plate of cold chicken and rice lay on the table.

She made herself tea in the sturdy baked clay pot warming on the hearth and sat to pick at the food, looking back on last night as if from a great distance. The memories were all firmly embedded, but the intensity of feeling had gone. Feeling. . . . Surely there was a better word than that?

Richard walked in with his usual easy smile. As if nothing had happened. “You look very thoughtful,” he said.

The comment was a signal, she divined that: he did not wish to discuss last night. So she said, rather feebly, “No work?”

“Today is Saturday.”

“Oh, of course. Some tea?”

“That would be nice.”

She poured him a mug and cooled it down with cold sugar syrup, then sat down again to go on toying with her food. Finally she put the spoon down on the pewter plate with a clang and glared at him. “If I cannot talk to you,” she burst out, “who is there?”

“Try Stephen,” he said, sipping appreciatively. “Now that is one could talk the leg off an iron pot.”

“I do not understand you!”

“You do, Kitty, you do. ’Tis yourself you do not understand, and where is the wonder in that? Ye’ve not had much of a life,” he said gently.

She stared across the table straight into his eyes, something she had never had the courage to do before. Wide, the color of the sea beyond the lagoon on a squally day, and deep enough to drown in. Without, it seemed, the slightest effort, he took her inside himself and swept her away on a tide of—of—Gasping, she leaped to her feet, both hands clutching at her chest. “Where is Stephen?”

“Fishing at Point Hunter, I imagine.”

She fled through the door and into the vale as if Satan’s hounds bayed at her heels, slowing down only when she realized that he was not following her. How had he done that? How?

By the time she negotiated the perils of walking unescorted through Sydney Town—a matter of running from one group of women to the next—Kitty had regained a little composure and was able to smile and wave at Stephen, who rolled in his line, strolled to meet her, then shepherded her away from the vicinity of half a dozen other men also fishing. He seemed ignorant of what had happened; that eventuality had not occurred to her, she had automatically assumed that Richard would have gone to tell him. Did Richard discuss nothing with anyone?

“They are not biting,” he said breezily. “What brings ye here? No Richard in your wake?”

“I overheard what passed between you last night,” she said, and gulped audibly. “I know I ought not to have listened, but I did. I am sorry!”

“Bad child. Here, we can sit on this rock and look at the wonder of yon isles in the midst of such a smother, and the wind will blow our words away.”

“I am indeed a child,” she said miserably.

“Aye, and that I find the strangest part of it,” he said. “Ye’ve been through the London Newgate, Lady Juliana and Surprize as if none of it touched you. But it must have, Kitty.”

“Yes, of course it did. But there were others like me, you know. If we did not die of shame—one poor girl did—we managed not to be seen. Among so many, that is not as difficult as you might think. The crowds—the fighting, spitting, snarling, prowling—stepped over us as if we did not exist. Everybody was so drunk, or else after someone—to rob or fuck or beat upon. We were thin, poor, plain. Not worth going after for any reason.”

“So ye became a hedgehog curled into a ball.” His profile against the pines of Nepean Island was pure and serene. “And the only word ye know for the act of love is ‘fuck.’ That is the saddest thing of all. Did ye see people fucking?”

“Not really. Just clothes and jumping about. We used to shut our eyes when we realized it was going to happen near us.”

“ ’Tis one way to keep the world at a distance. What about Lady Juliana? Were ye not pecked at by the brazen madams?”

“Mr. Nicol was very good, so were some of the older women. They would not let the mean ones peck at us for spite. And I was always seasick.”

“ ’Tis a wonder ye lived. But ye came through it all to land here, and land none other than Richard Morgan. That, Mistress Kitty, is the most remarkable thing of all. I doubt there is a woman or a Miss Molly has not—well, perhaps tried is too strong a word, but at least wondered if it would be possible.” He turned his head to laugh at her.

How strange. His eyes were much bluer than Richard’s, so blue that they reflected the sky as if making a barrier of it. Not water to be engulfed by but a wall to come up against.

“I have fallen out of love with you,” she said in tones of wonder.

“And into love with Richard.”

“No, I do not think so. There is something, but it is not love. All I know is that it is different.”

“Oh, very different!”

“Tell me about him, please.”

“Nay, I’ll not do that. Ye’ll just have to stay with him and find things out for yourself. Not an easy task with our close-mouthed Richard, but ye’re a woman, and ye’re curious. I am sure,” he said, pulling her up, “that ye’ll give it your best try.” Leaning down, he put his cheek against her hair and whispered, “Whenever ye find something out, tell me.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, she was not sure why, except that a spasm of grief clutched at her heart. Grief for him rather than because of him, and not because she had taken anything away from him. I wish, she thought, that the world was better ordered. I am not in love with this man, but I love him dearly.

“Tobias and I,” he said, taking her hand and swinging it as they walked, “will make excellent uncles.”

At the head of Arthur’s Vale he released her hand and stopped. “This is as far as I go,” he said.

“Please come with me!”

“Oh, no. Ye must go alone.”

The house was empty; Richard had gone out, but the fireplace had been cleaned and fresh kindling stacked in it, her water buckets were full, four of the six chairs Richard had accumulated were tucked neatly beneath the table. Disappointed and bewildered—why had he not waited to see what Stephen had said to her?—she wandered about aimlessly, then went into the garden and began to dig, hoping that one day sufficient plenty arrived to allow her to waste ground outside the house upon flowers. Time passed; John Lawrell arrived with six Mt. Pitt birds he had cleaned and plucked, which solved dinner, served in the middle of the day now that winter approached.

By the time that Richard returned the birds had been browned in a pan and were braising, stuffed with herbed bread, in a covered pot with onions and potatoes.

“What,” she asked for something to say, “are the tiny green trees growing in a sunny spot below the privy?”

“Ah, you found them.”

“Ages ago, but I never remember to ask.”

“Oranges and lemons grown from seed I saved in Rio de Janeiro. In two or three years’ time we will see fruit during winter. A lot of my seeds came up, so I gave some of the plants to Nat Lucas, some to Major Ross, some to Stephen and some to a few others. The climate here should be perfect for citrus, there is no frost.” One brow lifted quizzically. “Did ye find Stephen?”

“Yes,” she said, pricking a potato with a knife to see if it was cooked.