The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  He nodded. ‘It’s in my room, all safe and sound.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m sure Mrs Quinleaven would be thrilled. Everything has worked out perfectly.’

  ‘It has.’ Shaw leant back in his chair fiddling with his knife, making patterns on the tablecloth. ‘Where did you walk to?’

  ‘Just down to the cemetery to see Mrs Quinleaven’s grave. Did you know there was a flood in 1893 and they moved the church?’

  ‘Here you are.’ Mrs Adcock plonked down two chicken pies, steam rising from the top, and a beautiful bowl of vegetables. ‘Bloody awful that flood was. Can remember it as clear as day.’

  ‘Where was the church originally?’

  ‘On the Paynes Crossing road, just before Cuneen’s Bridge. You would have driven over it in that machine of yours.’ Mrs Adcock threw Shaw a wink.

  ‘The water must really flow when it floods.’

  ‘Sure enough it does. Wollombi—meeting place of the waters the locals call it. You’d be sitting up to your neck in it right now in a bad flood. How was the cemetery?’

  ‘Fascinating, and I ended up at St Michael’s. I can’t imagine moving a church stone by stone.’

  ‘And who told you about that.’

  ‘There was an old woman putting flowers on Mrs Quinleaven’s grave.’

  Shaw’s head lifted and he raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Ah, that’d be Gayadin.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what she said her name was.’

  ‘Been around here for donkey’s years. Must be eighty if she’s a day. Lives down by the brook, where the old church used to be. Sees it as her job to tend the graves. Her mother did it before her apparently. Lives in a bit of a half-world she does. Not one of the natives and not one of us. Still she gets along all right. Enjoy your meal.’ Mrs Adcock bumbled off.

  ‘Good cooks always are great gossips. Should have thought to ask for a bit more of the local colour.’ Shaw popped a forkful of the steaming chicken pie into his mouth. ‘Excellent!’

  ‘I like it here. There’s something about the town. Homely.’

  ‘You sound wistful.’

  ‘No, not really. Just so many hidden stories waiting to be told and to be honest Mrs Rushworth annoyed me. I’m so glad you managed to sort everything out.’

  Shaw cleared his throat and delved back into his meal.

  She probably shouldn’t have said that. After all Shaw had a job to do and he’d helped her no end. He’d convinced Mrs Rushworth to allow the sketchbook to go to Sydney and once they established the authenticity she was certain Mrs Rushworth would honour her mother’s donation.

  They set off early the next morning for Sydney, Tamsin’s bag strapped to the back of the car and the sketchbook and her tin resting at her feet. The climb out of the Wollombi Valley exercised pretty much every one of the driving skills the bloke had taught him; he changed gear more times in the space of an hour than he’d done on the trip down. Still, it was too late to backtrack and take the route through Cessnock to the coast.

  Finally, they hit a stretch of clear road and he put his foot down and managed to get the car up to thirty-five miles an hour. Tamsin let out a little cry of pleasure and clamped her straw hat down on her head.

  ‘Not too fast?’

  ‘No, I love it. You are so lucky to have a motor car.’ The wind whipped her words away saving him having to respond. The car, his pride and joy, was something he might well have to forgo once he told his father he intended to leave the business. A few days out of Sydney only served to reinforce how happy he’d be never to return. If he owned a house like Mrs Quinleaven’s place he wouldn’t be selling it—the library would make a perfect home for the bequest from his grandfather.

  By lunchtime they’d reached St Albans and he pulled into the forecourt of the Settler’s Arms. ‘I thought we’d grab a bite of lunch and that you might like to have a look around. It used to be the stop-off point for Cobb & Co stagecoaches running between Sydney and Newcastle.’

  Tamsin’s eyes lit up and she climbed out of the car and headed around the corner, her fingers trailing along the hand-cut sandstone blocks. When he returned about fifteen minutes later with a pile of ham sandwiches and a jug of lemonade she was sitting at a table under an enormous white cedar tree looking as pretty as a picture. The usual group of admirers stood around the car nodding sagely to each other and pointing out its various attributes.

  Keeping half an eye on them he put the plate down. ‘Lunch. Simple but looks pretty tasty. The bloke inside wanted to know if we were here for the dance tonight.’

  ‘Dance?’

  ‘Apparently, this is the place to be and people come from as far afield as Wollombi and Windsor. They start at eight o’clock in the evening and go until midnight when there’s a supper break, then it all begins again and keeps going until morning.’

  ‘I think I might give it a miss.’ She threw him a radiant smile above the huge doorstep sandwich, took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure the Library will be too happy if I stay away from work any longer.’

  ‘The sketchbook will keep you out of trouble. They’ll enjoy looking at it.’ He couldn’t wait to hear what they had to say about it. And to get a decent look at the pictures under a magnifying glass.

  ‘Where to after this? The train line ran up the coast so this is a real adventure.’

  ‘We head for Wiseman’s. There’s a new vehicular ferry that’ll take us across the Hawkesbury then into Windsor and on to Sydney.’

  ‘Goodness it sounds like a long trip.’

  ‘We’ll make better time once we cross the river. The condition of the roads on the other side of the river is far superior. You might want to dispense with your hat; just use a scarf because I should be able to get the speed up to about forty miles an hour.’

  ‘So back to Sydney before dark.’

  ‘Not long afterwards.’

  As they reached Milsons Point he slowed the car. ‘Where would you like me to drop you?’ She’d said the North Shore but nothing else; the area was a bustling metropolis now, professional and commercial businesses mixed in with skilled tradesmen and labourers. That’s what he liked about it; that and the fact he’d been able to afford one of the smaller cottages, something he wouldn’t have been able to do on the south side.

  ‘Twelve Lavender Street.’

  ‘Perfect. Not out of my way at all. In fact, we’re almost neighbours.’

  Tamsin’s head came up with a jerk. ‘That’s a coincidence.’

  ‘I’ve just acquired a little house in Blues Point Road, number 121, more of a workman’s cottage than anything else. Lavender Street’s handy for the ferry. Is that how you get to work?’

  ‘Yes. I love it. It’s a little irregular. Can’t always guarantee what time I’ll arrive but the Library has got used to that and I rarely leave on time so they don’t complain about my hours.’

  ‘One day we’ll have a bridge spanning the cove and then the ferries will be out of business.’

  ‘I can’t see that happening. Francis Greenway proposed building a bridge from the northern to the southern shore of the harbour at the beginning of the nineteenth century and nothing has ever come of it. There was a new flurry of interest not long ago but the design submissions were considered unsuitable.’

  He slowed down and pulled up in front of a very solid terrace that made his recent acquisition look like a kennel. ‘Your family home?’

  ‘No. The family home in Miller Street was simply too large so I sold it. I rattle around in this one as it is.’

  He killed the engine with a strange reluctance. The wistful note was back in her voice. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He’d enjoyed her company and it sounded as though there was quite a story in the sale of the house. She hadn’t said we, she’d said I. Most unusual. ‘Let me unstrap your bag and I’ll bring it and the copies of The Dawn in. You’ve got your tin haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She walked up the path and slipped the ke
y into the lock. He couldn’t help but wonder whether she lived alone. Highly unlikely yet she seemed so independent. There’d be some housekeeper or companion, maybe an aged aunt. Most women who could afford to live in a place like this wouldn’t be bothering with a job. It was surprising some bloke with his eye on the best chance hadn’t snatched her up.

  ‘Just put them down here. I can manage.’

  He tucked the bag and the pile of papers inside the door.

  ‘If you can bring the sketchbook to the Library tomorrow I’ll arrange for the use of the large magnifying glasses and we can take a closer look at the signatures. That’s the first thing we need to do and I can cross-reference the handwriting with the letters. It will go some way towards establishing the authenticity and there are other books from that era so we can compare the binding, paper and ink.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Make it ten. As I said the ferries can be a bit erratic and I’ll need time to fill Mrs Williams in on all the details. She’ll be beside herself with curiosity. Goodbye Shaw and thank you for the ride.’ She held out her gloved hand and he took it in both of his. A bit presumptuous but he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Thank you for your company. I’ve very much enjoyed the last few days.’

  A flush of colour tinted her cheeks. ‘And so have I.’ She extracted her hand and closed the door behind her leaving him standing on the step.

  It took less than five minutes to pull the car into the shed next door to his little cottage. Tucking the sketchbook under his arm he let himself in and eased into the narrow hallway, edging past the piles of boxes stacked against the wall. It would take him months to unpack them all, had taken him months already but he wasn’t giving up.

  He put the bag containing the sketchbook down on the kitchen table, filled the kettle and stuck it on the hob. He wanted another look before he took it to the Library tomorrow.

  A coil of excitement twisted in his belly. Apart from the sketchbook Tamsin would be such a wonderful contact once he began cataloguing Grandfather’s books. Not only was she a mine of information, she had all the tools at her fingertips. He hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed if Mrs Rushworth decided to sell the sketchbook, hoped she wouldn’t see him as the villain in the piece.

  With the gloves on he turned the pages hunting the mixture of the neat copperplate and irregular slanted scrawl for signatures and dates, but the thought of how disappointed Tamsin would be if she knew Mrs Rushworth’s plan had taken the edge off his pleasure. He was going to have to tell her, and soon but there was little point until they knew for certain it was authentic.

  He tucked the sketchbook back into its bag and wandered into the front room. He’d started to unpack some of the boxes and books lined the walls, three and four deep.

  From the very first moment he’d walked into Grandfather’s library as a raw thirteen-year-old and inhaled the scent of candle wax and polished wood, ink and old paper, dusty books and binding leather he’d known where his future lay.

  He’d spent every school holiday visiting old book shops, helping to restore and catalogue Grandfather’s latest finds and dreaming of setting up his own business in Oxford until Father had summoned him back to Australia saying he needed him in the family business. He hated it. Planned one day to return.

  It still made his blood boil to think that Father had kept Grandfather’s death from him and then he’d received his inheritance. Piles of antiquarian tomes jammed into crates and shipped across the globe arrived just in time and saved his sanity. Not much money, but enough to buy his tiny cottage and his car, allowing him to move out of the family home and make the first steps towards the dream he’d cherished for so long.

  When he’d been collared by his father and sent to deal with Mrs Rushworth he hadn’t imagined it would lead to such an opportunity. Selling the sketchbook would be his first step towards establishing a name for himself in the world of antiquarian books.

  The picture of Tamsin with her air of innocence and determination, her enthusiasm for Winton, his work and its national significance flashed before his eyes. He could understand her commitment; they shared the same ideals but could he let this opportunity slip through his fingers? She would see it as a betrayal unless …

  The whistling of the kettle broke his reverie and he rushed back into the kitchen and turned off the heat then sat down running his hands over the linen bag.

  If he could sell the sketchbook to the Mitchell honour would be satisfied. The book would be in the public domain, the Rushworths would have sufficient to stave off the creditors and he would broker the deal. Everyone would benefit.

  One way or another he had to get to the bottom of the story behind the sketchbook. There was no point in entertaining the thought of a sale until the provenance and authenticity was established.

  Twelve

  Sydney, Australia 1908

  Tamsin walked from the Quay through the Botanic Gardens to the Library, her feet barely touching the ground. Just as she’d predicted, the ferries had run late and she only had a few minutes before Shaw was due to arrive. She wanted to fill Mrs Williams in on the details of her trip, and the odious Mrs Rushworth, before he got there. It was impossible to believe that the wretched woman wouldn’t honour her mother’s dying wish.

  The moment Tamsin pushed open the big brass doors Mrs Williams rushed across the foyer, her face alight with curiosity. ‘I was expecting you earlier. Have you got it?’ She took one look at Tamsin’s satchel hanging on her shoulder and her face fell. ‘It’s smaller than I anticipated.’

  ‘It’s not in here.’

  ‘Where is it? Don’t tell me …’

  ‘I’ve got it, however it’s a long story.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘And I’ve only got ten minutes to fill you in. Can we go to the tearoom?’

  ‘Yes, come with me.’ Mrs Williams took off at a gallop and the minute the door was closed she stuck her hands on her hips and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘This has to be fast so please excuse me if I sound a little brutal. When I got there Mrs Quinleaven was dead.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened in horror. ‘And the sketchbook?’

  ‘Her daughter was at the house and she had a man with her, a solicitor named Shaw Everdene.’

  ‘Everdene? The name rings a bell.’

  ‘Everdene, Roach and Smythe.’

  ‘Of course, of course. They have offices in George Street.’

  ‘That’s right. Shaw is Mr Everdene’s son, he works for him. He lives in Blues Point Road.’

  ‘Ah! Shaw.’ Mrs Williams’s beady eyes appraised her and Tamsin turned to the window to hide the flush on her cheeks.

  She still hadn’t got over the coincidence of it all. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder where he lived while they were in Wollombi. ‘Mrs Quinleaven’s daughter refused to hand over the sketchbook to me, however she entrusted it to Shaw. He’ll be here at ten.’

  ‘I see, hence the hurry. But tell me is it authentic?’

  ‘I believe it is although there are some discrepancies which need clarification.’ She wouldn’t go into the whole business. Wait until she’d had a better look. ‘There are notes, line drawings and some watercolours.’

  ‘And they’re signed and dated.’

  ‘Some, not all. The frontispiece has his signature and the date 1817. I want to compare the signatures with those on Winton’s letters, have a closer look at the paper, see if I can date it. I’m almost certain it is early nineteenth century.’

  ‘Very good. Very good. I’ve set up the big magnifying glasses.’

  A knock sounded on the door and Harry’s head appeared. ‘There’s a Mr Everdene here, Mrs Williams.’ His eyebrows wiggled suggestively. ‘He’s looking for Tamsin.’

  ‘Thank you Harry, that will be all.’

  The door shut with a disappointed click.

  ‘Your Mr Everdene has obviously aroused some interest. Take him downstairs. I’ve got a few things to do—
I’ll come down later and you can introduce me and of course I’d like to have a look at the book.’

  Tamsin slipped through the door back into the foyer. She couldn’t wait to get downstairs.

  Shaw’s face broke into his trademark grin, which did nothing to slow her already galloping heart rate. He had the linen bag tucked under his arm and she had to fist her hands tight to prevent herself from snatching it from him. ‘I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, I’m a little early. I couldn’t wait …’ he bit off the remainder of his sentence and smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling.

  She had the distinct impression he was going to say he couldn’t wait to see her but it might just be her own foolish wishful thinking. She’d spent half the night tossing and turning, replaying parts of their conversation and the strange sense of companionship she felt. ‘Follow me.’ Shaking her thoughts away she led him through the foyer and into the basement of the building. ‘It’s a bit of a labyrinth I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s fascinating.’ Shaw’s head flicked from side to side as they eased past old display cases, boxes and crates. ‘This is far more interesting than some of the exhibits upstairs.’ He gave a sigh of wonder and stopped to look inside a glass-fronted cabinet housing some old maps. ‘There must be untold treasures here. What a wonderful place to work.’

  It was. Today, right now at this moment with Shaw standing next to her, although like any other job it had its downside. The drudgery of the day-to-day routine and cataloguing and the interminable grind of preparation for the Mitchell wing sometimes got her down but right now excitement bubbled and swirled inside her. ‘I can’t tell you how thrilled I am about this sketchbook. I feel as though we’re unravelling some kind of a mystery.’

  Shaw chuckled. ‘You sounds as though you’ve taken up with Sherlock Holmes. Lead the way. It’s having the same effect on me.’

  She pushed open the door and stood back to let him walk into the cubbyhole of an office. There were no windows and once inside every thought and action was accompanied by the hum of the erratic incandescent lights. ‘The brass glass on the stand, the one with the variety of lenses, has the best magnification.’