The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Listen Rose and look at me.’

  How could she look at her? She didn’t know her. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I stole from my mistress. I came here on the Lady Juliana with 200 other women.’

  The Lady Juliana: everyone knew, everyone remembered. The Whore Ship. Her mother was a whore? Not just a whore, a thieving whore. It was rubbish, as surreal as Pa lying prostrate on the bed as good as killed by an animal no bigger than a half-baked damper.

  ‘But Pa?’

  ‘Charles is not your father.’

  It was as though someone had yanked away the ground beneath her and everything she had ever known was a lie. ‘Then who?’ Mam a thieving whore and Pa—not Pa.

  ‘A naval surgeon. A man named Richard Barrington.’

  She groaned aloud, felt the world tip and Yukri’s warm hands rest on her shoulders. She clutched at Yukri’s hand, a lifeline in a shifting dust storm.

  ‘Sit quietly, then we’ll talk some more.’ Mam’s voice was harder than usual, not the gentle vacant tone that soothed the sick and calmed the needy. Her other voice perhaps, the voice of a thief, a whore. ‘You need a moment to compose yourself.’

  A moment. She didn’t need a moment. She needed a lifetime. ‘Yukri?’

  ‘Listen hard, listen fast little mallangong girl. It’s best you know, then you can become the woman you meant to be.’

  Yukri pressed a cup into her lifeless hand and she wrapped her fingers around it inhaling the smoky sweetness of the black tea.

  None of the questions she wanted to ask would form. She closed her eyes and sipped while Yukri’s fingers smoothed her arm. Yukri who’d been there for as long as she could remember, longer perhaps than Pa. Her eyes flashed open. ‘Mam. Tell me.’

  ‘When the Lady Juliana arrived the colony was crippled—few supplies, men and officers starving, rations cut, even the Governor …’

  ‘Mam!’ She sat upright. She didn’t want a history lesson, she’d heard this before. Selfish perhaps but she wanted to hear her story. How she came to be.

  ‘I was assigned to a man named Richard Barrington as his housekeeper. He and Charles shared a tent next to the hospital in Sydney Cove.’ A hint of colour stole across Mam’s cheeks. ‘I mistakenly believed he could help me have my sentence rescinded so I could return home. I feared for my granfer.’ She lowered her lashes, wringing her hands. ‘I became Richard’s wife, in all but name.’

  A hiss slipped between Yukri’s lips rather as though she’d spotted a snake in the grass and warned of its approach.

  ‘I gave birth to his son, Julian.’

  ‘I have a brother?’ That was not so bad.

  ‘When Julian was five years old Richard was recalled and he took him with him to England.’ Mam’s voice hitched and she brushed aimlessly at the tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘To become a gentleman, his heir.’

  ‘And he didn’t want me?’ The plaintive note in her voice belonged to a petulant child. She ought to have a thought for Mam but all she could think of was herself.

  ‘He didn’t know about you. It was only after he’d left I discovered I was with child. You were born eight months later.’

  And Pa, no, not Pa. She’d never get used to that. ‘Pa raised me. Did he want me?’ Why would any man want another’s child?

  ‘You have always been and will always be Charles’s daughter. The day you were born he told me that you were the daughter of his heart.’

  But not his loins, not his flesh and blood. Not one part of the man she’d loved all her life, believed to be her father. Loved more than Mam. ‘Where is he? This father?’

  ‘He died, died at the Battle of Trafalgar, when you were a child.’

  ‘I can’t take this in.’ She knew she was being selfish, the pain on Mam’s face was as bad as Pa’s writhing agony. She stood, put down the cup. Mam reached out her hand to her but she couldn’t, couldn’t touch her. Had nothing to give to the woman who’d made her life a lie. She brushed past the table, threw a quick glance into the bedroom where Pa lay, his eyes fixed on some spot beyond the window, and stumbled around blinded by tears of self-pity she could do nothing to prevent.

  Yukri propelled her outside into the sun, so bright it stung her eyes. How could the sun shine when her whole world had been turned upside down? ‘Not your mam’s fault. Just like mallangong. That’s why you mallangong girl.’

  Rose pushed Yukri away and walked down the path towards the river. She didn’t want to hear any more about the wretched mallangong. Not from Yukri, not from anyone and least of all did she want to be lumbered with another name. Wasn’t it bad enough that the one she thought belonged to her was no more than a hideous fabrication, a lie. Her own mother had lied to her, not only given her another’s name but brought her up to believe that lie.

  ‘That Barrington man, he one big rat. Not your mam’s fault.’

  Rose spun on her heel, hands on hips, and glared at Yukri. ‘I don’t want to hear any more stories. I’m sick of stories. My entire existence is a hoax.’

  ‘No, you listen here girl and you listen well. Yukri was here and Yukri knows. Now sit down here.’ She patted the spot of grass next to her. ‘Here!’

  More from habit than anything else Rose did as she was told and sank to the ground, hitching her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs, rocking to and fro. Hot one minute, cold the next. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and rubbed her cheek against the rough wool.

  ‘You remember story.’

  Rose huffed out a big sigh and a little bit of the tension leached out of her muscles. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘My story says mallangong, she born after a beautiful female duck mated with a shifty water rat. The baby—she had her mam’s bill and webbed feet and her pa’s legs and brown fur. See now, that’s you.’

  Rose wriggled her toes, digging her feet into the ground. ‘Yukri, this is not helping me one little bit.’

  ‘You not listening. Your mam was lonely. And miserable, and sad. She wanted to go home, back across the waters but they not let her. That water rat, he a real crafty rat. He promised he help.’

  Everything went quiet; no noise from the river, no birds, no insects, just Yukri’s words echoing in her head. ‘You mean Mam was taken in by my father, persuaded into doing something she didn’t want to?’ Heaven forbid. It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘But Pa?’ She shook her head. ‘Charles.’

  ‘Mr Charles good man. He took care of her when that water rat stole your brother away. You go back there and you listen hard to your mam and you think what you can do. Your turn now. Your mam, she can’t do nothing for your pa, she stuck here. You, you can give that man—he’s your pa—the one who loves you, everything he’s wanting.’

  Daughter of my heart.

  Rough scratchy tears caught in her throat. Now the words held a different meaning. Yes she could. She knew as much about the mallangong as he did and she owed him so much. But to travel alone to London? She’d spent time daydreaming about such a trip, only not by herself, but with Pa.

  She hitched up her skirts and ran back to the house, following the path she’d walked more times than she could remember with Pa, for no matter who had sired her Charles was her pa. Mam couldn’t leave, she couldn’t present his work either. She knew all about plants and herbs and healing, nothing about the mysteries of the mallangong.

  She threw open the door and slithered to a halt as the dark hit her after the brightness outside; and the quiet. So quiet. Had something happened to Pa? She couldn’t be too late surely. She tiptoed across the room. Pa lay on the bed, his face beaded with sweat and Mam holding his hand, her head resting on his chest, both of them asleep.

  Leaving them she crept into Pa’s workroom where the light flooded in through the wide-open shutter. Pa’s sketchbook lay where she’d left it, on his work table.

  She opened the heavy leather cover and flicked through the pages. Mostly Pa’s and a few of hers, interwoven detailed drawings and n
otes covering each of the pages in his fine, clear writing. Over a year’s worth of research and discoveries: everything he’d intended to present to the Royal Society. Proof that mallangongs laid eggs and suckled their young. Enough to earn him a fellowship. Finally, to achieve his life’s ambition and now this.

  Examining each page carefully she added a few extra labels and headings then thumbed through the pages until she reached the drawing of the spur. She added notes on the way the mallangong growled, curled and reared and the fact that it was safer to pick up by the tail. After she’d spoken to Pa and they’d decided what he wanted her to show Sir Joseph she’d add some finer details. The thought brought her up short and she smiled at her reflection in the glass dome. Perhaps she’d take the mallangong, too. Pa had only sent a pelt, never a full specimen to Sir Joseph, too annoyed he’d been pipped at the post. Not that it had done much good; everyone in England thought the mallangong was native trickery.

  Pa’s spluttering cough broke her concentration and she stepped from the room. Mam stood at the table pouring boiling water and the scent of lemon balm and aniseed filled the room. She lifted her tear-stained face, ‘I’m sorry Rose. I should have taken more care. Told you more gently. What must you think of me?’

  ‘I think you did your best Mam. I’ve had, thanks to Pa, the most perfect childhood anyone could wish for. Now it is my turn. I’ll tell Pa that I will go to England.’

  ‘You can’t, not alone. You’re only a child.’

  But she wasn’t, not now. She’d shed her childhood on the day Pa was spurred, like a red-bellied black snake leaving its skin. ‘I’m going. Pa trusts me with his work.’

  Mam clasped her in a hug and held her tight, tighter perhaps than she could ever remember. ‘I cannot come with you. I must stay with Charles. We’ll write to Julian, send him a letter on the next ship. You can take Charles’s passage on the Minerva and we will find someone for you to travel with. I shall speak with Mrs Macarthur and ask her advice. There will be some family returning home …’ her voice hitched on the word and she swallowed ‘… that you can travel with.’

  ‘Mam? Why haven’t you written to Julian before?’

  Mam screwed up her face and puckered her lips. ‘I made a promise to Richard that I wouldn’t. Julian was to be brought up a gentleman by Richard’s wife, free of the stain of the colonies. When he was old enough to understand Richard said he would tell him about me and ask him to write.’

  ‘And he didn’t?’

  Mam shook her head, the familiar look of sadness that she knew so well clouded her eyes and suddenly she understood. Even as a child she’d known Mam had lost something. ‘Oh Mam.’ She reached out and touched her cold, cold hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You write the letter.’ Rose picked up the nib and dipped it in the ink, then held it out.

  ‘No, I can’t break my promise. You write it; write it and explain about Charles. He was Richard’s closest friend, until he left to return to England. He needs Julian’s help. He might refuse me. If he’d wanted to contact me he could have done so.’

  Rose flattened the paper, her heart squeezed tight with remorse. Such sadness, such misery and to be able to do nothing about it. Well, she would. This trip to England would not only be for Pa, it would be for Mam too because she would speak with this brother of hers and tell him that he had it in his power to mend his mother’s broken heart. What son wouldn’t want to do that?

  Agnes Banks, New South Wales

  October 27th, 1819

  Dear Julian,

  I am writing to you on behalf of my father … her pen stalled and she scratched out the words ‘my father’. Not her father … Charles Winton, your father’s closest friend. I should say our father’s closest friend. I am your sister Rose. I was born after you journeyed to England.

  I am travelling to London to present Charles Winton’s work to Sir Joseph Banks and I would appreciate any assistance you can offer.

  My mother, your mother, sends her kindest regards and wishes to be remembered to you.

  How ridiculous. That wouldn’t work. She screwed the paper up and went to throw it in the fire.

  ‘Try again. We mustn’t fail Charles.’

  No, they mustn’t. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we wrote the letter as if it came from Pa.’

  ‘We can’t. That wouldn’t be honest.’

  Nothing in this whole debacle seemed anywhere near honesty, why start now? ‘I think it would be better. Pa can’t write the letter but we can read it to him and if he agrees, sign it on his behalf. It’s not as though we are doing anything behind his back. It’s what he wants.’

  She put aside the pen and picked up her favourite drawing pencil in her left hand; perhaps the familiarity would make the words flow as her drawings did. Ignoring Mam’s raised eyebrow she licked the stub.

  Agnes Banks, New South Wales

  October 27th, 1819

  Dear Julian,

  I trust this letter finds you well. I am writing to request, in the name of your dear, departed father and our long friendship, your indulgence and assistance.

  ‘Mam? How do we know where to send this letter?’

  ‘We send it to the Admiralty in London. They will know where to find Richard’s son. They will have records.’ Mam’s face crumpled and a tear oozed out of the corner of her reddened eyes.

  Mam knew how to find Julian and still she hadn’t broken her vow of silence. How could she have deserted him? What would make a woman do that? So much she didn’t know or understand. First the letter and then more questions.

  Rose licked the stub of the pencil again. Sir Joseph Banks, my patron, has requested that I present a paper to the Royal Society in London on my findings regarding the mallangong … No. She rubbed the word out with her thumb … Ornithorhynchus anatinus. Unfortunately due to ill health I am unable to attend and my daughter …

  She scrubbed at the word, the pain ricocheting through her. Would she ever come to believe Pa was not her father?

  … your sister, Rose, is travelling in my stead. I would ask you to assist her on her arrival in London and secure appropriate accommodation for her. She will deliver my paper to the Royal Society on the fourth day of June, 1820.

  Passage aboard the Minerva has been booked. The ship leaves these shores on December 9th. God willing and a fair wind will see her arrive in London in late May.

  I remain yours, most sincerely

  Charles Winton

  ‘What do you think, Mam?’

  ‘I think we should take it in and read it to Charles. It is his letter after all.’

  The enormity of the responsibility slipped slowly through her body, a strange mixture of elation and despair. This was to have been Pa’s greatest moment and it had been snatched from him. However the date was set and she hadn’t a moment to waste.

  Seven

  Wollombi, New South Wales 1908

  ‘Why ever would Mrs Rushworth question her mother’s dying wish? It would be a lovely memorial. Book donors are remembered forever.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ The lie tripped off Shaw’s tongue with an ease that surprised him. When his father had asked him to drive Mrs Rushworth down to Will-O-Wyck he’d jumped at the idea—anything for a few days out of the office—but the longer he spent in her company the more he’d come to realise that she was driven by one motive and one motive only. And that was money.

  Tamsin and the sketchbook had provided the perfect distraction. She’d occupied almost all of his time and his interest. He wasn’t sure whether it was the expression of amazement on her face when she’d looked at the sketchbook or the fact that he was in awe of her expertise but he enjoyed every moment he spent with her. Not only that, it had occurred to him that Tamsin’s knowledge would be invaluable when the time came to catalogue his grandfather’s library which had finally arrived from Oxford.

  She’d been so quiet when he’d taken her back to the Family Hotel after seeing the sketchbook. She’d thanked him politely
and disappeared to her room and when Mrs Adcock had suggested taking a picnic to watch the platypus he’d jumped at the opportunity to spend time with Tamsin.

  Once she’d settled into the seat beside him he gunned the car down the road.

  ‘Is it very far?’

  ‘No, about ten, fifteen minutes. We take the Paynes Crossing road out of the town then there’s a sheltered sandy spot just past the driveway to the house, according to Mrs Adcock.’

  They took the dirt track over a narrow bridge that was nothing more than a series of timbers secured with rusted bolts. At least some of the planks were secure; others jumped and rocked as they clattered over, seesawing as the car bounced across. The dirt track became visible the moment they crossed the brook and he veered to the right and came to a halt in front of a dilapidated gate.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Tamsin swung open the door and climbed out. ‘I think the whole thing has seen better days.’ She heaved the gate up on its hinges and pushed it back allowing him to drive through onto the scrubby track, then dusted her hands and slipped back into the car. ‘I don’t think anyone has opened that for a while.’

  ‘We’re on private property.’

  ‘Then how did you get permission?’

  ‘Not much a few ales won’t buy you.’ He eased the motor car to a halt. ‘I thought it would save carrying the picnic basket, too.’

  ‘Picnic?’ She shot him a look from under her dark lashes.

  ‘Mrs Adcock’s idea. Got to eat something. I’ll just get the basket out of the back. There’s a blanket behind the seat if you can grab that.’

  A narrow path, maybe just a wallaby track, meandered down to the edge of the brook. It couldn’t be called a creek—too picturesque with the overhanging trees and sandy banks and the locals all seemed to call it a brook. Platypus heaven. Heaven for anyone who needed a break.