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she would haveto keep a fire going constantly to dry it out and keep them warm. And she would need to buy fabric for heavy drapes, and perhaps a few rugs for the floor. If they stayed at Ballarat, of course: she still harboured a faint but undeclared hope that Rian’s enthusiasm for making a fortune as a gold miner would wane and they could return to Melbourne.
    ‘It’s a bit cold, Ma, isn’t it?’ Amber remarked. ‘And dark.’
    ‘Yes, it is, sweetie, but a good fire should fix that.’
    But a quick reconnaissance outside the cottage revealed that there was no firewood.
    ‘We’ll buy some,’ Rian declared, then pointed to the south-west towards a series of wooded hills. ‘Or we’ll go and cut it ourselves. It’ll be wet, though.’
    Kitty made a mental account of what they had brought with them, and what they would need to purchase.
    ‘Perhaps we should stay at the hotel another night, until we have everything we need,’ she suggested.
    ‘Probably not a bad idea,’ Rian replied. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a look at our claim, shall we?’
    Kitty noted the gleam of excitement in his eyes: he looked exactly like a small boy with a new toy.
    Their claim was a hole in the ground. A deep one, granted, but just a hole nonetheless. Worryingly, the sides did not appear to have been reinforced at all in the manner described by Mr Harcourt, but at least duckboards had been laid around the lip to counter the mud. Water dripped somewhere, and Kitty suspected the regular plink sound came from the hole itself. And it had taken them half an hour in the cart to get to it. The claim wasn’t in any way isolated, however—it was only one of many on the Malakoff Lead near the Yarrowee River, and their trip had been accompanied by the hoarse shouts of diggers,endlessly barking dogs, the scrape of shovels, the rumble of barrows and carts, and the rhythmic din of many hundreds of cradles being rocked in the shallows of the river. Judging by the number of tents and shanties, many prospectors seemed to have set up camp near their claims, and Kitty wondered idly why the Murphys had chosen to live so far away from theirs.
    Rian was talking to a rugged little man with grey in his beard who had pitched his tent almost on top of the shaft.
    ‘Kitty, this is Patrick O’Riley. He’s been keeping an eye on things. My wife, Kitty.’
    Patrick O’Riley touched the brim of his hat. ‘Mrs Farrell.’
    ‘Patrick says there have been two attempts to jump the claim, and the winching gear has been stolen, but otherwise he’s had no trouble.’
    ‘Sure, you turn your back here for more than a moment and everything you could call your own has gone,’ Patrick said ruefully. ‘But Mrs Murphy gave me enough money to keep the licence up to date, so she did.’ He shuffled his feet, looking awkward but managing to hold onto his dignity. ‘She said the new owner’d reimburse me, and pay for me services as a caretaker.’
    Rian produced his purse. ‘Been down yourself, then?’
    ‘Not likely. Not on me own.’
    ‘I assume this will cover your time and expenses?’ Rian said, handing Patrick a generous fee. ‘Amber! Come away from that hole!’
    Amber stepped back, looking only vaguely chastened.
    Patrick counted the money. ‘Ah, it will, and very nicely, too, Captain.’
    ‘You worked for Mr Murphy, didn’t you?’
    ‘I did that, but I’m goin’ in a syndicate with some diggers now that you’ve arrived.’
    ‘Promising claim?’
    ‘’Tis.’ Patrick waved a hand in a south-easterly direction. ‘Just down the track there. We’ll be neighbours, so we will.’
    ‘Well,’ Rian said, ‘if you’re ever looking for work, I’d be interested. I could do with a man who knows his way around.’
    Patrick nodded in acknowledgement of the offer, although his expression suggested that as far as he was concerned his days of working for anyone but himself were over. He scratched at his beard. ‘Seen the cottage? You bought that, too,