The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘A visitor?’

  ‘A Tamsin Alleyn from the Public Library of New South Wales.’ He gestured to the desk.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘To talk to you about the sketchbook.’

  ‘How did the Library get to hear of it? I didn’t even know it existed until this morning.’

  ‘It seems your mother contacted them.’ From what he’d understood from his father Mrs Rushworth hadn’t spoken to her mother in many a long year so it was hardly surprising. ‘Something about a donation.’

  ‘A donation! Did you tell her the book’s not available?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. She’s staying at the Family Hotel in Wollombi. I told her I’d speak with you and see if I could arrange a meeting.’

  She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Why ever did you do that?’

  ‘Fate has played into your hands. What better way to get some inkling of the authenticity and value? The Library wouldn’t be sending out someone who didn’t have a fair amount of knowledge.’ If Mrs Rushworth wanted to make the most out of her mother’s estate then this was the way to do it. And the fact that they’d found a couple of pairs of white gloves and an ivory rule inside the desk drawer indicated that someone thought the book held some value. God! He’d like to get a decent look at it.

  With pursed lips Mrs Rushworth walked over to the desk, put down her teacup and flicked through the pages. Shaw’s insides crawled. She ought to have the gloves on; any grease on her fingers would transfer to the paper. The book needed to be kept in the best possible condition.

  ‘Do you think it’s worth anything?’

  ‘Possibly. We’d have to establish its provenance.’ He peered over her shoulder only managing to snatch a glimpse of some detailed line drawings and scribbled notes. It certainly looked old. The paper was thick, surprisingly white and fresh so no acid content, definitely rag pulp not wood. That dated it prior to the 1850s. ‘The provenance will have a significant effect on the value.’

  As he expected he’d got her soft point. Money was her prime motivator, more than likely something to do with her husband’s interest in the building boom in the suburbs.

  ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands, however I don’t want the book to leave the premises. Tell her she can see it tomorrow at nine. I’m certainly not donating anything.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Until tomorrow then.’

  He held out his hand, which Mrs Rushworth ignored, then strolled back down the path. He’d have to find somewhere for the night if he was going to bring Miss Alleyn back tomorrow, so he might as well see if there was a room at the Family Hotel.

  Tamsin was sitting under the tree as he’d suggested staring out at the brook, her booted feet propped on her bag and her hat on the seat beside her. Her hair had worked its way loose and cascaded down her back in a delicious array of shiny black corkscrew curls and swirls. She made a delightful picture. ‘You have an appointment to view the sketchbook at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. You organised it very quickly—I was expecting to have to wait for a couple of days at least. Poor Mrs Quinleaven. Her daughter must be devastated. I realise my timing is appalling but it’s important that I get the sketchbook to Sydney as soon as possible.’

  ‘Hold on a moment. I said view the sketchbook. It’s not going anywhere. At least not without Mrs Rushworth’s agreement and to be honest I don’t like your chances.’

  ‘What do you mean? Mrs Quinleaven wrote and said she wanted to donate it to the Library. I’m simply here to collect it because she didn’t trust the postal service. Everything has already been organised.’

  ‘Apparently Mrs Rushworth, Mrs Quinleaven’s daughter, knew nothing about any donation.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged his shoulders—it wasn’t his place to question Mrs Rushworth’s motives. He was just the messenger and besides if the donation went ahead Mrs Rushworth might be out of pocket to the tune of several hundred pounds, if his estimations were correct, and this very attractive little piece sitting in front of him might be able to confirm that. ‘I’ll bring you back tomorrow to have a look at the sketchbook and you can take the matter up with Mrs Rushworth when you see her.’

  ‘I don’t seem to have much of an option.’ She let out a rather impatient sigh and stood up.

  ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings.’ Putting her offside was the last thing he wanted to do and if Mrs Quinleaven had written a letter stipulating a donation then it could well scupper Mrs Rushworth’s hopes. ‘My motor car’s just over here.’ He pointed to his pride and joy. A Model T Ford, one of the first into the country. It had cost him almost as much as his tiny cottage and had eaten up the last of Grandfather’s inheritance but it was already proving to be worth every penny.

  ‘Oh. I’ve never travelled in a motor car before.’ She positively glowed, snatched up her bag and bounded across the grass.

  He hotfooted after her and made it just in time to catch her running her hands over the shiny paintwork. ‘Is it difficult to drive?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s very simple and perfect for Australian conditions.’ He offered his hand. ‘In you get. I’ll take your bag and stow it.’

  Her face lit up like a child’s as she climbed into the seat.

  ‘I’m afraid it might be a bit dusty. Take my goggles and if you have a scarf you might want to cover your hair and your mouth.’

  ‘I’ll be absolutely fine. I promise you.’ She pulled off her hat and slid the goggles down over her eyes, then he handed her his gloves and she shook her head. ‘You’ll need them. I’m just fine. Am I supposed to do anything?’

  ‘Just sit tight while I crank the engine.’ Thankfully he’d got the routine down pat now although it had taken him a while. If it hadn’t been for the man who’d sold it to him he doubted he’d even have taken it out of first gear. He gave the crank three turns to prime the engine and lifted his head.

  She was standing up peering at him over the windscreen, the goggles making her look like some sort of distorted butterfly. ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘No, not at all. Just part of the routine. Now sit tight and I’ll start the engine. One more crank in a clockwise direction and we’ll be off. Ready?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She clapped her hands and sat back down holding on as though she might blow away.

  One half turn and the engine burst into life. He released the crank and jumped in beside her, disengaged the handbrake, put his foot on the pedal to engage first gear and they were off.

  ‘It looks very complicated to control.’

  ‘Not at all once you get the hang of it.’

  ‘And so much quicker than a buggy, and more comfortable.’ She gave a rather delightful wriggle and dragged her hair back from her face.

  ‘Certainly quicker. She’s got a top speed of over forty miles an hour. Prepare yourself. I’m going to put it into top.’ He slipped it into high gear and they bumped out onto the road, its generous ground clearance making short work of the potholes.

  By the time they arrived at the Family Hotel it was crowded with locals. He eased into a spot behind a wagon and climbed out of the car. ‘Could you stay here for a moment while I go and see if there’s somewhere I can leave the motor car overnight?’ He pointed to the bank of clouds billowing above the hills, threatening rain. ‘I’d rather leave it under cover.’

  ‘It does look like rain. I’ll stay and do guard duty.’ She lifted her carpet bag onto her lap and sat hugging it tightly staring straight ahead.

  ‘I won’t be a moment.’ He threaded his way through a group of gawking men towards the door of the hotel.

  ‘Suppose you’d be looking for a room too, would you?’ A grizzled old man pulled his pipe from his mouth.

  ‘If you’ve got one and somewhere I can park my motor car under cover overnight.’

  The fellow cleared his throat and hawked into the grass then pointed around the corner. ‘There’s an empty stable around the back; ain
’t got nothing to feed that contraption though.’ He rocked back with a laugh. ‘I’d offer hay but I don’t reckon you’d be interested.’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’ He gestured to the row of cans strapped behind the seat—he’d been caught out too many times before. Motor spirit was perhaps the biggest problem—scarce and expensive—but he’d found a pharmacist who carried it on the North Shore and he’d made sure he had enough for the round trip. ‘Got that all under control.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you have much trouble catching it either.’

  Shaw refrained from answering and stuffed his leather gloves into his pocket and returned to help Tamsin out.

  She untangled the goggles from her hair. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Let me take your bag.’

  Her wide mouth broke into the most engaging smile. ‘It’s not necessary. I can look after myself.’ She handed the goggles back. ‘Thank you so much. That was such fun.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. I’ll run you out tomorrow morning to see Mrs Rushworth.’

  ‘Really, it’s no trouble. Please don’t put yourself out.’

  Miss Alleyn was obviously one of those New Women who cherished their independence and right to vote above all else although her looks were more in keeping with Charles Gibson’s girls—statuesque, narrow-waisted and totally at ease in her own skin. He might put it to the test; see if she was as avant-garde as she appeared. ‘Would you like to join me for dinner?’

  ‘That would be very pleasant. Or was the invitation just to soften the blow about the sketchbook?’ The smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose danced and he had an overwhelming desire to lean forward and touch them.

  ‘No, not at all but if there’s a story behind the sketchbook I’d love to hear it.’

  ‘Isn’t there always a story behind everything?’

  ‘It depends if you’re interested in delving below the surface.’

  Parry, thrust, parry, and thrust. They might as well be fencing. Her shoulders stiffened and she threw him a look, which told him he’d have to step more lightly, then disappeared into the crowd. Mrs Rushworth would have her work cut out if she thought Miss Alleyn was going to give up without a fight.

  The old bloke with the pipe ambled over and ran his hands along the paintwork. He sniffed. ‘How many horses has this one got then?’

  ‘Eight.’

  He whistled through the gap in his front teeth. ‘Ain’t proper. These women gallivanting around the countryside on their own.’ He huffed, stuck his pipe back in his mouth and rocked on his heels.

  Miss Alleyn might be a lot of things but he doubted proper was something she paid too much attention to.

  ‘Here for the funeral I suppose?’

  ‘Did you know Mrs Quinleaven?’

  ‘Everyone did. Nice old woman, no matter what some people thought. And I’m happy to see her buried where she belongs. What’s your connection?’

  A good question and not one he intended to elaborate on. ‘Can you give me a hand with this?’ He pulled the cans off the back of the car and handed one to the old bloke before turning back for the other one. ‘I’ll leave it outside the stable.’

  ‘There’s talk of them selling this stuff up at the General Store before long. Lucky for you, you ain’t got to wait.’ He winked, his eye disappearing into a bundle of wrinkles.

  Shaw straightened up. ‘Who should I talk to about a room?’

  ‘The wife. Better go and ask, especially if you’ve got someone to keep you company.’ The fool waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  That wasn’t what he was after. It was Tamsin’s knowledge about books that fascinated him. For a day that had begun with a funeral, things were looking up.

  Four

  Wollombi, New South Wales 1908

  Tamsin swallowed the last of the tea and handed her cup and saucer to Mrs Adcock. ‘A lovely breakfast, thank you.’

  ‘All part of the service. Enjoy your day. Dinner is at six tonight.’

  She found Shaw outside behind the steering wheel of his car drumming his fingers on the wheel.

  ‘I beg your pardon Mr Everdene, I didn’t realise you were in a hurry.’

  ‘Call me Shaw.’ He threw her a cheeky grin. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to be late.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ A kick of excitement caught her unawares and she tied a scarf around her hat to hold it down and pulled on the goggles Shaw had placed on the seat for her.

  She wanted to know a bit more about Shaw Everdene; last evening he’d steered the conversation away from anything to do with the sketchbook or his relationship with Mrs Quinleaven and Mrs Rushworth. ‘So Mrs Rushworth is a friend?’

  ‘Of sorts. She’s a client of my father’s.’

  The silence hung while she waited for him to elaborate. Nothing happened so she tried a different tack. ‘Shaw’s an unusual name.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? It was my grandfather’s nickname. Tamsin’s pretty unusual, too.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Any idea where it originates?’

  ‘No. I think my mother just liked it.’ Or maybe hated it and that’s why she’d been landed with it. Father called her his little gypsy. Her dark eyes and untameable hair didn’t bother him but Mother had never come to terms with her Romany looks. Then she’d discovered an old book of Cornish tales, all about a witch named Tamsin and she’d convinced herself it was one of the reasons they’d sent her back to Sydney and deposited her at school with the Misses Green. They were ashamed to have her around. Missionaries and witches didn’t sit well together.

  ‘I would have thought you’d researched your name, and your family tree.’ He pushed his hair off his face and shot a look at her before returning his concentration to the potholes in the road. ‘Because of your job, your obvious interest in history. I’d expect you to be on it like a dog with a bone.’

  Did that mean he thought she was being too pushy about the sketchbook? Not a lot of point in tracking down family history when you’d always felt as though you’d been left like a suitcase at a railway station, a nuisance to your parents whose interests lay in spreading the gospel, not raising a family. ‘As far as I know it’s never been done. My parents were missionaries. Mother was a nurse and my father a doctor.’

  ‘But you didn’t follow family tradition and go into medicine?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t bring myself to after they died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He manoeuvred the motor car around the bends in the driveway and made no other comment, thank heavens. She still hated having to explain how horrifyingly little Mother and Father’s passing had meant to her. Her feelings made no sense; surely everyone mourned, yet all she had felt was a huge lethargy, as though she was wading through mud.

  It wasn’t until she’d ended up working at the Library that her life began to take shape. And then with the flurry of interest in Australian history surrounding the Mitchell bequest she’d discovered the Royal Society held copies of the correspondence between Banks and the early Australian naturalists. That had led her to the rivalries and competition surrounding the platypus. The story reached out and tugged at her heartstrings—she felt an affinity with the shy little creatures that for so long had belonged to no family in the animal kingdom. Fanciful, but the platypus had become her totem.

  Shaw pulled up under the shade of a large tree and cut the engine. Her blood hummed with curiosity and anticipation hammered away inside her skull. She could hardly contain herself.

  ‘Just wait here a moment and I’ll go and see if the time is right.’ Shaw disappeared around the corner of the house and she climbed out of the car and pulled off her hat and scarf and repinned her chignon. The weather was warm so she left her gloves and hat on the seat, smoothed her jacket and made her way to the front door. It flew opened before she had a chance to gather her senses, revealing Mr Everdene and his broad grin.

  ‘Miss Alleyn, come in.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Everdene.’

  ‘Shaw
.’

  She’d rather expected a maid or even Mrs Rushworth to open the door, however Mr Everdene, Shaw, looked very much at home. Perhaps he was a better friend of the family than she’d imagined.

  ‘Is Mrs Rushworth available?’

  ‘She’s busy. Told me to go ahead and show you the sketchbook. I want to have a closer look myself. Come with me.’

  She followed his broad back into the house and down a long corridor where the dust motes danced in the slashes of sunlight from the open doors.

  ‘I expect you’re looking forward to this.’

  Was she ever! Kicking her heels last night had driven her to distraction despite the diversion of Shaw’s company over dinner. Before she fell asleep she’d read through her notes, committing the timeline of platypus research to mind. There was still so much debate about the reproduction, anatomy and physiology of the platypus. They were the strangest of animals and no one had managed to keep one alive in captivity for more than a few days—they either escaped or simply gave up and died. With luck she’d have time to explore the local waterways and see a platypus in its natural environment. She’d ask when she got back to the hotel. ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t have a word with Mrs Rushworth first?’

  ‘Not necessary. As you can imagine, after the funeral yesterday she’s not prepared for visitors. She suggested I show you the book.’ He regarded her with a lively curiosity. There was no doubt she perplexed him. Every time she told anyone she worked at the Public Library they raised an eyebrow imagining old men, dusty tomes and a surfeit of stifling conventionality.

  ‘Follow me.’ Shaw led her into a smaller room dominated by an impressive oval table. He moved a brass work lamp to one side and threw open the heavy brocade curtains changing the patina of the surface of the table to the rich hew of old cedar. ‘This is the dining room. Mrs Rushworth is packing up the house. I moved the table closer to the window where the light’s better.’

  Tamsin adjusted the curtain to let in more light and Shaw glanced up with glint of amusement in his eyes. Swallowing her impatience she sank down onto a padded chair and clasped her hands tightly in her lap in a vain attempt to look professional.