I climbed into bed that night, hot and flushed after our encounter.

Me and the boss, pressed up against a barbed wire fence, being watched by a wombat. Not the most romantic encounter in the world, at least on paper. But the reality had been far, far different. So hot, in fact, that I was barely able to cool down. I felt sweat dripping down my neck, between my breasts, everywhere. I peeled off the nightgown that I had just put on, lying naked between the sheets.

It had been awkward afterwards, of course. Robbo had disturbed us; we walked into the house not looking at each other. I think Zane was as shell shocked about what had occurred as me. He hadn’t expected it. It had kind of come out of nowhere.

“Well,” he had said, refusing to meet my eye, “I should get to bed. Good night.” He had walked off.

“Good night,” I had called, but he was gone before my words could even reach him.

I knew I was playing with fire. There was no way I wasn’t going to get burnt by this, if I let it. What did I want? And, just as importantly, what did he want? Did he make it a habit of dallying with the nannies? I had no way of knowing. The kids had told me that Rosa, the previous nanny, had been an old woman, but then they thought anyone over the age of twenty-five was old. Maybe Zane made a habit out of it. Maybe it was one of the reasons his marriage had broken up. Who knew?

Restless, I turned on my bed side light. Sleep was eluding me. Seeking distraction, I picked up the old journal I had liberated from the attic from my bedside table. I glanced at it doubtfully. It was probably a record of housekeeping supplies, utterly boring. But it was worth a try.

An inscription was scrawled on the first page: Journal of Florence Mary Connelly 1892, it said.

Today was the worst day of my life, it started. We have come to the middle of nowhere to run cattle. There is only dust, and sand, and flies. Benedict assures me we can move into the house soon, but for now we all must make do living in an old shed. The house is almost ready, he says. I think of our life back in Sydney and despair. It seems so far away.

I put down the journal, intrigued. Who were Florence, and Benedict? Ancestors of Zane? I knew the old homestead had been built in 1894, but this was dated a couple of years prior. Was the house Florence referring to being built this one? She sounded so lost, and forlorn, stuck in the Outback. Kind of like me.

My eyes started drooping. I would read more, but not tonight. I had lots to do tomorrow; continue making the kids costumes, and a meeting with George about the adult’s party.

I turned off the bedside light, drifting. A vision of a woman in the old lace dress we had discovered in the attic floated toward me. Remember me, it said. I jolted awake, confused.

Stop it, I told myself. You are being fanciful. Maybe it was because I had been talking of ghosts and Halloween to the children today.

I thought of Zane, again. His white-hot sexiness, the way that he had kissed me. I drifted off to sleep in a pleasant turned on state. Thoughts of the woman called Florence receded far into the distance.

* * *

“So, do we think apple bobbing?” George chewed his pen, glancing down at the paper.

I was sitting across from him, and we were making lists of things to do for the party. It was a pragmatic chore, and dispelled completely both my romantic wanderings about Zane and intrigue over the old journal. Bright sunlight poured through the windows, making it hard to see. I got up and drew down the blinds, to diminish the glare.

“Does it ever get cold here?” I asked, squinting.

George laughed slightly. “Yes, but not much,” he answered. “The rains can be fierce, though.”

Now, back to the entertainment...?” George looked at me, expectantly. “I need your expert advice. You are the only American here, you know!”

I sighed. “I’m not an expert,” I said. “And apple bobbing is kind of for kids. Cara and I used to do it at parties when we were little, along with games like count the candy in the bowl and pin the face on the jack o’ lantern. All stuff that these kids will love.”

“Yes, but what about for the adults?” George frowned.

“How many people are we expecting?”

“Around a hundred, if everyone comes.”

“Well.” I frowned myself, thinking. “It’s too large to exchange scary stories. What about a scavenger hunt? I’ve never done one, but I’ve heard they can be fun.”

“Brilliant!” George wrote it down. “A prize, with clues left around the station. We can get some old lanterns so people can see where they are going, and have some scary stuff lying in wait along the way.” He quickly wrote it all down.

“That sounds fantastic,” I said. “We could have some ghosts or mummies waiting.” It was going to be a wonderful evening.

If I was here for it, I thought to myself, suddenly. I sighed. What was happening with me?

“What’s eating you?” George looked at me.

“Nothing.” I sighed, again. “George, tell me a bit about the station’s history. Have you ever heard of a woman called Florence Connelly?”

George frowned, again. “Maybe. I think she was the wife of Benedict Connelly, who founded Birrimba back in 1894. How have you heard of her?”

“I found her journal.” I looked at George, gauging his reaction. “Up in the attic, when we were looking for material.”

“Oooh, an old journal,” George breathed, his eyes widening. “How interesting. But you should ask Mrs. Price. She knows everything around here, including the history of the place.”

“As if she’d tell me anything,” I said, darkly. “That woman hates me.”

George burst out laughing. “Don’t let Mrs. Price get you down,” he said. “She’s a pussy cat when you finally scratch the surface. Just do things by the book, and she’ll come around.”

I started blushing, as I thought about what Zane and I had done by the fence last night. I didn’t think that Mrs. Price would approve, somehow. It wasn’t exactly doing things by the book, passionately kissing the boss. I had probably broken every rule in the nanny handbook, let alone the rules of conduct for staff at Birrimba.

I hadn’t seen Zane, today. But my heart started hammering at every footstep I heard approaching the room we were in. What would I say to him? And what would he say to me? I half expected him to request to see me, to give me my marching orders. That, or suddenly throw me across his desk to have his wicked way with me.

I shivered. The thought was very appealing. I shook my head. Not for the first time today, I wondered what the hell was happening to me.

“So, what’s Mr. Connelly up to today?’ I asked George, in a neutral voice. If anyone knew Zane’s schedule, it was George.

“He’s out with Robbo,” George answered, not looking up from his writing. “Roland’s flying them around to a couple of other stations. I think they want to exchange some stock.”

I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. A reprieve, at least for a little while. Time to think how on earth I was going to talk to him, in a normal way. You know, without the thought that I wanted to feel his hands all over me transparent on my face.

“Back to the party,” said George. “What are you going to wear?”

I opened my mouth to say I really had no idea, but then it suddenly struck me. It was, of course, perfect. Zane had made a joke about it with the kids, but there was absolutely no reason I couldn’t make it happen.

“Florence’s dress,” I said. “The Victorian era is about to make a comeback to Birrimba.”

George’s eyes widened. I could see he was as entranced by the idea as me.

* * *

“Stay still, Poppy!”

Harper had her hands on her hips, doing her best imitation of a disgruntled housekeeper. I didn’t know which was worse: having Poppy jig around while I was trying to pin her costume, or Harper mimicking everything that I said. She was like my shadow, that girl.

Well, I had wanted them to bond with me, I thought, somewhat ruefully. Be careful what you wish for. For the girls had decided – quite suddenly – that they were head over heels in love with me, and needed to follow me everywhere. And I meant everywhere. I was even tripping over them when I exited the bathroom.

“Alice would know how to keep still when her dress was being hemmed,” I wheedled.

Poppy looked at me, then mercifully stopped jigging. Harper nodded, importantly. “Of course she would,” she lisped, in her best grown up voice. I had to stifle a giggle.

“There!” I stepped back, admiring my handiwork. “Poppy, go and take it off and get your own clothes on. I just need to machine this hem, and then I think we’re done.”

Poppy clapped her hands excitedly, then ran off to do my bidding. I stood up. Almost two down. Now the only costume I had to make was Max’s Captain Jack Sparrow. And some alterations to Florence’s dress if they were needed for myself.

Mrs. Price walked into the room. “Here are the items you requested. From town.” She put down a box of stuff on the table, not smiling. But I could see her surreptitiously looking at Harper’s costume, which was lying on the table.

“Do you sew, Mrs. Price?” I asked, looking at her. She normally rebuffed every attempt I made at conversation, but I kept trying.

“A little,” she said. She picked up the skirt on the fairy costume, running her hand along the length of it. “I must say, you have done an excellent job with this. The stitching is seamless.”

“I trained as a fashion designer,” I said. “We had to be flawless seamstresses, to pass the course.”

“They used to always have a seamstress on staff at Birrimba,” she said, her eyes misting a bit. “When I was young, a woman named Mrs. Davis was the house seamstress. But she was just the last in a long line of them. There was no way the station could order so many clothes, you see. It is so remote. And trips into town were only done once a month, at most.”

“A house seamstress?” I looked at her, smiling. It was the most she had ever shared with me. “Would they have had one when Florence Connelly lived here, back in the 1890’s?”

She turned to me, her eyes piercing. “Well, well. You have been reading up on the station’s history, I see. What do you know of Florence?”

“I know she lived here,” I said, vaguely. “I was hoping you could tell me more about her.”

“Florence was the station’s matriarch,” answered Mrs. Price. “She and her husband Benedict founded Birrimba. They moved here from Sydney, before there were proper tracks. She made this station what it is.”

“A formidable woman, obviously,” I said. “Did she want to move from Sydney?”

“I think she was opposed, initially,” Mrs. Price said. “But they had backbone in those days. They endured. She had a lot of hardship in her life. The first was the fire.”

“What fire?” I put down my dressmaking scissors, absorbed.

“The house that they built,” Mrs. Price answered. “Before this one. It burned down, in the middle of the night. They had to rebuild.”

“In the same spot?”

“No, the remains of the first house are about a mile away, still on the property.” Mrs. Price looked at me. “There’s not much left.”

“Are you talking about the fire?”

Both Mrs. Price and I jumped at the voice behind us. It was Zane. Neither of us had heard him approach.

“Mr. Connelly.” Mrs. Price was flustered. “I was just about to start lunch.”

“How about you prepare a picnic, then?” Zane said. He turned to me, his eyes glowing. “Miss Harris? You are interested in the station’s history?”

“A little,” I admitted. I could feel myself flushing, at his proximity. I hadn’t had time to prepare myself for his arrival.

He turned around to Harper and Poppy. “Come on, then! Find Max. We’re all going for a walk.”