“Then I will too. If it were not for you, Richard, I would be far worse off than I am,” she said, thinking to please him.

His face twisted. “Can ye not love me at all?”

The eyes turned up to his were very earnest; they no longer seemed the image of William Henry’s eyes, but rather had become her own, and equally—nay, more—loved.

“Can ye not love me at all, Kitty?” he repeated.

“I do love you, Richard. I always have. But it is not what I believe is true love.”

“You mean I am not the be-all and end-all of your existence.”

“You are, such as my existence is.” Her eloquence was a thing of gesture, expression, look—her words, alas, fell down badly; she had not the knack of finding the right ones to explain what was going on in her brain. “That sounds ungrateful, I know, but I am not ungrateful, truly I am not. It is just that sometimes I wonder what might have happened to me had I not been convicted and sent to this—this place so far from home. And I wonder if there was not someone for me in England, someone I will never have the chance to meet now. Someone who is my true love.” Seeing his face, she hurried on in a fluster. “I am very happy, and I like working in the garden and around the house. It is a great joy to be with child. But. . . . Oh, I wish I knew what I have missed!”

How to answer that? “Ye do not pine for Stephen anymore?”

“No.” It came out confidently. “He was right, it was a girlish passion. I look at him now and marvel at myself.”

“What d’ye see when ye look at me?”

Her body hunched and she squirmed like a small, guilty child; he knew the signs and wished he had not asked, provoked her into being obliged to lie. As if he could see into it, he knew that her mind was racing in circles to find an answer that would satisfy him yet not compromise herself, and he waited, feeling a twinge of amusement, to hear what would emerge. That of course was true love. To understand that the beloved was flawed, imperfect, yet still to love completely. Her idea of true love was a phantom, a knight in shining armor who would ride off with her across his saddle bow. Would she ever attain the kind of maturity that saw love for what it was? He doubted it, then decided it was better that she did not. Two hoary-headed sages in a family were one too many. He had enough love for both of them.

Her answer was honest: she was learning. “I truly do not know, Richard. You are not a bit like my father, so it is not in—incest. . . . I like to see you, always. . . . That I am carrying your child thrills me, for you will be a wonderful father.”

Suddenly he realized that there was one question he had never asked her. “D’ye want a girl or a boy?”

“A boy,” she said without hesitation. “No woman wants a girl.”

“What if it should be a girl?”

“I will love her very much, but not with hope for her.”

“Ye mean that the world belongs to men.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Ye’ll not be too disappointed if it is a girl?”

“No! We will have others, and some will be boys.”

“I can tell you a secret,” he whispered.

She leaned into him. “What?”

“ ’Tis better if the first child is a girl. Girls grow up much faster than boys, so when the first little man comes along, he will have at least two mothers—one close enough to his own age to grab him by an ear, take him to a quiet place, and drub the daylights out of him. His real mother will not be so ruthless.”

She giggled. “That sounds like experience.”

“It is. I have two elder sisters.” He stretched like a cat, elongating every fiber. “I am very glad that they are all well in Bristol, though my cousin James’s sight is a grief. Like Jem Thistlethwaite, he was the saving of me. I never suffered the illnesses most convicts do, especially in a gaol or on board a transport. That is why, at three-and-forty, I can labor like a much younger man. And make love to you like a much younger man. I have kept my health and vigor.”

“But you went as hungry as the rest, surely.”

“Aye, but hunger does no harm until it chews away a man’s muscles beyond repair, and my muscles I suppose had more substance than most. Besides, the hunger never lasted quite long enough. There were oranges and fresh meat in Rio—meals on a Thames dredge—an occasional bowl of fish-chowder—a man named Stephen Donovan who fed me fresh buttered rolls stuffed with Captain Hunter’s cress. That is luck, Kitty,” Richard said, smiling, his eyes half-closed. Today seemed to be a day for memories.

“I cannot agree,” she said. “I would rather call it some quality many men do not possess, but you do. So does Stephen. And I always fancied Major Ross had it too, from listening to you and Stephen talk. Nat and Olivia Lucas both have it. I do not. That is why I am glad ’tis you is the father of my children. They have a chance of inheriting more than I am.”

He picked up her hand and kissed it. “That is a very pretty compliment, wife. Perhaps ye do love me just a little.”

She huffed a sound of exasperation and turned to look at the tables and chairs, strewn with books. One chair held the hat box. “When will you deliver Lizzie’s hat?” she asked.

“I think you should deliver it and heal the breach.”

“I could not!”

“I will not.”

The question of the hat was still undecided when they went to bed, Kitty so tired that she fell asleep before she could make overtures of love.

Richard dozed for two hours, his half-dreams a parade of old faces transformed and distorted by the years between. Then he woke and slid out of the bed, donned trowsers and stepped outside softly. Tibby had been joined by Fatima and Charlotte by Flora; the two pups and two kittens stirred until Richard hushed them. They were curled together inside a piece of hollow pine Richard had thought an ideal kennel; more dogs and cats having the run of the house would discourage them from ratting. MacTavish was a law unto himself, too late to change his habits now. And he was still the sole male, ruler of the roost.

The moon was full and rising into the eastern sky, snuffing out the blazing stars as its cold pale brilliance poured upward; one could read by it easily when it was overhead. Not a cloud in the sky and the only sounds the gurgle and gush of the spring, water pelting away downhill, a great murmur from pines, the skreek-skreek-skreek of a pair of white fairy terns in black silhouette against the silvered heavens. He lifted his head and inhaled the night, the clean purity of it, the comfort in its loneliness, the distance, the utter peace.

On Sunday after divine service he would write to his father, to the Cousins James and Jem Thistlethwaite to tell them that he had managed to make a home for himself in this southern immensity. He had hewn a niche, helped by a little gold, for which he had to thank them. But gold or no gold, he had hewn it with his own hands and his own will. Norfolk Island was home now.

In the meantime there was a box to examine before Kitty and Joey Long took it into their heads to chop it up for kindling or use it to hold mulch for the garden. Rather than walk up the cleft, he walked down it; Joey’s tiny house was just inside the Queensborough road boundary of Morgan’s Run along the edge of the track down to the main house. Joey and MacGregor were his sentinels, his first line of defense in case of predators. Not that he expected any yet. But who knew how many and what kind of convicts His Excellency would send here as his task over there in New South Wales grew ever harder?

Having found a cleared patch in the moonlight he began to attack the box with a chisel and a small hammer, tapping quietly; sure enough, once the heavy border was removed, the space between inside and outside skins sprang into sight as white lint wadding. Not many minutes later the box was in pieces and he had amassed £100 in gold. Removing his trowsers, he piled the coins into their middle, gathered up the fragments of wood, put the trowsers on top of the pile, and walked back to his house. Kitty had said it was not luck. For himself, he was never sure whether he had luck or the grace of God. Though was there any difference?