The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Rose leave now!’ Julian’s voice cut through the furore.

  ‘I will not.’ Was there nothing she could say that would sway them? ‘My father was unable to attend this meeting. He was spurred.’ That got them. The murmurings and mumblings settled again. She held the creature high in the air indicating the spur on its back leg. ‘The venom causes intense pain and the affected limb swells to twice its size.’

  ‘A poisonous duck now.’

  ‘A mere trick of taxidermy. A fraud. A beaver and a duck combined. The Chinese are masters at it.’

  Surely there was someone in the room who was interested in what she had to say. For the first time since the beginning of the long voyage she was pleased Pa wasn’t here to witness such a debacle.

  She would not let them ridicule his work, her work. There was nothing she hadn’t witnessed with her own eyes. She stood tall. ‘Ornithorhynchus anatinus is an egg-laying mammal, and its offspring are born live. It is one of only two we are aware of—Tachyglossus aculeatus, the echidna, another indigenous animal akin to an anteater, being the other.

  ‘We have dissected an animal and proved this. I have a drawing here …’ She opened the sketchbook and held it aloft.

  ‘It is a hoax.’

  ‘Hoax. Hoax.’ The cry was taken up.

  She caught Julian’s eye and he shook his head. She would not give up. ‘Despite the deal of debate I assure you that this is no hoax. Ornithorhynchus anatinus does lay eggs and feed its young. Your misbelief is the hoax, not the animal itself.’

  ‘Some fool took a chance with a dissection knife and then passed the pieces onto a seamstress.’

  The thirty-strong crowd roared its approval.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you would resume your seats.’ The secretary’s heavy hand came down on her arm. ‘I must ask you to leave, Miss Winton.’

  Finneas strode down the aisle between the rows of outraged men surging towards Rose. She stood clutching the sketchbook to her as a kind of talisman in the maelstrom of madness that surrounded her. He’d let her down by suggesting the secretary should speak for her. He should have offered to do it himself; he should have protected her, should have insisted.

  Rose took two steps back and opened her mouth again.

  Finneas reached her side before she could utter a sound. ‘We have to leave now.’

  Rose huffed, holding on to the sketchbook as though her life depended on it. ‘They are nothing more than a bunch of lily-livered, addle-headed, self-opinionated jackasses.’

  ‘Come on.’ Swallowing the urge to applaud her assessment of the assembled crowd he tugged at her arm.

  She wriggled from his grasp. ‘Not without my mallangong.’

  ‘I’ll get that.’ Julian sprang to life with more enthusiasm and dedication than he’d displayed since Rose had arrived, and snatched the animal from the table, tucking it under his arm.

  ‘This way.’ Finneas grabbed Rose’s hand and towed her through the door into the anteroom where he opened another door leading to the street and they eased out, closing it behind them.

  Julian stood for a moment looking up and down. ‘This way around the corner and down towards the river.’

  With Rose’s warm hand firmly clasped in his, Finneas led her into the courtyard and through the gates. As they rounded the corner the door opened and the members poured out of the meeting room laughing and carrying on. The word ‘hoax’ floated in the night air and he tugged Rose in the opposite direction. She didn’t need to hear their insults again.

  An unruly mob of bystanders lurking beside the river took up the cry like hunting dogs picking up the scent.

  ‘Come on. Give me the sketchbook. We’ll have to run.’ Finneas snatched it from her and thrust it under his arm and took off. Casting a look over his shoulder he caught Rose’s enigmatic glance, and before he was aware she had sprinted into the lead, her skirt lifted high revealing her clodhopping boots.

  ‘We’re going to have to split up. They’re onto us.’ Julian voice came in broken gasps, the mallangong still tucked under his arm. ‘I’ll see you at Grosvenor Square.’

  Finneas grabbed Rose’s arm and dragged her into one of the narrow cobbled alleyways running behind the houses. ‘We’ll go the other way. Put them off, make it more difficult.’

  The drumming of feet gradually subsided and Finneas came to a halt, bending double, hands on his knees.

  Rose turned back to him. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘The Mews—the stables and carriages—they run behind most of the houses.’ He rested his back against the wall, his chest heaving. ‘You’re hardly even panting.’ Whereas he was bent double.

  ‘The advantage of never having owned a carriage. I’ve probably run more miles than you’ve had hot dinners.’

  He grasped her wrist. ‘Your pulse is barely elevated.’

  ‘Let’s go then. Can you manage?’

  Could he manage? ‘Slower this time I think. We’ll stick to the Mews.’

  They walked at a rapid rate past rows of stables, stopping only to cross the main street before entering another narrow cobbled alleyway.

  ‘Not much further. This is the back of forty-four. We’ll slip in through the basement.’

  He pushed open the door to the servant’s quarters and with a groan of relief collapsed into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. ‘Sit down and catch your breath.’

  ‘Are we home?’

  ‘Indeed we are.’

  ‘Where’s Julian?’ She pulled the door ajar and peered out, almost as though she was playing, and enjoying, some sort of game of hide and seek. ‘I hope he hasn’t dropped the mallangong.’

  As did he. No knowing what Julian would do to save his own skin, although he had plenty of experience avoiding debtors so perhaps it would stand him in good stead. ‘He knows his way around. Close the door. He’ll come in the front, I expect.’

  She closed the door and hoisted herself up onto tiptoes and turned on the tap taking a long drink from the stream of water cascading into the sink.

  Hughes’s burly figure appeared in the doorway and he cleared his throat loudly. Rose wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and turned to face him, not looking the slightest bit perturbed that the butler had seen her with her head stuck under the kitchen tap.

  ‘Ah! Mr Finneas. I wasn’t expecting to find you down here. May I get you something, Miss Rose?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. It wasn’t the first time Hughes had found him roaming the servants’ quarters late at night, but with a young lady in tow it was no doubt more than a challenge to his sense of propriety.

  ‘Hughes, can you bring us some brandy up to the blue sitting room, please. Mr Julian should be home very soon.’

  ‘I think you’ll find he’s a little ahead of you. He came through the front door not long ago and I have left the brandy with him. Miss Rose, can I get you a cup of chocolate?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’ She turned to the door and Hughes emitted a rather loud harrumph. ‘Perhaps I can get you some slippers, Miss.’

  Rose looked down at her boots and lifted her foot. The sole was coated in horseshit and clods of something he’d rather not dwell on. His boots were an equally disgusting mess. He toed them off and leant forward to unlace hers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She reared away from him.

  ‘We don’t want to walk up the stairs and muddy the carpets. Our boots are covered in horse manure.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll go outside and clean them.’

  ‘You will do no such thing. The crowd could be waiting. Just take them off and Hughes will fetch you some slippers.’

  She shook her head and folded her arms, determination and some sort of strange embarrassment flickering across her face. He couldn’t make her take off her boots and he certainly wasn’t going to let her go outside.

  Hughes’s eyes widened and he puffed out his chest. ‘Please don’t concern yourself, Miss Rose.’ He eyed her boots with a barely concealed distaste. ‘I’ll s
end one of the maids to clean up later.’

  ‘Isn’t there a boot scraper in the scullery?’ Rose let out a disgruntled huff, totally at odds with her usual sunny nature.

  ‘Indeed there is miss. Follow me.’

  She stomped through the door muttering an indecipherable string of words which sounded very much as though she’d learnt them aboard ship.

  A few moments later she reappeared, her boots somewhat cleaner. She raised her eyebrow at him then dusted her hands and disappeared through the door.

  Finneas could do no more than follow.

  In the blue sitting room Julian stood peering out of the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. ‘I thought I was outrunning a pack of hellhounds baying for my blood.’

  Strangely he almost seemed to be enjoying himself and he couldn’t take his eyes off Rose’s flushed face and bright eyes. A licentious leer crossed his face sending a spark of jealousy shooting through Finneas. For God’s sake, had the man no decorum? The girl was his sister.

  Fourteen

  London, England 1820

  The poor mallangong lay tossed on the floor, one of its back legs dangling from a thread and its fur dark and damp from the rain. Rose bent to pick it up and the fumes of the brandy Julian was slopping into a glass brought tears to her eyes. Not for the first time tonight did she regret Pa’s absence. He wouldn’t have run; he’d have stood and fought for his research. The truth. No hoax. She’d witnessed everything with her own eyes. How could they dispute the facts?

  ‘Sit down, Rose. Stop pacing. There’s nothing we can do tonight.’ Finneas led her to a chair and with his hands on her shoulders nudged her down and handed her his glass. The acrid fumes seared her throat.

  ‘Take a sip. You’re suffering from shock.’

  She wasn’t suffering from shock—she knew exactly what that looked like after watching Pa. She was suffering from a very plain and ordinary case of anger. Fury at her inability to stand and fight and rage at the stupid narrow-minded men who wouldn’t believe the evidence if it was shoved right under their noses.

  It was the first time she’d acted as an adult. The first time she’d taken matters into her own hands, done what Pa couldn’t do.

  And she’d failed.

  She sipped at the brandy. It made her lips burn and when she swallowed it caught making her splutter. Julian threw his long lanky body out of the chair and flounced off without a backward glance.

  She dumped the glass on the small table. ‘I’m not giving up. Pa trusted me with his life’s ambition and I have failed him.’ She let out a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s ridiculous, ridiculous.’ What right had the secretary to make such judgements? The case may have been somewhat overstated. He knew nothing of Pa’s work. Knew nothing of the hours of labour it had taken to present this evidence.

  She stroked the creature’s fur hoping her anger would dissipate. In the background she could hear a perpetual hum of voices, the clatter of carriage wheels and the constant growl of the city. For the first time since she’d arrived she longed for the wide-open spaces of home and the friendly smiles of Yukri, Bunji and Yindi, and most of all Pa.

  By the following morning Rose had made her decision.

  ‘I would really like to give it one more try. I know Sir Joseph is unwell but I wondered if he might grant me a private audience when he is recovered.’ She sipped the cup of hot chocolate, which had fast become her favourite beverage.

  ‘I took matters into my own hands and wrote asking the very same thing last night.’

  Finneas was so handsome standing there smiling down at her. The day began to brighten, the sun appearing through a break in the pewter sky giving the clouds a silver rim.

  The door swung open and Julian fell into the room, his face suffused with blood, looking like one of the bunyips Bunji described when he spun his far-fetched yarns. ‘This is the final straw.’ He threw a crumpled piece of paper down on the table. ‘The streets are as good as papered with the wretched things. The presses must have run all night.’

  Finneas picked it up and as his face fell so did her stomach. ‘What is it?’

  He stuffed the crumpled paper into his pocket. ‘Nothing you need worry yourself about.’

  ‘And everything I need worry about.’ Julian scowled at her. ‘I hold you entirely responsible for this debacle. I will be the laughing stock of Brooks’s.’

  Rose put down her chocolate and stared into her brother’s furious face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Finneas?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, show her.’

  Finneas pulled the paper from his pocket and smoothed out the wrinkles. ‘Perhaps it is for the best.’

  Rose jumped to her feet and stared down at the drawing. A very well-executed drawing but not in a style she was familiar with. It portrayed a man, long black legs flying as he ran down the street. Tucked under one arm was something that looked remarkably like a mermaid. Flowing black curly hair trailing to the ground and a face uncannily similar to her own above the fish-like tail that curved around his upper leg and dangling from the fingers of his right hand … Her heart almost ceased beating as she picked up the paper, carrying it to the window where the light was better. It was a mallangong. There was no doubt about it, just as there was no doubt who the man portrayed in the picture was. She cast a look under her lashes at Julian. The artist had captured him perfectly. Hooked nose, the arrogant tilt of his head as he peered over his shoulder at the band of men chasing him down the darkened street. Even his overlong hair, so like her own, curling on his collar. She ran her hand over her head and shuddered. ‘Who is responsible for this? Why have they drawn it?’

  ‘It’s a satirical print, a lampoon; a very popular way of making social comment.’

  She unrolled the remainder of the sheet and her eyes fell to the caption at the bottom: Nullius in Verba. It summed up the bunch of narrow-minded men of the Royal Society perfectly. No one believed Pa. She screwed up the paper and threw it into the grate. ‘Get rid of it!’

  ‘Would it were that easy. Not only will every member of Brooks’s have a copy, there are crowds gawking at the thing, spending their hard-earned pennies on a copy. They’ll be hammering on the door next seeking a brush with fame.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Finneas glared at Julian.

  Rose’s knees gave way and she collapsed into a chair. ‘I see. I’m so very sorry, Julian.’ Thank heavens Pa wasn’t here to see this. He’d be devastated. And then the full implication settled. What would Sir Joseph say? Would he refuse to see her? ‘Would you excuse me please. I need to take some air.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No please, Finneas. I’ll just take a walk across the square. Clear my head.’ She had to get out of the room, out of the house. The rage, or perhaps it was humiliation, rolling off Julian in an almost visible cloud frightened her. She needed to think.

  Without further ado she closed the door behind her and went upstairs to find her pelisse, hat and gloves—such a palaver just to get a whiff of air. What she wouldn’t give to be at home where even in the middle of winter the sun shone and she rarely needed anything more than a shawl to keep her warm. Far better than this horrible damp that never seemed to lift.

  Suitably attired, so even Mrs Metcalf wouldn’t be able to complain, she let herself quietly out of the house. She didn’t want to have to explain to Hughes where she was going or whether she needed to be accompanied. She was only halfway across the street towards the square when a loud cry made her turn.

  A group of people led by a large man bellowing ‘Hoax! Hoax!’ raced towards her.

  She spun around, intent on returning to the house but her path was blocked. Seeking only to escape she lifted her skirts high and ran across the square. The shouting man was so big, his legs so long, that for every one of her strides he gained on her.

  His hand landed on her shoulder, fingers digging deep beneath the bones. He turned her to face him. She flew back and landed on the ground with an agonisi
ng thud that sent the air rushing from her lungs.

  ‘Play possum. Play possum.’ Bunji’s words echoed in her head and she lay limp trying to deceive him.

  It didn’t work.

  He grunted in triumph hovering above her.

  Suddenly he stiffened, reared back and flew away from her. A fist slammed into his face and with a long drawn-out sigh he crumpled to the ground beside her.

  Watery-kneed with fear she stared up into Finneas’s face as he dusted his hands together as though he’d completed a well-done job. He sketched a bow, which brought a hysterical gurgle of laughter to her throat.

  ‘Next time I will come with you when you want to take the air.’ Finneas swept her up into his arms and marched across the square while the onlookers dispersed, ushered away by the watch she’d seen on the first day.

  Hughes stood by the front door, a look of total despair on his face, ‘I beg your pardon Master Finneas. I had no idea Miss Rose had left the house.’

  ‘Just bring my bag, a blanket and some brandy.’ Finneas deposited her like a precious package into the chair by the fire.

  And she promptly burst into tears.

  ‘I hold myself entirely responsible. I didn’t realise the print would have caused such a commotion. I should have known better.’ Finneas hovered over her like some guardian angel.

  Rose’s lips puckered. ‘I’m perfectly all right. I have no idea why I burst into tears like that. It’s not my usual behaviour. What a disaster. I’m beginning to regret coming to London. Pa will be so disappointed. Maybe I should go home.’ Which was the last thing she wanted to do—give up and crawl away. She had brought so much disruption to Finneas and Julian’s lives.

  ‘I’ve received a reply to my note. Sir Joseph wasn’t in a position to respond but his personal secretary has agreed to an appointment at eleven o’clock on June 30th. He is anticipating Sir Joseph will have recovered by then.’