Isobel’s sympathy deepened; ten years in New Zealand had not done much to dampen the ache for family, for those who shared her blood. Even with a mother like hers, she still felt sorrow at the distance between them. The chance of a better life in a new land came with a severing with the past. Isobel had seen how, for some, the cut was too deep and they sank into booze, or melancholy, or sought out a boat to take them home.
‘Will you make a go of it here, do you think?’ she asked, the words out before she could shape them and smooth away the edges. ‘Will you work here for long?’
The girl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask that? Has the housekeeper been talking to you?’
‘No, it’s just …’
‘I’m content, thank you!’ Sharpness to the girl’s tone belied a childhood with three broth
