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snagged her dress on the thorns of a rose bush. Urgently she pulled herself free, required to readjust folds of material in order to disguise the torn threads.
    Making for the opened French windows fostered her greatest fear. Failing fortunes such as theirs presented a great many dangers. Daily she read proof of how the weak were shown no mercy. Domesticated hens sometimes turned on a sickly member of their brood to peck them literally to bits.
    Sarah might be better off staying hidden from the world, were her coat any more ragged or in patches.

CHAPTER V
    Saturday the 23rd of May, 1868
FORMAL INTRODUCTIONS
    ‘Truly, we cannot help feeling that cricket has a humanising and civilising influence, for Mr Lawrence’s black team observe all the courtesies and amenities of the cricketing field, and privately both act and speak like gentlemen.’
    ~ Bathurst Times
    William South Norton peeped around the door to the drawing-room. His mother held court. Lily Perfect and her aunt were there, doubly worth avoiding; the widow Ireson; the Millgate – begging their pardon, Viner – sisters; and one other blackbird he could not put a name to, somebody from out of town up for the grand funeral.
    Ducking away before he might be seen, Norton collided with another man at his back.
    ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ the fellow said. ‘Elias Luther.’ He puffed out his cheeks and fanned his headgear. ‘Terrible heat, sir, don’t you find? I do hope we ain’t in for another like ’58.’
    ‘What were you doing there?’ demanded William South Norton.
    ‘Examining these splendid portraits what are hung along the wall,’ said Luther. ‘Quite ’squisite they are, sir. Very delicate. I fancy that I’ve never seen the blush upon a lady’s cheek caught quite so well, in my humble opinion. Why, it’s almost ’z-if they were alive.’
    ‘You are a connoisseur of painting, Mr Luther,’ said William South Norton. ‘These pictures are the work of John Downman R.A., one-time resident here at Went House. Our own Cade House served as his studio.’
    ‘I am not familiar with the name as perhaps I should be,’ said Elias Luther, patting the back of his neck with his kerchief, ‘but I shall be sure to make a note of it, for future reference, yes indeed.’
    Turning the brim of his bowler around in his hands, he checked up and down the hallway, before leaning close in to whisper. ‘Still, not quite the Manor, Mr Norton, is it?’ he said.
    The original venue for that evening’s reception, of necessity, had required eleventh-hour substitution.
    ‘New money hasn’t the same ring as old,’ said South Norton, ‘but neither can a beggar a chooser be.’
    Realising he addressed the proprietor of a successful carriage service, William South Norton covered his embarrassment with a short cough.
    Each man smiled, and turned to the contemplation of fine art.
     
    An hour later, and the main reception room at Went House was filled with the milk if not the cream of Malling society. For higher echelons to attend, quite so soon following the death of Captain Savage, R.N., was inappropriate. Invitation had of late been extended to the wealthiest local tradesmen, or else to those long established in business.
    Mourning dress universally observed, the gentlemen wore black armbands; the ladies, dresses uncharacteristically sombre. Town Malling and its environs being something of a military enclave, many of the men-folk wore Naval or Army uniform, polished medals proudly on display. Even so, the lowering of the beam promoted a more relaxed and convivial atmosphere than might otherwise have prevailed.
    The music of a light chamber orchestra masked the stiff swish of crinoline and the tinkle of glassware. Adjoining rooms opened up to accommodate the swelling crowd, until it occupied much of the ground floor. The younger set mulled over gravitation towards the games room, when the sharp rapping of a cane announced the guests of honour.
    The Aborigines filed