However, the uneasy night had worked wonders in making her anxiety about the Minningford Ball working party pale in comparison. In her morning prayer time she'd thanked God, again, that both she and Jamie had survived their ordeals intact - which strengthened her hope of similarly making it through the coming engagement at the Winslow's unscathed.

However, that optimism started weakening the moment Angie arrived to pick her up. Angie's hair was freshly coloured in a bold copper tone and she was dressed in one of the eye-catching outfits she'd purchased on their last trip to Narrabri. As she settled into the passenger seat, Jemimah began to second guess her own clothes, deciding the combination of pastel floral print blouse and pale green skirt that had always made her feel pretty and grown-up probably was a little dated now.

Angie was keyed up too, Jemimah discovered when she reached up to fix her friend's collar and had her hand brusquely batted away. Apparently, the collar was meant to stick upright at the back instead of being sedately folded like the collar of Jemimah's own blouse.

Her misgivings only increased the further they drove from familiar surrounds as Angie talked non-stop about the people she expected to see, rattling off their high-powered jobs and achievements and connections with big names that were vaguely familiar to Jemimah from the media. Sonja's brother Derek would definitely be there, though Angie wasn't sure whether his girlfriend, Yolanda, would be. With a distinct lack of warmth in her voice Angie added that Yolanda was usually too busy to contribute much to the ball's organisation although she was guaranteed to be front and centre on the night.

After mentioning a couple of other people that came to mind, Angie circled back to Derek and his role in ensuring the financial success of the Minningford Ball and went on to describe, in glowing terms, his success in stock trading and investment banking. Although most of the details went over Jemimah's head, it was clear she ought to be impressed.

Jemimah took a deep breath and focused on the changing scenery, aware she'd just been given a crash course to get her up to speed before the meeting. She only hoped she could remember enough not to be an embarrassment to Angie.

"There seem to be fewer crops out this way," she noted, feeling a small sense of achievement at her growing awareness of the variations in country which had once seemed indistinguishable and monotonous. "Is it more grazing around here?"

"Yeah. Originally all this area was one massive sheep station. The Winslow's place is the original Minningford Station homestead -- though by the time Mr Winslow's grandfather bought it, much of the surrounding land had been sold off into smaller properties. It's still several times the size of ours and it could carry a lot more stock than they run but they're focusing on a more niche market. Pasture-raised heritage breeds, some cattle but also a few different varieties of sheep, pigs and poultry. They've got a farm manager who handles all of that day to day," Angie said, waving her hand in dismissal of any plebeian assumptions Jemimah might make about the Winslows getting their hands dirty. "The Winslows are more hands-on with breeding their polo ponies, but they're currently transitioning the place into an upmarket accommodation and event venue. Wait until you see what they've done with the house -- it's really impressive."

They drove on for several more minutes before the entrance to Minningford Park appeared ahead. A beautifully scripted sign hung above massive wrought iron gates that were set open between two sections of curved stonework. Angie slowed for a cattle-grid and as they followed the sweep of the driveway Jemimah caught her first glimpse of the homestead.

"Wow," she breathed, barely able to take in the beauty of the sandstone mansion. It was like something out of a Jane Austen movie and yet uniquely Australian with its deep red corrugated roofing and gleaming white wrought iron pillars and lace work that decorated the deep wrap-around verandahs on the first two storeys. A dormer roof rose above the second storey and above it towered an ornate cupola with full-length windows that promised an incredible view.

"It’s absolutely gorgeous," Jemimah said, not taking her gaze from it for even a moment. Visiting historic homes on holidays with her family had long fuelled her romantic daydreams, but none of the National Trust homes she'd toured in the past were anything in comparison to Minningford. "I admit I'd wondered why so many people would travel this far to attend a charity ball - or pay so much for the tickets - but now I can see exactly why."

"Yes, it's certainly a landmark property -- and a landmark event. I wish you were able to be there on the night though, it really is something. At least you'll get to see it beforehand when we do all the setting up. And there's always a ton of photos in the newspapers and magazines."

Jemimah hadn't been at all keen when Angie volunteered her for the working party, and felt increasingly daunted the more details Angie let slip of everything they'd need to do in the lead up to the ball -- but right now she felt willing to do just about anything to be around this incredible place. When Angie parked the car Jemimah jumped out as eagerly as her friend, her earlier concerns about meeting strangers forgotten in her desire to see what lay within the huge front doors.

Like the gates, the doors stood open in welcome and Angie led the way between the encircling garden beds and up the sandstone steps, and called a loud "Helloo!" as they stepped into the entrance hall. Jemimah turned slowly as she soaked in all the details of the stunning room. Coloured light spilled from the lead-light windows beside the door and stretched across the tiled floor. Her attention was caught by the magnificent staircase rising from the centre of the room, and she barely registered the sound of approaching footsteps as she moved towards it. The wood of the time-smoothed bannisters and treads glowed like dark honey in the sunlight that flowed from a bow window on the first landing.

"Angie -- so good to see you!"

Jemimah started guiltily at the deep feminine voice, her hand still outstretched toward the intricately carved Newell post as she looked to see a tall, elegantly dressed woman lightly embrace Angie and then turn towards her.

"You must be Jemimah. Sonja," the woman introduced herself with a gracious warmth as she crossed the floor to the foot of the staircase, bringing with her the exotic fragrance of an unfamiliar perfume.

"It's magnificent, isn't it? Australian cedar and rosewood -- sent to Germany to be hand carved by masters and then shipped back over a century ago." Sonja's voice was as rich and polished as the rosewood banisters. "But what a treasure to bestow on future generations."

"I've never seen anything so gorgeous," Jemimah forgot her shyness in their shared enthusiasm, "and the windows above ... everything's so filled with light. It's beautiful."

"I know! I'm biased, but I believe Minningford is the crown jewel of Colonial Victorians. Wait until you see -- " the woman cut herself off with a deep and musical laugh. "No, I am not going to let myself get started! I promise you a full tour another time but everyone's waiting on us out in the ballroom. Come through."

As Sonja led them toward a doorway on one side of the entrance hall she paused at an antique hall-stand supporting a vase of old-fashioned roses and a small stack of glossy magazines. She picked up a couple of the magazines and offered them to Jemimah. "You're welcome to browse through these in the meantime. Minningford's been used for a number of photo spreads over the last couple of years. Last autumn we were shooting here for the summer edition - the team did an amazing job and everything looks entirely timeless and soaked in warm sunshine. Angie can tell you the reality was anything other than glamourous, working with freezing models and changing light -- and that wind!"

Jemimah took the magazines with murmured thanks and followed after Sonja and Angie, only half listening to Angie's reply as she drank in every detail of the high-ceilinged rooms that she passed through like someone in a dream. That it was clearly a lived-in family home rather than a museum only added to the charm with books on the coffee tables and fresh flowers in every room.

As best she could work out, the main house was built in a rectangular u-shape with wings extending back from both sides of the building. It was into the right-side wing they now turned, but not even the classic beauty of the preceding rooms prepared Jemimah for her first sight of the magnificent ballroom.

Natural light filtered in through French doors along both sides of the long walls, the luxurious fabric of their drapes looped back into tasselled sashes which were mirrored in a grand valance above and below the half-circle stage at the far end of the room. The buff coloured walls glowed with the organic warmth of limewash and contrasted with the multipaned door and window frames that were picked out like crisp white royal icing on a marzipanned cake. And in the centre of the dance floor beneath the sparkling chandelier of her dreams were, quite incongruously, a couple of very workman-like trestle tables where half a dozen ladies chattered and laughed over steaming cups and plates of cakes.

These women looked up with mild interest at the new arrivals, a couple of them murmuring a "Hello, Angela," and politely nodding in an offhand way in Jemimah's direction. If Jemimah had felt awed by Angie's apparent sophistication the morning she'd first met her beside the church, that was nothing compared to the immediate and deep sense of inferiority she now felt in the presence of these power-dressed, confident women who apparently had already measured and dismissed her with the merest glance.

Her pleasure in simply being in such a beautiful building evaporated as she realised how utterly and obviously out of place she was, nothing more than a gauche tourist. She felt the burning blush already rising up her neck, and when Sonja directed her and Angie toward a door to the right of the stage, it was like a life-line thrown just before she sank.

After the grandeur of the ballroom, entering into a unexpectedly modern -- and entirely unromantic -- caterer's kitchen was something of a relief. Sonja had paused to collect a couple of empty cups from the trestle tables and Jemimah chanced a glance back at her as she followed them into the kitchen. She was dressed even more elegantly than the other women in the ballroom and with her imposing height and perfectly styled model-looks, Sonja ought to have been far more intimidating than the rest of the party, but there was a warmth in her eyes that let Jemimah feel like she was safe to breathe again.

"Is Derek not here?" Angie asked, disappointment evident in her voice as she lifted down two mugs from the shelf above a gleaming stainless steel coffee machine.

"Not yet. He had some business to finish up, so he is flying over this morning. We've left a vehicle at the airstrip for him so he'll come straight across when he lands."

Jemimah's surprise at hearing, on top of everything else Angie had supplied of Derek Winslow's resume, that he was also a pilot must have shown on her face. Sonja gave her a sympathetic grimace. "I know, somewhat of an over-achiever, isn't he? He gained his pilot's licence through his school before he was even old enough to get his driver's licence and when I was still content riding ponies. But that's Derek." She shrugged in a fond apology, and continued, "Now, what can I get you? I know Angie will have a cappuccino, but we have espresso so you can have flat black, white, latte ..." Sonja let the apparently endless list dangle as she lifted a pitcher of milk out of an under-bar fridge.

Jemimah looked helplessly at Angie, who rolled her eyes and said, "It's alright to have a cup of tea, Jemimah."

"Of course!" Sonja handed the milk jug to Angie and opened a flat wooden box on the counter to display about two dozen compartments filled with an alarming array of tea varieties. "Take your pick."

Once again Angie intercepted her look of mute dismay and suggested English Breakfast tea would be most like what they drank at her house.

"She's only a recent convert to tea," Angie explained as Jemimah tried to find the English Breakfast from amongst the rows of colourful labels, then finally located and unwrapped the packet while Sonja exchanged her mug for a gold rimmed china cup.

"It pains me to say it," Angie winced as she held out a hand to stop Sonja adding hot water, "but Jemimah prefers the milk in first." She poured in a good serving of milk into Jemimah's cup and added, "Michael got to her first and corrupted her."

Sonja gave a burble of delighted laughter as she added the hot water to the cup. "Don't tell me you and your brother are still at it? The unending war of Tiffy versus Miffy."

"That among a million other things," Angie said ungraciously as she began to steam the jug of milk.

"Oh, I'm sure he's just baiting you -- poking at anything that hints of snobbery." As Sonja filled several of the cups with various levels of black coffee she turned slightly to ensure Jemimah was included in the conversation. "The Tea-In-First campaigners, the Tiffies, against the Milk-In-First rebels. Historically -- so the story goes - only the wealthy could afford the imported fine bone china. The poorer quality English china could crack with the sudden shock of hot tea if it were poured straight into the cup, hence putting the milk in first to lower the temperature and preserve the cup. So, obviously, those who owned the fine bone china flaunted it by ensuring everyone saw the tea indeed going in first. Of course, modern manufacturing makes all that irrelevant, but some still consider pouring the milk in first vulgar."

"Is that really why Michael does it?" Jemimah asked, experiencing once again that frisson of awareness that others not only knew Michael Turnbull but knew him so much better than she did. She found herself torn by the tension of feeling like an outsider yet desperately curious to find out even more about him.

"Perhaps --"

"Or he could just have really bad taste!" Angie cut in.

"Perhaps that too," Sonja conceded with a smile. "Cold milk certainly interferes with the infusion process -- and makes a much milder brew. Not to mention all that sugar he adds."

She took the milk jug from Angie, eyed it critically for a moment before murmuring "Very good," and returned it to the steam wand for just a few moments more before examining it again. Satisfied, she tapped the side of the jug a few times, then with a series of fluid movements, Sonja poured varying amounts of the milk into the cups in front of her. Angie leaned in to see the results and, despite her reserve, Jemimah couldn't help moving closer to see the swirls of stylised leaves herself.

"They're great," Angie commented, "You've obviously been practising."

"Well, I need an excuse for consuming such copious amounts of coffee. Here, take yours and Sharon's; Jemimah darling, if you can also take Natasha's -- she's sitting at the far end of the table, lovely girl, her first time on the working party too," she smiled encouragingly to Jemimah as she handed her the cups, "and I can manage the rest." Sonja gathered up the cups, two in each hand, but paused just inside the doorway and looked back at Angie.

"Now you've put me in mind of Michael -- he hasn't purchased his tickets yet. The ball couldn't have slipped his mind, could it?"

Jemimah's heart squeezed painfully in her chest. Michael was coming to the ball! And had ordered tickets, plural. For a just a moment her foolish daydreams took flight on fairy's wings that there was yet hope he might think of her ...

"I don't know how he could." Angie spoke as though it would be impossible to contemplate. "We were talking about it when he was up at Easter, though he didn't mention it last time he was home. I'll chase him up tonight."

"No, I'll give him a call now while it's on my mind." Sonja led the way back into the heart of the ballroom, her every movement exuding grace and confidence. She smoothly served out the coffees and briefly introduced each of the ladies to Jemimah then took her own seat in front of a stack of manilla folders, suggesting they start with going through the list of VIPs who hadn't yet paid for their tickets, allocating those with personal connections to follow them up over the next week.

Confident this was clearly an area in which she had nothing to contribute, Jemimah carefully lifted her delicate cup to her lips, taking the chance to surreptitiously glance across the cup's gold rim and try to match the ladies seated around the table with the descriptions Angie had supplied on the drive there. Tamara, sitting nearest to Sonja, with a glossy black bob and bright red lipstick and the confident air must be the political staffer; the tall and very thin woman with a fashionably choppy pixie haircut and a husky voice was Sharon, the stylist who apparently worked in film and television as well as for Sonja's magazine. Beside her and wearing a red blazer with imposing shoulder pads was Donna, a journalist; then two girls -- Simone and Tania, who looked like pageant entrants -- whom Angie had said were friends of Sonja's from boarding school. That left Helen the photographer, and then at the end of the table, Natasha, who Sonja had referred to as 'a lovely girl' was probably the one in public relations who also attended Sonja's church.

Right at that moment Natasha looked up, and catching Jemimah looking at her, met her eyes with a smile before turning her attention back to the others as they worked through the list of names. Jemimah let out a slow breath. Perhaps they weren't all quite as unapproachable as they seemed.

As the other women glanced through the typed lists, noting their initials beside the people they'd be calling, Sonja picked up a cordless phone and extended its metal aerial. "If you ladies will excuse me, I'm just going to call the most important VIP while it's on my mind. After all, it would be rather awkward if my own date doesn't turn up."

With everyone else occupied with the lists and a hum of general chatter over the names they contained, Jemimah opened up the first magazine and began to leaf through the pages to find the article Sonja had mentioned but couldn't help overhearing the conversation opposite her.

"So who is Sonja's mystery man?" Natasha was asking the woman beside her, "I didn't know she was seeing anyone -- is this a recent thing?"

"Oh no," came the reply, in a tone that made it sound like spicy gossip, "he's been partnering her at these balls as long as I've been involved as well as any number of dos in Sydney. I'm not quite sure what the story is, apart from that they go back a long way, but I assure you he's quite the handsome partner and apparently very available the moment Sonja lifts her finger."

"Lucky Sonja."

The second woman lifted her eyebrows. "Or lucky him. He might just be playing the long game and prepared to wait until Sonja gets tired of pretending she is perfectly content without a full-time man in her life."

Their conversation faded into the rest of the chatter about people Jemimah didn't know and would probably never meet and she turned to the article featuring Minningford Park and smoothed open the glossy pictorial spread. Drenched in sunshine and surrounded by green lawns and all the flower beds in bloom, the heritage house looked impossibly gorgeous. Jemimah tingled with the thrill that she was right there in the heart of it in real life. Eagerly, she turned the page to begin the article.

"Hi, Mikey." Sonja had stepped some metres from the table, but her sultry voice cut through every other sound in the room, carrying a flirtatious tone she hadn't used with any of the women.

Mikey? Her ears burning, Jemimah traced her finger under the line of text she was trying to read. Sonja had said she was going to ring Michael and she said she was going to ring her VIP date. Two different people...

"I'm just wonderful, darling -- it's a glorious morning out here in the west. Now, Angie assures me you couldn't possibly have forgotten the most important day of the year but somehow I don't seem to have a record of your purchasing the tickets."

Jemimah's heart began to thud sickeningly as the printed words in front of her dissolved into meaningless gibberish.

A few moments later she heard Sonja's deep laughter in response to whatever Mikey had just said on the other end of the phone. "Of course I'll forgive you -- just this once. Now, how would you feel about a green and bronze paisley waistcoat and ascot tie? I saw a perfect one just the other day on George Street and it would go wonderfully with my gown, and your gorgeous eyes. --- No, you cannot wear your kilt with it!"

"That's a shame -- because he'd look just fine in a kilt," interjected red-lipped Tamara, her brash voice making Jemimah involuntarily glance up to see the saucy wink that accompanied her comment.

Sonja shot Tamara a look of mock reproach that barely covered her smile and spoke into the phone again, "I'll have to go, Mikey, the image of you in a kilt is distracting the ladies from their very important work and we can't have that. --- You, too, darling - talk to you soon."

Jemimah forced her unseeing eyes back to the magazine in front of her as Sonja disconnected the call and returned to her seat at the table. Her whole body thrummed with shock at this inexplicable interchange and she waited with dread for Angie's response.

Sonja spoke first, her honeyed voice still carrying the same mischievous tone, "Your brother is deeply apologetic, but assures me he wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I should think not," came Angie's unimpressed reply. "Now, I've put my name down to call these locals -- are there any of them you'd rather contact yourself?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Jemimah saw Angie and Sonja's heads bent together over the list just as if the world hadn't been turned upside-down by that phone conversation. Her own finger was still retracing the same line of print without it becoming any more intelligible, so she gave up on reading and tried to at least focus on the pictures.

Sonja hadn't even said who was calling... Michael obviously knew her very well to recognise her voice from just two words.

Hi, Mikey ... the words ran round and round in her head like a taunt. Sonja used the nickname she'd only heard his family use -- was their relationship that close? And hadn't the woman opposite said of Sonja's date "they go way back"? This disquieting window into Michael Turnbull's life was so far from anything Jemimah had imagined based on her knowledge of him, and yet Angie had certainly not reacted as though there were anything unusual about the interchange.

Jemimah's gaze lingered painfully on Sonja; on the way her perfectly glossed lips curved in a relaxed smile as she leaned forward to draw Sharon's attention to a name on the list in front of her, while answering a question from one of the pageant girls and acknowledging some comment of Tamara's with a lift of one eyebrow.

She was so beautiful, so sophisticated, so capable - and so grown up - that Jemimah saw clearly now that if Michael had an interest in any woman it could only be someone like Sonja.

How could I have been so deluded to dream that Michael could ever have thought of asking me to the ball? Or could ever see anything in me that evoked more than brotherly concern.

Soul-deep embarrassment sent burning heat flaring into her skin, sure that her pathetic longings must be obvious to everyone in the room. Being in the presence of these confident, talented women made all the more clear everything she was not and an empty hollowness ached in her heart.

Trying to will away the outward signs of her humiliation, Jemimah turned self-consciously toward the window, her gaze resting on a fountain in the centre of the courtyard and beyond it, a row of freshly painted doors along the wing behind it. She looked down again at the photo spread, noting the difference. As well as the doorways, a bullnosed verandah had been added to three sides of the courtyard -- creating a covered walkway from the ballroom to the opposite wing. It had been so sympathetically designed that Jemimah would never have suspected it was not original if not for the images in front of her.

"Yes, that was changed after the photo shoot," Sonja said from just behind Jemimah, her approach hidden by the general din of conversation, "We're in the process of converting the old kitchen wing and utility rooms into en-suite guest rooms that the builders promise me will be ready in time for the ball. Why don't you go and have a look, darling? Derek should be here shortly and I think we'll still be working on our contact lists until then."

Jemimah was grateful beyond words for the offered escape, and after a shy smile of thanks to Sonja, she slipped through the nearest of the French doors and out into another world of worn stone pavers and the timeless stillness of history, broken only by the gentle play of water in the fountain.

The quietness was just what she needed to restore her equilibrium, and the guest rooms -- although in varying stages of completion - already showed an elegant beauty in keeping with the rest of Minningford. When they were finished, she could imagine it would be an idyllic escape. She was just about to leave the second last suite when the sound of a man's footfall on the courtyard flagstones drew her up short.

Embarrassed by the possibility of a stranger finding her poking around and being called on to explain her presence, Jemimah drew back into the shadows and hoped she could remain unnoticed.