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Marc’s grandmother, Alice, was my aunt.’

      ‘I remember GrandmaAlice.’ Marc nodded. ‘She died just before Mama and Daddy were killed and we were really sad. She said we had royal cousins, but she said they were a bad lot.’ He thought about it and drank some of his chocolate. ‘I don’t know what a bad lot is.’

      ‘I hope I’m not a bad lot.’

      ‘But you’re royal. Like a king or something.’

      ‘I’m on the same side of the family as you.’

      ‘Not on the bad lot side?’

      ‘No.’

      The girls—and Pippa—were listening to this interchange with various levels of interest. Now Sophie felt the need to interrupt.

      ‘I’m really very hungry,’ she said soulfully—martyr about to die a stoic death—and Pippa handed Max his hot chocolate, glanced at Claire who’d gone quiet and made a decision.

      ‘Um…can the family-tree thing wait? If you really are family…Actually we are in a bit of trouble,’ she confessed. ‘We don’t have anything to eat.’

      ‘Nothing?’

      ‘Toast. But no butter. And no jam.’

      ‘You believe in putting off shopping to the last minute.’

      ‘We tried to put it off ’ til the rain stopped. But it didn’t.’

      ‘I see.’ Though he didn’t see.

      ‘Could you really go into town and pick up a few supplies?’

      ‘Of course. You could come with me if you like.’

      ‘All of us?’ Pippa asked.

      He did a quick head count. Maybe…

      ‘Including Dolores.’

      He looked down at Dolores—a great brown dog, gently steaming and wafting wet dog smell through the kitchen.

      ‘Maybe I’m fine by myself,’ Max said.

      She chuckled, a nice chuckle that might have had the capacity to warm the kitchen if it wasn’t so appallingly cold. Then she eyed him appraisingly. ‘You’ll get wet again, walking back to your car. That’s not exactly wet-weather gear.’

      ‘Lend him Daddy’s milking gear,’ Marc piped up. ‘He’s bigger than Daddy but he might fit.’

      ‘He can wear Daddy’s gumboots,’ Sophie offered.

      ‘Gumboots?’

      ‘That’s Australian for wellingtons,’ Pippa said.

      ‘He needs an umbrella,’ Claire added. Like all of them she’d been staring at Max with caution, but she’d obviously reached a decision. ‘He can use my doggy umbrella.’ She fetched it from near the back door, opened it and twirled it for inspection. Pale pink, it had a picture of an appealing puppy on every panel. ‘You’ll look after it,’ she said, as one conferring a huge level of trust.

      Great, Max thought. Prince Regents wearing wellingtons and carrying umbrellas with dogs? Thankfully the paparazzi were half a world from here.

      There was so much here that he hadn’t expected. Actually nothing was what he’d expected. Except Marc. Marc looked just like Max’s brother. Which was great. It made things almost perfect.

      Except…It made his gut do this lurching kind of thing. A kid who looked like Thiérry…

      He glanced at Marc again and Pippa intercepted the look. ‘What?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Why were you looking at Marc?’

      ‘I was wondering why he was dark when you’re a redhead.’ He knew the relationship but it didn’t hurt to check.

      ‘Pippa’s not related to us,’ Marc told him. ‘She’s our friend.’

      ‘Pippa’s our aunty,’ Sophie volunteered, but Marc shook his head.

      ‘No, she’s not. She and Mummy were friends and Pippa promised she’ll look after us, just like a real aunty. But she’s not our real aunty.’

      ‘I wish she was,’ Claire whispered.

      ‘I’m just as good as an aunty,’ Pippa said stoutly. ‘Only bossier. More like a mother hen, really.’ She was staring across the table at him as she spoke, her voice…challenging? Max met her look head-on. Had she guessed why he was here?

      He had to tell her, but let it come slowly, he thought. It’d be easy to get a blank no, with no room to manoeuvre. Surely the poverty he saw in this place meant he’d at least get a hearing.

      Meanwhile…‘Where’s this wet-weather gear?’

      ‘I’ll show you.’ Pippa produced a battered purse and handed over two notes and a couple of coins. ‘Our budget for the rest of the week is thirty-two dollars, fifty cents,’ she told him. ‘Can you buy fish and chips and bread, jam, some dried pasta and a slab of cheap cheese? Spend the change on dog food. The cheapest there is.’

      He stared down at the notes and coins in disbelief. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said finally, and she flushed.

      ‘We’re momentarily broke,’ she admitted. ‘Our vats were found to be contaminated. It’s only low level—we’re still drinking our milk—but it’s bad enough to stop sales. We need a week’s clear testing before the dairy corporation will buy our milk again.’

      ‘But we can’t afford new vats,’ Marc interjected. ‘Pippa says we’re up the creek without a paddle.’ He sounded almost cheerful but Max saw Pippa wince and realised there was real distress behind those words.

      ‘That’s not Mr de Gautier’s problem,’ Pippa said, gently reproving. ‘But we do have to pull in our belts. Mr de Gautier, I’d appreciate if you could do our buying for us, but that’s all we need. We’ll be fine.’

      ‘Will you be fine without fruit?’ he asked, staring at the list in disapproval. ‘What about scurvy?’

      ‘No one gets scurvy if they go without for only a week.’

      ‘No, but…’ He searched her face for a long moment, seeing quiet dignity masking a background of desperation. What on earth was she doing here? She seemed to be stuck on an almost derelict farm with three kids who weren’t hers and a dog who’d seen better days. The investigators said there was no blood tie. Why hadn’t she walked away?

      Until now this had seemed easy. He’d expected to be back on a plane by the end of the week. With Marc. Maybe with Pippa as well. It could still happen, but that jutting chin prompted doubts. The little girls prompted more. Plus the way the dog was draped so she was touching everyone’s feet.

      Enough. He squared his shoulders and accepted an umbrella. Doubts had to wait. He had to go shopping.

      CHAPTER TWO

      TANBAROOK was tiny. The place consisted of five shops, a pub, two churches and a school. Most of them looked deserted, but there were three cars lined up outside a small supermarket. A Tanbarook crowd, Max thought wryly and went in to join it. He sloshed through the door and four women stared at him as if he’d landed from Mars.

      The ladies were at the checkout counter, one behind the register, the others on the customer side. He gave them what he hoped was a pleasant smile. ‘Good afternoon.’

      ‘Good afternoon,’ four voices chorused.

      He grabbed a trolley and turned to the shelves.

      ‘Can I help?’ the woman behind the register called.

      ‘I’m fine, thank you. I have a list.’

      ‘Your

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