They would have to go steerage on the ship, but it was only three days after all, not too bad. Not like the weeks and weeks between England and the Antipodes. All they could afford to take with them were clothes, china, cutlery, household linens, cooking utensils and those shelves of precious books; the furniture would have to be sold to cover the cost of shipping Fee's few bits and pieces in the parlor, her spinet and rugs and chairs. "I won't hear of your leaving them behind," Paddy told Fee firmly. "Are you sure we can afford it?"

  "Positive. As to the other furniture, Mary says she's readying the head stockman's house and that it's got everything we're likely to be needing. I'm glad we don't have to live in the same house as Mary."

  "So am I," said Fee.

  Paddy went into Wanganui to book them an eight-berth steerage cabin on the Wahine; strange that the ship and their nearest town should have the same name. They were due to sail at the end of August, so by the beginning of that month everyone started realizing the big adventure was actually going to happen. The dogs had to be given away, the horses and the buggy sold, the furniture loaded onto old Angus MacWhirter's dray and taken into Wanganui for auction, Fee's few pieces crated along with the china and linen and books and kitchen goods.

  Frank found his mother standing by the beautiful old spinet, stroking its faintly pink, streaky paneling and looking vaguely at the powdering of gold dust on her fingertips.

  "Did you always have it, Mum?" he asked.

  "Yes. What was actually mine they couldn't take from me when I married. The spinet, the Persian carpets, the Louis Quinze sofa and chairs, the Regency escritoire. Not much, but they were rightfully mine." The grey, wistful eyes stared past his shoulder at the oil painting on the wall behind him, dimmed with age a little, but still showing clearly the golden-haired woman in her pale-pink lace gown, crinolined with a hundred and seven flounces. "Who was she?" he asked curiously, turning his head. "I've always wanted to know."

  "A great lady."

  "Well, she's got to be related to you; she looks like you a bit." "Her? A relation of mine?" The eyes left their contemplation of the picture and rested on her son's face ironically. "Now, do I look as if I could ever have had a relative like her?"

  "Yes."

  "You've cobwebs in your brain; brush them out."