The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  A rather pretty blush stained her cheeks. ‘A few of them are my own.’

  Not only did she have an excellent command of the facts she also appeared to have a certain skill in representing them on paper.

  ‘For goodness sake,’ Julian turned to him with a snide leer. ‘Will you put the poor child out of her misery or will I?’ He rocked back on his heels and folded his arms. The supercilious look on Julian’s face made him want to knock the bastard to the other side of the room.

  It was something he had hoped to introduce more gently into the conversation, not hit her with the horrible truth within only moments of her arrival. ‘A woman will never tread the hallowed floors of Somerset House.’

  ‘More succinctly they will not permit you to present these, these …’ Julian circled his hand ‘doodles,’ he finished in a derogatory tone.

  Her face crumpled then she lifted her shoulders. ‘Sir Joseph Banks himself made the appointed time.’

  ‘A private appointment?’

  ‘No. A firm date to present this body of work to the Royal Society.’ She placed the animal on the floor beside the chair where it sat looking somewhat healthier than Julian himself, eyeing the proceedings. ‘May I have Pa’s sketchbook, please.’

  Finneas handed it to her and she sat down again and turned to the back and produced a well-thumbed piece of paper, which she unfolded with care, and spread on one of the open pages. She cleared her throat. ‘“Sir Joseph Banks requests the attendance of Charles Winton at the meeting of the Royal Society at Somerset House on the fourth day of June, 1820 to discuss Ornithorhynchus anatinus and further information gleaned from the direct observation of these ambiguous animals.”’

  She closed the book with a snap, folded her pretty little hands in her lap and looked up at Julian with an expression that said nothing more and nothing less than I told you so.

  Finneas muffled a laugh. No one could accuse Rose of lacking courage, or anything else for that matter. She was delightful. He plunged his hands into his pockets in an attempt to control his overwhelming desire to applaud her.

  Julian sniffed. ‘An invitation issued to Winton not you.’

  ‘But I am here as my father’s representative.’ She drilled the point as if to ensure she could distance herself from any familial association with Julian, something he’d often wished he could do.

  ‘I rest my case though none of this is significant. The invitation was not issued to you because as a woman you cannot address the Royal Society. Mouths would gape. It simply isn’t done.’

  The poor girl. She had travelled thousands of miles, weathered God only knew what conditions to arrive here only to be told she couldn’t achieve her aim because of the hidebound nature of the arrogant men who held science as their personal domain. It was ridiculous and she certainly wouldn’t make a fool of herself. She was articulate and he’d hazard a guess, possessed with a greater scientific grasp on the matter than anyone else other than Winton. ‘Julian, I feel sure we could arrange something, perhaps a special dispensation, under the circumstances.’

  ‘They will not allow a woman into the meeting room.’ Julian turned to the window, his arms folded, ending the conversation. ‘I have already made enquiries.’

  If Julian had bothered to enquire there was no doubt he would have received that response and no doubt he’d been blunt and ill-mannered into the bargain. ‘Leave it with me and I shall see what I can arrange.’ There had to be a way to get Winton’s work in front of the Royal Society.

  ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  Finneas’s mind started to race, taking his heartbeat with it. ‘I believe there is an alternative. Unless I am very much mistaken there is a precedent.’

  With a dismissive shrug Julian concentrated on the heavy rain trickling down the window.

  ‘William Herschel, the astronomer, presented a paper on the comets which his sister, Caroline, had written, some years ago.’

  With a bound Rose was on her feet, her mouth a perfect O and her eyes bright once more. She took a step towards him, her hands outstretched and for a moment he swore she thought to hug him tight; instead she clasped both hands firmly in front of her.

  ‘And of what relevance is that?’ Julian continued to consider the windowpane, his thick black brows drawn into a deep arrow above his large nose.

  As usual Julian was a little slow. Not so Rose. ‘It occurs to me that perhaps you could offer the same assistance to your sister.’

  At that point Julian turned and fixed his steely and somewhat intimidating glare on Rose.

  She lifted her chin and the corners of her mouth tilted in the beginning of a smile. ‘Why it’s the perfect solution. Would you Julian, please? For our father’s sake.’

  ‘A father you denied not five minutes ago.’

  ‘For the friendship that once existed between your father and …’

  She was going to say mine. He knew it and that would be the end of it. Julian’s short temper was legendary.

  ‘Charles Winton.’

  Julian emitted some sort of harrumph and stuck his hands into his pockets.

  The man was a self-centred cad. He could at least make some effort. Finneas placed himself between Rose and Julian. ‘If you don’t feel you are capable, let me.’

  ‘And have the whole of London know that I refused my sister assistance?’

  A masterstroke. ‘In that case let me call at Somerset House and see what can be arranged.’ That way Julian wouldn’t be able to renege on the meeting or twist the truth.

  His efforts were rewarded with a brilliant smile, which turned Rose’s walnut eyes almost black. He and Miss Winton made quite a team.

  Eleven

  Wollombi, New South Wales 1908

  Tamsin walked across to the small desk in the corner of the parlour. ‘Mrs Adcock, are you busy?’

  ‘No more than usual. Be here for dinner will you? I’ve got a nice chicken pie in the oven.’

  ‘Yes please, and Mr Everdene will be joining me.’

  Mrs Adcock gave her a wink. ‘Nice young man that. Lucky he was here and he could drive you around in that motor car of his. It’s a long walk out to Mrs Quinleaven’s.’

  Tamsin swallowed a reply that said she was more than capable of walking and that she didn’t want or need a motor car because it wasn’t strictly true; she had enjoyed Shaw’s company. It had made her realise just how lonely her life was. Sometimes independence wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. ‘I was wondering if you could help me out.’

  The woman’s eyes lit up, no doubt smelling the possibility of a juicy bit of scuttlebutt to entertain her customers. ‘Do what I can. Are you in a spot of bother?’

  ‘It’s about Mrs Quinleaven.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a nice cup of tea and some of my fruitcake. You sit yourself down. I’ll be back in two ticks. Tea’s brewed.’

  Tamsin sat down at the table overlooking the brook. She had the feeling she was missing a part of the jigsaw puzzle but she had no idea what. She should make the most of Mrs Adcock’s local knowledge.

  ‘Here we are. Tea and fruitcake. Can’t beat it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She pulled the cup and saucer closer. ‘Before Mrs Quinleaven died she donated a book to the Public Library in Sydney and we’re trying to establish the provenance.’

  ‘The providence?’

  ‘Provenance. Where the book came from and its original author and subsequent owners.’

  ‘Oh! You think Mrs Quinleaven flogged it? Nah, she wouldn’t do a thing like that. Bit of a character, not light-fingered though.’

  ‘She was Mr Kelly’s housekeeper, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Amongst other things.’ She cleared her throat and shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘They had a bit of a thing going you know, after his wife went.’ Her cheeks pinked and she licked her lips. ‘Poor Mr Kelly. Heartbroken he was when his wife died. Spent his whole time blaming himself, did poor Mr Kelly. Mrs Quinleaven as good as brought him back from the grave
. Mind you he never left the property after that. Never went to that solicitor’s office of his. Just stayed at home. The funeral put paid to the rumours I can tell you. He’d bought two plots side by side, special like. One for ’im and one for Mrs Quinleaven. You don’t get buried alongside someone for all eternity if you don’t like ’em, do you? Often wondered what his poor wife would be thinking, if she knew.’

  Tamsin stared out of the window at the church opposite. St John’s. She didn’t remember seeing any gravestones, and buying a plot made it sound as though space was in high demand.

  ‘Are they buried over the road?’

  ‘Nah! No one’s buried there; a couple of plaques not much more. Cemetery’s been up the road since the 1840s—full of pioneers, free settlers and convicts. No difference once you end up in there unless you’re a Catholic, then you have to go on the left-hand side. Catholics and Anglicans got their own patch, one on either side.’ She laughed uproariously. ‘Reckon it’s so they don’t get muddled up on their way through the pearly gates. You know—Catholics to the left of me, Protties to the right.’

  ‘Where’s the cemetery?’

  Mrs Adcock threw out her right hand. ‘Up the road apiece, on the edge of town, opposite the school, before you get to the millpond. Can’t miss the millpond, where the old flourmill was. Burned down a few months back.’

  Which would make it difficult to use as a landmark. Tamsin bit back a smile.

  ‘Just a couple of hundred yards on your left, past the Catholic Church, St Michael’s.’

  Swallowing the last mouthful of fruitcake she washed it down with the remains of her tea. The sun hadn’t set and a walk would do her good, especially after being driven around like royalty.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll just get my hat.’ She lifted the tin from the table and wrapped her hands around it protectively. She’d leave it in her room.

  ‘What’ve you got there?’

  ‘Just an old tin. I collect them.’ The words rolled over her tongue with surprising ease. She turned the tin so the lid was showing. ‘Peek Frean biscuits.’

  ‘Them specially made things. Can’t see why anyone’d buy biscuits in a tin. I like ’em straight from the oven. That Mrs Quinleaven, she was a one for those tinned biscuits. Such a sweet tooth.’

  Tamsin schooled the twist in her lips. The tin almost certainly belonged to Mrs Quinleaven and contained some treasures she’d decided were important. Thank goodness the odious Mrs Rushworth hadn’t thrown it out with the rubbish. ‘What time for dinner?’

  ‘Six, six-thirty. The pie’ll keep till you’re ready.’

  She raced up the stairs and buried the tin in the bottom of her bag, grabbed her hat and took off down the stairs at a gallop. First stop the cemetery. She felt she owed it to Mrs Quinleaven to pay her respects. Then she’d wander around the rest of the town and work up an appetite.

  ‘Thank you for the lovely tea, Mrs Adcock. I’ll take a stroll down to the cemetery before the light goes and walk off the fruitcake—delicious as it was.’ She patted her stomach.

  ‘You could do with a bit of meat on your bones. Make sure you’re back before too long. Don’t hold with hanging around cemeteries once it gets dark. Never know who you might bump into.’ She let out a ghostly warble and stacked up the plates.

  With a laugh Tamsin wandered outside. The tiny church, St Michael’s, was on her right and she crossed the road to take a closer look. Built out of hand-carved sandstone blocks it looked as though it had stood solid and firm since the little town was first gazetted. It was a perfect match for the Court House on the other corner and the Telegraph Office next door.

  Bearing in mind Mrs Adcock’s advice about cemeteries after dark she continued up the road at a quick pace, past the General Store and another fine two-storey sandstone building and what looked like a storehouse or a hall. The flagstone pavers turned to crushed stones as she walked along the footpath.

  There were no streetlights as there were in Sydney and when the shadows began to lengthen she was pleased she’d left straightaway and hadn’t wasted time. As she rounded the bend the cemetery came into view. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d arrived, probably in too much of a hurry. A post and rail fence enclosed the rows of headstones and as Mrs Adcock said there were two signs—Catholics on the left and Anglicans on the right. Foolishly she’d forgotten to ask which side Mrs Quinleaven was buried.

  She slipped through the double gate and latched it firmly behind her, a flutter of anticipation dusting her skin as she wandered between the headstones. Most of the graves belonged to children. The mortality rate in the early days of the colony must have been agonising. The joy and anticipation of having a child and then the brutal truth as they were snatched away.

  She worked her way along the rows and when she reached the back fence she rested her elbows and looked out across the millpond, the setting sun sparkling on the calm water; no sign of the old flourmill though. She turned and leant back against the fence. She’d covered every row except the one closest to the town. As she ambled along soaking up the sense of tranquillity a woman appeared between the graves, head down and a bunch of wildflowers dangling loosely in one hand. Tamsin picked up her pace. ‘Hello.’

  The old woman lifted her head, looked around, then offered a tentative smile.

  ‘I was wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for Mrs Quinleaven. She was buried the day before yesterday.’

  She gestured with the flowers to a mound of dirt close to an older grave. ‘Buried alongside each other they are. As it should be.’ She bent a little, one hand resting in the small of her back and dropped the posy of wildflowers onto the freshly turned earth. ‘Knees ain’t what they were.’

  ‘Let me.’ Tamsin squatted down and straightened the posy until it lay neatly across the top of the dirt mound.

  ‘Won’t be able to do this much more.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then there’ll be no one left to keep ’em neat and tidy.’

  Tamsin certainly couldn’t imagine Mrs Rushworth making a visit to tend the grave of her mother. To the left of Mrs Quinleaven’s grave a plain headstone read: Michael Kelly 1822–1888.

  ‘Heartbroken he was, heartbroken.’ The old woman sniffed and tried for a smile.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The flood took her, poor Jane.’ A large tear rolled down her weathered cheek and she batted it away with her overlong sleeve. ‘Just swept her away.’

  Not Mrs Quinleaven. Who was she talking about? ‘How dreadful, a flood.’

  ‘Happens all the time. Mind you that wasn’t the big one. That was …’ her gaze shifted to some spot beyond the millpond ‘… March, nigh on fifteen years ago it was, fifteen years. That’s when they moved the church.’

  ‘Moved the church?’

  ‘Yep, picked it up stone by stone and carried it up the hill. She did her best, looked after him until he was ready to go. Be nice them all being together.’

  ‘All being together?’

  ‘His housekeeper she was.’ She flicked her thumb in the direction of Mrs Quinleaven’s grave. ‘When my Jane went she took care of him, chased his sorrows away.’

  Mrs Quinleaven sounded like a lovely woman despite her daughter’s disapproval and now Mrs Rushworth stood to inherit everything, including the sketchbook. Mr Kelly might not be too happy about that.

  ‘Time I was getting along.’

  Tamsin stretched out her hand and rested it on the woman’s arm. She felt a strange bond with her—perhaps the fact that she had known Mrs Quinleaven and cared enough to put flowers on her grave after Mrs Rushworth’s dismissive remarks. ‘Thank you. It was lovely to meet you. My name’s Tamsin, Tamsin Alleyn.’ She grasped the woman’s brown hand, the thin dry skin like tissue over the pronounced bones.

  ‘I’m Gayadin.’ She shuffled off down the path and out of the gate, then turned towards the millpond and disappeared into the mist.

  Tamsin shivered; someone walking over her grave no doubt. P
erhaps Mrs Adcock was right and cemeteries weren’t a good place to be once the light began to fade.

  She rearranged the posy on Mrs Quinleaven’s grave and ran her hand over Kelly’s headstone before making her way back to the village. When she reached St Michael’s she wandered up the path. Set in the wall she found two foundation stones: Sunday October 22nd, 1893 laid by the Rt Reverend James Murray, Bishop of Maitland and around the corner a much older one. She couldn’t make head or tail of the Latin but for the date, MDCCCXL, stopping for a moment to sit on the stone wall she worked it out. 1840. The church had weathered floods for fifty odd years and then it had all become too much, so they’d moved it. A labour of love, without a doubt.

  Making her way around to the front of the church she tried the handle on the pair of doors; one swung open and she slipped inside. Row after row of timber pews sat like teeth amidst the Gothic style of the church presided over by a beautiful stained-glass window behind the altar. The shaped sandstone surround enclosed an image of the church’s namesake, the warrior Archangel Michael and an ornate stencilled frieze ran around the nave walls and in the sanctuary.

  With a sigh, she closed the doors and made her way through the gathering twilight back to the hotel. The trip to the cemetery and the church had left her feeling oddly at peace.

  Shaw’s car was parked outside the hotel and the moment she entered the dining room he was on his feet helping her with her coat. ‘Come and sit down. I was wondering if you’d like a ride back to Sydney tomorrow, instead of taking the train.’ He held her chair while she settled at the table.

  ‘I’m not sure …’ Oh, for goodness sake, she’d love to ride back to Sydney in his motor car. She might never have the chance again. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘All settled then.’ He propped his elbows on the table and gazed at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Mrs Adcock said you’d gone for a walk.’

  It was almost as though he was laughing at her. Why? ‘Have you still got the sketchbook?’ The man would think she’d got no other topic of conversation. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t shake the feeling that it might never make it to the Library, obsessed with the thought Mrs Rushworth might change her mind.