“We’re going to acquire a little land,” said Jim Prevost. “It’s going very cheaply. Life was getting difficult at home. Trouble over the Reform Bill, the Corn Laws and the bad harvests. They say the climate out there is just wonderful.”

My father pointed out that in no part of the world could the climate be relied on and there were such things as droughts and plagues in Australia. He knew because he had lived there for nine years. True, that was more than twenty years ago, but the weather patterns had not changed.

The Prevosts looked abashed and he went on quickly: “I am sure the advantages will make up for the disadvantages. And I have heard that in some parts of Australia no price at all is asked for the land.”

The Prevosts brightened and my father began to talk about his experiences of farming in Australia.

So the evening passed.

Helena had hardly spoken, but she did display a little curiosity in her surroundings and I was sure the voyage was going to be of great interest.

I could not be anything but exhilarated to be at sea. The crew was friendly and ready to explain anything we asked and the weather was benign even in the notoriously hazardous Bay of Biscay.

Helena wanted to stay in the cabin a good deal. She was quite ill which seemed a bad omen when we were not experiencing any really bad weather. She said it was the movement of the ship. Jacco and I revelled in the life. We would race each other along the open decks which were rather restricted, but we enjoyed it; then we would lean over the rail and look right down into the swirling sea-green water.

There was so much to learn about the ship and we awakened each day to a feeling of excitement.

My father and mother used to walk along the deck arm in arm with a smile of contentment on their faces while he talked about his experiences as a convict for he said the journey and the prospect of being in Australia again brought it all back to him most vividly.

There were our fellow travellers, too. The Prevosts were so enthusiastic about their project and they were constantly trying to corner my father to make him tell them all he knew. One evening, when he was in a particularly mellow mood, he told them that he had been sent out as a convict, recounting the story with a certain amount of wit, making light of his sufferings so that it was quite entertaining.

When Matthew Hume discovered that my father had actually experienced life as a convict he was beside himself with joy.

“First-hand knowledge!” he cried. “That is what I am after.”

“I daresay it has changed a lot since my day,” my father reminded him. “Life is changing all the time.”

“But what an opportunity!”

He would sit beside my father, notebook in hand.

“Such a piece of luck,” he said.

“It wasn’t for my father,” I reminded him.

He was serious. “But look. Here he is now, a man of standing, and he has gone through all that.”

“He did have an estate to go to and a title waiting for him.”

“I want the whole story,” said Matthew.

He was very earnest, a little lacking in humour, but he was a young man with a purpose and I liked him for that.

I said to my mother: “There is an innate goodness about him.”

She replied: “He certainly has reformation at heart, but it is often like that with the young. They have dreams of making this and that right and often they are not very practical. Their world is made of dreams rather than reality.”

“Don’t tell him that. He is intoxicated with his dream.”

Our first port of call was Madeira where we were putting off goods and taking on wine. It gave us an opportunity to go ashore and my father arranged for us to go round the island in a carriage. My parents and the Prevosts were in one, Helena, Matthew Hume, Jacco and myself in another.

It was a beautiful sight with its mountains and magnificently colourful flowers and it was wonderful to be ashore after being so long at sea. We were all rather merry—with the exception of Helena, but we did not expect her to be otherwise as she never was. We had a meal in a tavern in Funchal close to the red stone Cathedral and the flower market. Then we went back to the ship and very soon were at sea again.

We were a day out from Madeira. At dinner we had been more vociferous than usual, talking of our experiences in Madeira and telling each other that we must make the most of the next port of call.

We were all given a taste of the Madeira wine which had been taken on board and we were very convivial. Glancing at Helena I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. I thought, She is not getting any better. Is she going on grieving for the rest of her life? After all, as my mother had said, if John Milward had been man enough he would have defied his parents. I wanted to say to her: “Think of the Prevosts going out not knowing what they are going to find. Think of that nice earnest Matthew Hume with his mission in life. Helena, you will have to make the best of it.”

When we retired that night I wondered if I could talk to her. But it seemed there was little one could say to someone who was so wrapped up in her grief.

I did try.

We were in our bunks—she was in the one above—and the ship was rocking slightly as it often did.

I said: “This is like being rocked to sleep.”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Are you sleepy?”

“No.”

“There is something I wanted to say. Couldn’t you try to be interested? Everything is so new to us. Madeira was lovely but you might have been anywhere. I don’t think you noticed anything.”

She was silent.

“You’ve got to try to forget. Don’t you see, you’ll never get over it until you do.”

“I’ll never get over it, Annora. There’ll be something to remind me always. You don’t understand what happened.”

“Well, tell me then.”

“I don’t think I can. Though I suppose you’ll have to know. Annora, I think I’m going to have a baby.”

“Helena!” I whispered.

“Yes. In fact … I’m almost sure.”

“It can’t be.”

“It is. You see, when John came back … and he was going to defy his family … it happened. Nobody had ever really cared for me before. It seemed wonderful. And now it’s all finished and I’m going to have this little baby.”

I felt so shaken I did not know what to say.

I wanted to get up and go straight to my parents and ask them what was to be done.

I could only say: “Oh, Helena, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m terrified.”

“I daresay my mother will know what to do.”

“A baby, Annora. Think what that means. I’ll never be able to go home. What would my father say?”

“He can hardly set himself up as a pillar of respectability,” I reminded her.

“I know. That makes it worse.”

“I’m glad you told me, Helena.”

“I’ve wanted to … ever since I knew.”

“When …?”

“I think about April.”

“That gives us time to work something out.”

“What can we work out?”

“What can be done. My mother will know what is best … and so will my father. It’s a good thing you’re here with us.”

“I know.”

“A baby,” I said softly. “A dear little baby. In a way it’s wonderful.”

“It would be,” said Helena, “if …”

“But still there’ll be the baby.”

I couldn’t stop thinking of the baby. I saw it … fair-haired, rather like Aunt Amaryllis, with a sweet flowerlike face. For a few moments I forgot Helena’s dilemma contemplating it.

“I haven’t known what to do. Sometimes I’ve thought it would all be settled if I jumped over the side of the ship.”

“What an awful thing to say! Put that right out of your mind. This is going to give us problems but we’re all here to help—my parents, Jacco, me—all of us. It’ll all come right. It really will and there’ll be the dear little baby.”

“I can’t think of it like that. There’s too much to be faced. I never thought this would happen. I thought we were going to be happy together.”

“You should perhaps let John know.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Then you could be married.”

“No, no.” She sounded hysterical so I said quietly: “No, I suppose not. Do you mind if I tell my mother?”

“I don’t want anyone to know.”

“But they will know in time and they’ll help. I know they will.”

“I feel so much better now you know.”

“Poor Helena. What you must have gone through … and all because of what happened …”

I thought, If it hadn’t been for that chairmanship they would have gone on as planned and nobody would have known.

“Helena,” I said, “you have been very sick. Ever since you came on board.”

“Yes, I think that’s what it was. I feel awful sometimes in the mornings.”

“You should have told me right away.”

“I couldn’t. But you know now.”

“Helena, I want to tell my mother in the morning. She will know what is best to be done. Do let me tell her.”

After some hesitation she said: “All right. And you’ll help me, won’t you, Annora?”

“We all will. I’ll do anything in the world, I promise.”

“I’m so glad to be with you.”

“I’m glad we’re here. It will be all right, Helena, I know it will.”

“I feel it might be, now that you know,” she said. “It’s like a great weight being lifted from my mind.”

I felt immensely gratified, and a great tenderness swept over me and with it a desire to protect Helena.

I took the first opportunity of talking to my mother. I told her that I had something very important to say and that I wanted to talk to her alone.

We found a spot on deck. The sea had turned choppy and we were alone there. We sat down on a bench and I burst out: “Helena is going to have a baby.”

I had rarely seen her so startled.

“A baby!” she echoed.

“Yes. She thought she and John were going to be married, you see.”

“Oh yes. I see.”

“What shall we do?”

My mother was silent for a while. Then she said: “Poor girl. No wonder she’s been looking as though she would like to jump overboard.”

“She did actually mention that.”

“For Heaven’s sake, watch her. She could be hysterical. Then goodness knows what would happen.”

“I want to reassure her. I’ve told her we’ll look after her.”

My mother nodded. “It’s a good thing we are going to Australia. That’ll help a lot. No one will know her there and we’ll manage it. When?”

“She thinks April.”

“I see. Well, that gives us time.”

“But what are we going to do?”

“There is nothing we can do here … only reassure her. We’ve got to make her see that it is not such an unusual situation and she is by no means the first girl to whom it has happened. … Then we’ll decide what we’re going to do when we get to Sydney. She should take care of herself now. I’m glad she is in with you. Just reassure her. Don’t let her get overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. I’ll speak to your father. He’ll know what to do when we get there. We’ll arrange it all. As I say, it is a good thing we are not at home. That could have been decidedly more difficult. I daresay they have midwives and doctors in Sydney. Lots of children must be getting born out there. We’ll see to it all. Don’t let her worry. That’s the great thing.”

“I think she is glad not to be at home.”

“Amaryllis would have helped all she could.”

“She wouldn’t want her father to know.”

“He’s in no position to condemn anyone,” said my mother shortly.

“I shall tell her you know and that you have said you will help. What will happen when we take the baby home with us?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Let’s get her out of that suicidal mood and make her see that what has happened to her is not all that unusual and above all that she is with her family and we are going to help.”

“Oh thank you. I knew you’d make it seem better.”

She smiled at me and pressed my hand; and we went on talking about it for a long time. My father came and found us.

“I wondered where you were,” he said. “What is this? The women getting together for a little peace and quiet?”

My mother looked at me and said: “I’ve just heard a startling piece of news.”

“Oh?” He looked from her to me and she went on:

“Helena is going to have a baby.”

“Good God!” he cried. Then: “John Milward?”

I nodded.

“He’ll have to marry her.”

“She won’t hear of his being told.”