by Téa Cooper
‘No wait, please. I can’t see it clearly.’ The colour rushed to her cheeks. Bad enough wearing spectacles but admitting to her short-sightedness was right out of character. She turned the daguerreotype over: George Goodman, George Street, Sydney. ‘That doesn’t make sense. Goodman opened his Sydney studio in 1845. It can’t be Jenifer. Look at her dates: 1772–1788. Her children perhaps? No, she died when she was sixteen. This woman is much older.’ She squinted at their features, obscured by the scratched tangle of light and dark.
‘The advantages of dealing with someone who knows their stuff.’
‘I was reading about the history of photography not long ago and …’
‘And you remembered?’
She lowered her head from his intense gaze in a vain attempt to hide the flush blooming on her cheeks. ‘Just a mind that retains silly bits of information.’ An obscure failing, an embarrassment more often than not. As a child she’d hated the ease with which she could remember dates as just one more thing that marked her as different from all the other girls at school.
‘Very handy. What’s next?’
Tamsin’s shoulders dropped and she blew a strand of hair from her face—perhaps she wasn’t the only one with a freakish interest in history. She squinted at the picture of the woman in a floppy hat—a bit like the cabbage palm hats they wore in the early days. The man was in shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an unbuttoned, homespun waistcoat over the top. Both of the young women had dark hair, pinned back from their faces. ‘I wonder if they were sisters.’ She passed the daguerreotype to Shaw who carried it to the door and let the sunlight fall on the glass.
‘Interesting. They look as though they are wearing identical dresses.’ He wrapped it back up in the tissue paper.
‘I don’t think it has been in the tin for long. It must have been in the light to deteriorate so much.’
‘Can’t win ’em all.’ He winked, the laughter lines crinkling around his eyes. ‘Anything else?’
‘Maybe it’s Mrs Quinleaven.’
Tamsin turned the last envelope over; it was slightly bigger and much thicker. Her fingers shook as she opened it. And then her heart dropped.
The lined paper looked as though it had come from a solicitor’s note pad, each page covered in a confusion of scribbles and arrows—some sort of list and worse it was all written in faded pencil. ‘It’s nothing. Just someone’s notes. And quite recent. Maybe it has to do with the daguerreotype.’
‘Is there a signature or any indication who wrote it?’
Tamsin squinted down at the faded writing. ‘I can’t make head or tail of it.’
‘Let me have a look.’ Shaw reached out and took the sheet of paper. His face creased in a frown and he tilted the paper under the light and then gave up. ‘I can’t either.’
Tamsin looked down at the paper in his hand. The spidery writing was all but illegible and much of it had been crossed out, the frustration oozing from the page. One large circle in the middle remained. The name Jenifer Trevan in block letters and long arrows that went nowhere.
Happy enough to go along with Tamsin’s biscuit tin hunt Shaw hadn’t realised how the time had flown. He wanted to get back to Sydney and see if they could find out anything more about the sketchbook. He was totally fascinated.
While Tamsin carefully wrapped and folded the bits and pieces and placed them back in the tin with a huge degree of reverence he slipped the sketchbook from the linen bag to take another look.
There were a number of private collectors in Sydney who might be able to date the book. To his eye the paper looked very much as though it was rag and not wood but it could easily be a forgery, especially if Tamsin was right about the fact that a scientific notebook containing watercolours was unusual. Perhaps there was someone who could date those, or better still recognise the style.
‘Shaw?’
Startled from his reverie he looked up at Tamsin, standing in the doorway with the sun behind her, dressed today in a severe skirt and blouse with her hair caught in softly at the nape of her neck. She could have been the woman in the daguerreotype. For goodness sake his imagination was running away with him. ‘I’ll be heading back to Sydney tomorrow.’ A wave of regret wafted through him. He’d enjoyed the last few days in her company; in a strange way didn’t want them to be over.
‘I will be, too. I can’t wait to get Mrs Williams’s opinion on the sketchbook. She has an amazing grasp on early Australian history.’
‘I have to go back to Will-O-Wyck this afternoon to see Mrs Rushworth.’ Not strictly true—the local solicitor was expected for the reading of Mrs Quinleaven’s will and Mrs Rushworth wanted him to attend but it wasn’t his place to discuss that with Tamsin. And he had to find out how and when Mrs Rushworth intended to go back to Sydney. He harboured some sort of foolish idea about offering Tamsin a lift back but he was duty bound to make sure Mrs Rushworth had made plans. ‘Why don’t we have dinner here tonight?’ It was a shame there wasn’t room in the car for two passengers and Mrs Rushworth’s luggage. Tamsin’s presence might ease the tedium of Mrs Rushworth’s incessant prattle.
Tamsin chewed on her lip as if weighing up the alternatives. ‘I want to have a walk around the town. Get the feel for the place just in case there is a connection between Winton and Wollombi. I’ll be taking the train tomorrow.’
‘Right. I’ll meet you in the dining room at, say, six-thirty for dinner and we’ll both leave first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘And you’ll bring the sketchbook to the Library?’
‘I’ll be on the doorstep bright and early the day after tomorrow.’ He wouldn’t be missing that opportunity. ‘And by the way here’s the copy of The Penny Magazine with the article about Ornithorhynchus paradoxus. What a mouthful.’
‘That’s why I prefer platypus.’ She bestowed a radiant smile on him, took the magazine and left.
He stood in the door of the workshop watching the sway of her hips when she lifted her hand in some kind of a wave without turning back.
With a sigh, he tucked the sketchbook under his arm just in case Mrs Rushworth decided to change her mind, and headed back to the car.
He didn’t pass another soul on the road and pulled into the driveway only a few minutes later. If luck was on his side Mrs Rushworth would have taken matters into her own hands and made her own arrangements to return to Sydney.
When he parked outside the house the front door was wide open and Mrs Rushworth was pacing the verandah as though in training for an Olympic marathon.
‘And about time, too. I expected you back here earlier. Your father led me to believe that you would deal with the solicitors. For what other reason did you accompany me? A little holiday? The opportunity to chase a bit of skirt?’
He closed his eyes and counted to ten before he answered. He’d picked her as demanding and somewhat short tempered but that was totally inappropriate. Tamsin’s interest lay in the sketchbook. What business was it of Mrs Rushworth’s what he was doing as long as he fulfilled his obligations? He’d returned at the appointed hour. He bit back a retort and strolled down the verandah and dropped into a chair without an invitation. ‘What time are you expecting the solicitor?’
‘Was might be more appropriate. Mr Lovedale of Kelly, Baker and Lovedale has already called.’ She huffed and rolled her eyes.
‘And?’ For goodness sake the woman drove him mad. Now he wished he’d arrived earlier, not missed Lovedale’s visit and not spent the time playing with Tamsin’s tin.
‘It would appear I have been led up the garden path. The property did not belong to my mother.’
‘The house?’
‘Not even that. It’s totally outrageous after all she did for that Kelly man. According to Lovedale when Kelly died he bequeathed her a life interest. It gave her the right to live in the house until she died, and she received an annual income of 200 pounds a year.’
Nothing wrong with that. He wouldn’t mind 200 pounds a year. He could do a lot wi
th that and stop having to dance to his father’s tune. Make a start on cataloguing Grandfather’s library; give away his father’s dream and pursue his own.
‘On her death the bequest ends and the house, contents and income from his not inconsiderable investments pass to his next of kin.’
‘Fair enough.’ Except of course it wouldn’t appear fair to Mrs Rushworth. She’d had her heart set on selling the place to finance her husband’s adventures in suburbia. ‘Who’s his next of kin?’
‘His daughter apparently. They haven’t had much luck tracking her down and are placing advertisements in The Maitland Mercury and Sydney papers.’
‘I’m afraid there’s not much we can do then.’ He stood up and brushed his hands down his trousers.
‘I want the sketchbook sold, immediately.’
‘Until the estate is sorted out you’re not in a position to do that.’
‘I am entitled to my mother’s personal possessions. I specifically checked with Lovedale.’
‘I really suggest you wait. These things take time.’
‘Time is something I don’t have.’
‘I fail to see why. Even if the sketchbook did belong to your mother and is yours to sell, if you want a decent price, you will have to show a degree of patience.’ If his guess was correct the sketchbook might fetch a very tidy sum on the open market.
‘Sit down Shaw and let me explain. The book must be valuable. Why else would they have sent that girl out here? I need to raise some money to tide us over. Selling the book would solve our immediate problems.’
‘And after that?’
She pursed her lips. ‘For an up-and-coming solicitor you can sometimes be a little slow on the uptake. I intend to challenge Kelly’s will. My mother must have some rights. She lived in the house for over twenty years; that would have to give her some claim. When you return to Sydney discuss the matter with your father. She as good as prostituted herself for that man and what does she get? Nothing. Simply nothing.’
It sounded as though Mr Kelly had seen to it that Mrs Quinleaven was more than adequately provided for; he simply hadn’t seen fit to continue his largesse in perpetuity.
‘I shan’t be returning to Sydney immediately. I shall stay here and make sure there’s nothing I’ve overlooked. There is no official record of the sketchbook; there can’t be, Lovedale didn’t mention it. We must act immediately. Contact me when you have a buyer.’
‘You want me to sell the sketchbook?’ It was as though she’d handed him a golden key—the opportunity to make his name in the closed and hallowed world of antiquarian book collectors.
Nine
London, England 1820
‘Bad night at the gaming tables?’
Julian’s face resembled the winter sky over Bodmin Moor and he looked as though someone had dragged him feet first through the marshes. He snorted, raked his hands through his overlong hair and lifted a set of bloodshot eyes. Definitely a long night and judging by his missing cravat and stained shirt he hadn’t looked in a mirror—an unusual occurrence. An empty decanter stood at his elbow and a cut-glass tumbler emitted the stringent remains of brandy.
‘As odd as it may sound, no. I’ve only just arrived back from Wyck Hall. Been home all evening.’
That made a pleasant change. Perhaps his refusal to bail Julian out of his last round of gambling debts had finally hit the mark. ‘Last evening old chap. It’s morning.’ Finneas gestured at the lightening sky.
His brother rubbed at his face and gazed vacantly out of the window. ‘So it is.’
Quite out of character. At nine o’clock on a winter’s morning Julian would usually be found abed, sleeping off the previous night’s revelries. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘In a nutshell, no.’ Julian held out a folded piece of paper.
The thick sheet was folded twice and appeared to be slightly water-stained. It as good as sprang open in his hand. So Julian’s sins had caught up with him. No doubt a letter from some irate father demanding his darling daughter’s reputation be restored. There had to be a string of disappointed girls across London and the Home Counties. No one could accuse Julian of being parsimonious with his favours. ‘Got yourself in a spot of bother have you?’
‘Not me this time. Seems I am to pay for my father’s sins. I’d rather hoped he’d taken them to his watery grave.’
Hardly any way to speak of a member of the Royal Navy who’d given their all at the Battle of Trafalgar but then Julian had a reputation for talking as his gut guided him and trampling roughshod over any and all niceties. Finneas plucked the paper from his hand and gazed down at the sprawling signature. Barely a signature, more a feminine flourish at the end of the letter. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘Someone by the name of Charles Winton.’
Not feminine then.
‘It would appear I have a sister.’ Julian lifted his shoulders, spread his hands wide, then let them fall with a disgruntled slap onto the table.
‘And you don’t remember her?’
‘Never met her. Just read it. Read it.’
I am writing to request, in the name of your dear, departed father and our long friendship, your indulgence and assistance.
‘Not out loud, man. I’ve committed it to memory. The contents are etched on my very soul, believe me.’
The likelihood of Julian having a soul was a matter he would one day like to debate. Not today, however.
‘For once in my life I’m asking your advice.’
Finneas’s eyes raced down the page. Sir Joseph Banks. The Royal Society. Ornithorhynchus anatinus. None of it made any sense. He folded the paper and placed it down on the table. ‘Man, that’s phenomenal news. What I wouldn’t give for a sister.’
Julian blew out his cheeks and reached for the empty tumbler, brought it to his lips, wrinkled his nose and tossed the glass aside. ‘Some convict spawn.’
Convict spawn or not, Finneas would give an arm and a leg to have someone who shared his blood. To remember his mother or father would be an added bonus.
‘My father’s indiscretion coming to roost firmly on my doorstep. We are siblings only in blood. We have never met.’
‘Wait a moment, I don’t understand. Your birth mother or Richard Barrington’s wife …’
‘I’ve spent twenty years trying to put this behind me. And now it has come back to haunt me.’
‘I think you’d better explain.’
‘My father, the esteemed naval surgeon Richard Barrington, took his convict housekeeper to his bed and I was the result. When I was five we returned to England. He intended I should be brought up as his heir. His wife, quite understandably in my book, refused, and so Caroline took me in. Least she could do for her brother.’
‘His housekeeper was a convict?’
‘Happens all the time. Morals of alley cats.’
The pot calling the kettle black without a doubt. ‘What was she transported for?’
‘Life. Sentenced to death for theft apparently and then reprieved at the last moment.’
‘She must have stolen something worth having if she was sentenced to death.’ Finneas clapped Julian on the shoulder. ‘Chin up. It’ll do Caroline good. We must take her down to Wyck Hall.’
Julian picked up the letter and tore it in half tossing the pieces over his shoulder. ‘Written in pencil. Can’t even manage to run to pen and ink.’
Finneas grabbed the pieces as they hit the floor. ‘Stop.’
‘I want nothing to do with the entire debacle. Can you imagine my reputation if I am seen in London with some convict trollop?’
Not something that had bothered Julian before, though the convict element was original. Finneas pieced together the two parts of the letter and sat down in the chair in front of the fire and scanned the words. All in all it sounded quite interesting — what was this Ornithorhynchus anatinus. Beak-nosed? Duck-like? It sparked some strange memory, a bit of a fuss because someone argued about its authenticity. Never mind Julian’s
attitude. How could Rose deliver a paper to the Royal Society? ‘Women aren’t permitted in the hallowed halls of Somerset House.’ He turned to find Julian slumped at the table, head resting in his arms. Snoring.
This wouldn’t do at all. Perhaps finish the letter then ask the questions. He read the rest in a matter of moments—more about travelling arrangements. Good God, when was the letter written? October 27th, 1819. Six months ago. It had taken an age to get here and she was arriving when? On the Minerva due to dock in London late May … It was late May already. The matter must be dealt with forthwith. The poor girl couldn’t arrive in London expecting her brother’s assistance and find him slumped over a brandy bottle spewing vitriol about his dubious heritage.
Finneas walked across to the door and yanked on the bell pull. Hughes toppled in through the door, obviously waiting right outside, his curiosity aroused. ‘Bring coffee. Lots of it and something to eat. Breakfast. Eggs, ham, kidneys. Something hearty. Mr Julian is in need of sustenance.’ And so was he. A thrill of excitement coursed through him. He might not have any living relatives but he and Julian were as good as brothers. What would that make Rose? Lovely name. His stepsister?
He’d regarded Julian as his older brother ever since the Methenwycks had taken him in. Julian was the heir and, in all honesty, he knew he’d never be more than the spare. It didn’t matter one iota. Caroline had pulled him flea-ridden and starving from the Poor House and he’d be thankful forever more. Without her backing he’d never have had the opportunity to attend the Hunterian School of Medicine or gain his diploma in medicine at the Royal College of Surgeons. Caroline had championed his cause and installed him in the house at Grosvenor Square. Though he’d sometimes wondered if it hadn’t been to keep an eye on Julian whose preference lay in the gaming clubs, Brooks’s specifically, and some other ‘Gentlemen’s Clubs’ as he dubiously referred to them. And now this.
With a discreet knock on the door Hughes appeared with a tray.
‘Put it over … just one moment.’ He shook Julian’s shoulder. ‘Come on, man, sit up. Something to eat. It’ll do you good.’
