She laughed, not very heartily, yet still a genuine laugh. “Poor Mr. Smith, you don’t understand at all.”

“Obviously I don’t. What’s the joke?”

“I had nothing to lose. Nothing!”

“Did you really think you might win?”

“I was sure I would win.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Oh — just that you’re so very kind. A decent person.”

“Thanks.”

After that little was said; the horses plodded reluctantly along the jungly track, obviously not understanding why they were proceeding away from home. But even when they came to the switchback up the landslide they plodded on without visible protest, which to the country-wise Missy indicated that they knew their master better than to baulk. Yet he was pleasant to them, and didn’t ply the whip; he dominated them by the force of his will.

“I must say that it shows, your not being a Hurlingford,” he said abruptly as the journey neared its end.

“Not a Hurlingford? What makes you assume that?”

“Lots of things. Your name, for a start. Your appearance. The godforsaken position of your home, and the lack of money in it. Your nice nature.” He sounded as if he grudged this last admission.

“Not all Hurlingfords are rich, Mr. Smith. As a matter of fact I am a Hurlingford, at least on the distaff side. My aunt and mother are the sisters of Maxwell and Herbert Hurlingford, and first cousins of Sir William’s.”

He turned to stare at her while she explained this, then whistled. “Well, that’s a smack in the eye! A nest of genuine Hurlingfords all the way out at the end of Gordon Road, and scraping to make ends meet. What happened?”

So for the rest of the way home Missy regaled John Smith with an account of the perfidy of the first Sir William, and the compounded perfidy of his successors.

“Thank you,” he said at the end of it. “You’ve answered a lot of questions for me, and given me quite a bit to think about.” He pulled his horses up outside the front gate of Missalonghi. “Here you are, home again, and well before your mother would be worried.”

She jumped down without assistance. “Thank you, dear Mr. Smith. It’s as I still maintain – you’re a very kind man.”

In answer, he tipped his hat and flashed her a smile, then began turning his horses.

✳

Octavia found Missy’s note when she went to investigate Missy’s whereabouts. There it sat, very white against the brown coverlet, with the single word MOTHER printed across its surface. Her heart thudded down into her boots; notes that said MOTHER never contained good news.

So when she heard Drusilla letting herself in through the front door, she scuttled into the hall with the note in her hand and her protuberant pale blue eyes all geared up to shed as many tears as the contents of the note dictated.

“Missy’s gone, and she’s left this note for you!”

Drusilla frowned, unalarmed. “Gone?”

“Gone! She has taken all her clothes, and she has taken our carpetbag.”

The skin over Drusilla’s cheeks began to prickle and stretch uncomfortably; she snatched the note from Octavia and read it aloud so Octavia could not misinterpret the contents.

“Dear Mother,” it said,

“Please forgive me for going off without a word, but I really think it is better that you do not know what I plan until I know whether or not it’s going to work. I will probably be home tomorrow or the next day for a visit at least. Please do not worry. I am safe. Your loving daughter, Missy.”

Octavia’s tears overflowed, but Drusilla did not weep. She folded the letter again and carried it into the kitchen, where she propped it very carefully on the shelf of the chimney.

“We must call in the police,” said Octavia tearfully.

“We will do no such thing,” contradicted Drusilla, and moved the kettle to the front of the stove. “Oh, dear, I need a cup of tea badly!”

“But Missy might be in danger!”

“I very much doubt it. There’s nothing in her note to indicate any kind of foolishness.” She sat down with a sigh. “Octavia, do dry your eyes! The events of the last few days have taught me that Missy is a person to be reckoned with. I have no doubt that she is safe, and that, probably tomorrow, we will indeed see her again. In the meantime, we do not so much as mention to anybody that Missy has left home.”

“But she’s out there somewhere without a soul to protect her from Men!”

“It may well be that Missy has decided she would rather not be protected from Men,” said Drusilla dryly. “Now do as you’re told, Octavia, stop crying and make us some tea. I have a lot to tell you that has nothing to do with Missy’s disappearance.”

Curiosity overcame distress; Octavia poured a little hot water into the teapot and set it to stand by the stove. “Oh, what?” she asked eagerly.

“Well, I gave Cornelia and Julia their money, and I bought myself a Singer sewing machine.”

“Drusilla!”

And so the two ladies left at Missalonghi drank their tea and discussed the events of the day more thoroughly, after which they went back to their routines, and eventually retired to their respective bedrooms.

“Dear God,” said Drusilla on her knees, “please help and protect Missy, keep her from all harm and give her strength in all adversities. Amen.”

After which she climbed into her bed, the only double one, as befitted the only married lady. But it was some time before she managed to close her eyes.

The organ had saved Missy from detection when John Smith dropped her back at Missalonghi; no one heard his cart arrive or depart, and no one heard Missy as she crept around the side of the house and headed across the backyard towards the shed. It held no place capable of concealing her, but she managed to tuck the carpetbag down behind a sack of fodder, and then she left the shed for the shelter of the orchard until after her mother had milked the cow. Of course the cow knew her step and began to low pitifully to be milked, but before Buttercup became really agitated, out came Drusilla with the bucket.

Missy huddled down behind the fattest-trunked apple tree and closed her eyes and wished she did have terminal heart disease, preferably severe enough to ensure she would never see the morning.

Not until after full darkness had fallen did she stir; it was the penetrating Blue Mountains cold spring air drove her from the orchard at last, into the relative warmth of the shed. Buttercup was lying with feet tucked under, placidly chewing cud, udder comfortably empty. So Missy put a clean sack down on the ground next to the cow, and curled up on the sack with her head and shoulders lying against Buttercup’s warm rumbly side.

Of course she should have gathered up her courage and walked into the house the minute John Smith had gone, but when she tried to make her feet mount the front verandah steps, they just would not. How could you tell your mother that you’d proposed marriage to a near-stranger and been refused for your pains? Or failing that one, what convincing story could she have concocted? Missy was not a story spinner, she was only a story reader. Maybe in the morning she could confess, she told herself, gasping at the ache and sorrow of it; but how much worse would that be, with a night spent elsewhere than under the roof of Missalonghi to be accounted for? Who would ever believe she had spent it sleeping with a cow? Go inside at once, whispered her better self; but her worse self could not find the courage.

The tears began to gather and to fall, for indeed Missy was exhausted, not so much from her physical exertions as from the terrific burst of will that had sent her to see John Smith.

“Oh, Buttercup, what am I going to do?” she wept.

Buttercup merely huffed.

And shortly afterwards, Missy fell asleep.