The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  The weight lifted from her shoulders. ‘Once again I’m in your debt. I really don’t want to make your life a misery.’

  ‘You aren’t and you haven’t. Let me tell you the rest of my plan. While you wait to see Sir Joseph I propose a trip to get you out of London. A way to escape this harassment. It is time you met your aunt.’

  ‘My aunt?’

  ‘Indeed, Lady Methenwyck is your aunt. Your father’s sister.’

  ‘Pa has no sisters. Oh!’ The ramification of his words settled slowly. She’d forgotten all about Lady Methenwyck, hadn’t thought beyond Julian who she wasn’t even sure she cared for very much at all.

  What was the alternative—run back to Agnes Banks with her tail between her legs and spend the rest of her life wondering?

  ‘While we’re away the furore in the scandal sheets will die down and Julian will regain his good humour. When we return you will have your opportunity to speak to Sir Joseph. I have no doubt he’ll be up and about in no time. Wyck Hall is between Bodmin Moor and the north coast of Cornwall. It is a delightful escape and I have no doubt you would enjoy the opportunity to see more of the English countryside.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘About 250 miles.’

  ‘What about Julian? He needs to get out of London, too.’

  ‘Julian travels backwards and forwards several times a year and will, I’m sure, make his own decision. I go less frequently—a trip is well overdue. What do you say?’ His boyish face broke into an all-encompassing smile, his eyes pleading with her. ‘Please say yes.’

  What had she to lose? Almost a month until she could see Sir Joseph and there was a distinct possibility that she would go mad if she had to stay inside this house. And as difficult as it was to see anyone but Pa as her father perhaps she owed it to Mr Barrington to make this trip, meet her aunt.

  ‘It sounds like a marvellous idea. But don’t you have responsibilities at the hospital?’

  ‘I have made arrangements for my rounds to be covered and I have no other pressing engagements.’

  He brought her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. The gesture brought the tears back to her eyes. She loved the way his eyes filled with concern, as though her needs were the most important thing in the world to him.

  ‘I’ll see what I can arrange. We’ll take the mail coach. It leaves London most days for the West Country.’

  ‘A mail coach? Do people write that many letters?’ Goodness, he was going to think her such a simpleton. At home a man carrying the post rode from Sydney to Parramatta twice, maybe three times a week. Letters were handed over and any new ones passed to the next rider. The system was less than perfect. Bushrangers often got the better of the riders and the delivery was always late. She knew that well enough because Pa’s packages for Sir Joseph went that way. At every turn something else she didn’t know or understand.

  ‘It’s the fastest way to travel. Coaches make a good twelve miles an hour, with four coaches per route, two going in each direction with two spare coaches in case of a breakdown. Four horses, and far faster because there are no tolls. We’ll break the journey at Exeter. The New London Inn is quite adequate.’ He rubbed his hands together, excitement flashing in his eyes. ‘And then from Exeter to Bodmin. At the Jamaica Inn we’ll pick up horses and ride to Wyck Hall.’ His eyes widened and he took both her hands in his. ‘You are able to handle a horse.’

  That she did know and understand. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then it is all sorted out. I shall go and organise tickets and at the same time call at Soho Square and see how Sir Joseph fares, tell his secretary we will be away until the end of the month. If by any chance there has been an improvement and Sir Joseph is receiving we can return earlier.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I come with you, in case …’ She shuddered, cowardice perhaps but the thought of stepping out into the streets and risking ridicule after her ignominious treatment at the hands of the lampooners was more than she could bear. ‘Thank you. I’d like that and while you are gone I shall go and pack my belongings.’

  ‘Excellent. Don’t forget to call on Mrs James if you have any difficulties.’ With a wave of his hand Finneas picked up his hat and bag and left.

  Rose watched from the window as his long-legged frame strode down the road. Finneas was so much nicer than her brother, with his open-faced honesty and delight in life. Such a contrast to Julian’s scowling black looks and the discontent that seemed to ooze from every pore.

  When he’d disappeared from sight she made for her bedchamber. She didn’t need any help from Mrs James to pack her paltry belongings. At home she’d never given a second thought to her clothes other than the ghastly boots Mam insisted she wore. Now she dreamed of wearing the brightly coloured clothes she’d seen on the women walking in the square and maybe a pretty dress to change into in the evening—something that Finneas would like.

  The thought brought her up with a shock and she stopped dead in the middle of the stairway, her eyes fixed on the enormous classical fresco above the landing. Perhaps at Wyck Hall she would need other dresses. Would she disgrace herself? At least the trip down to Cornwall offered no concern. It sounded like fun and to ride again would be the greatest pleasure. She’d seen the ladies on their horses riding along the carriageway going to the park in their beautiful outfits, feathered hats and gloves and she had none. Her three dresses and monstrous brown pelisse would simply have to do.

  When a knock sounded on the door Rose’s dresses lay crumpled on the bed and her trunk open. Mrs James poked her head around the door. ‘I’m here to help. Mr Finneas has returned and I am to tell you he has managed to procure two seats on the West Country mail coach leaving this evening at eight o’clock.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. I can pack my belongings. I’ve hardly any clothes.’

  ‘Which is a concern. You’ll freeze to death.’

  Rose shrugged her shoulders. There wasn’t much she could do about it. She had very little money. Pa had given her a few coins but she doubted the holey dollars would even be accepted in London, never mind be sufficient to buy new clothes. She gave an involuntary shiver. How could this possibly be the beginning of summer?

  ‘I think we can solve your immediate problem. The mistress no longer rides and we have a series of her outfits here. She told me to dispense with them. I always hoped one day to see her back to her former health and I couldn’t bring myself to part with them. Let me see what I can find.’

  ‘Won’t she mind? I can’t turn up at Wyck Hall wearing Lady Methenwyck’s clothes.’

  ‘Trust me, she won’t mind. She’d give the very clothes off her back if they would help someone. Be nice to see her here again. Maybe when the old man’s time’s up. He hasn’t set foot in London for years now either.’ And with that Mrs James trundled off.

  Lady Methenwyck sounded like some sort of paragon of virtue. How she’d like to ask Finneas all about her; perhaps this trip on the coach would give them time to talk.

  Mrs James reappeared and dumped an armful of clothes onto the bed. ‘This looks as though it might do the trick. Not the pinnacle of fashion anymore but nothing to be ashamed of.’ She held up a dark blue woollen riding habit—more pelisse really and so much nicer than her dreadful brown one. ‘Needs a bit of a press. I’d hazard a guess it’d fit quite well. Quite slight is the mistress. Stand up.’

  Rose pushed off the bed. Nothing to be ashamed of! Fit for a Governor’s wife, almost military with the buttons and the white cravat. It looked more like something Mrs Macarthur would wear. ‘It’s beautiful. Are you sure …’

  ‘Told you already. Can’t having you freezing to death on the coach, and while we’re at it you need to do something about those boots.’

  Rose twisted her foot. Those boots might well be the cause of all her anguish. Her skin still crawled at the look she’d seen on Julian’s face after their mad race back from Somerset House.

  ‘Try these for size.’ Like a magician Mrs James
conjured a pair of blue half-boots, so soft and light, not like her clumping great clodhoppers. ‘They’re walking boots but I reckon they’ll do the trick and keep those little toes warm.’

  ‘I’ll try them on in a minute.’ She gazed longingly at the soft leather and the row of small buttons.

  ‘Very well, we’ll try the riding habit. No need to take off your dress.’ Rose stood stock-still while Mrs James buttoned and fastened and pulled and twisted until she was encased in the long fitted coat. ‘All that’s missing is the hat.’ She turned back to the pile of clothes on the bed and produced a red felt hat festooned with the most delicious pure white feather.

  Rose couldn’t keep the smile from her face as she turned this way and that, trying to catch sight of her reflection in the windows. If only Pa could see her now.

  ‘Patience, patience, let me fetch the glass. Look a treat you do.’

  Rose ran her hands over the soft wool, so warm, and the high collar would keep out the biting winds that had plagued her since she arrived. What would Finneas say?

  ‘There you are now. What do you think?’

  Rose had to pinch the skin on her arm. Could this truly be her? She looked like, well like a lady.

  ‘Think Mr Finneas will be pretty happy with that. Asked me first thing this morning to have a hunt around and see what I could find. There’s a couple of gowns too, warm-like. You’re going to need them down in the West Country. Wind comes off that moor like the horsemen of the apocalypse even in the middle of summer. You’ll need gloves, too. I’ll be back in a moment. Try on those boots while I’m gone.’

  Waiting until Mrs James had closed the door she picked up the blue boots and sat down in the chair, her back to the door, and unlaced her boots as quickly as she could before Mrs James returned. She pushed her feet into the soft leather and wriggled her toes. They fitted perfectly and were much more comfortable than anything she’d ever owned. Thank goodness Mam couldn’t see her. She’d skin her alive if she knew she’d taken off her boots in daylight.

  Fifteen

  Sydney, Australia 1908

  Shaw made it off the last ferry and trudged up Blues Point Road. His attempts at the Births Deaths & Marriages Registry had hit a blank. No one by the name of R Winton and no record of Winton. He’d spent hours in the dingy offices leafing his way through fifty years-plus of records only to discover individual churches held the only records prior to 1856. More than anything else he’d wanted to find some written proof R Winton was related to Charles. It would go part way to proving the book was authentic and hadn’t been tampered with more recently. Who the hell was she? She? Now Tamsin had him at it. Jumping to conclusions and making wild assumptions on the basis of handwriting simply wasn’t good enough. He needed facts. Indisputable facts.

  Twisting the key in the lock he put his shoulder to the door and forced it open, stumbling over one of the mounds of boxes. He had to get some of them unpacked, at least make it easier to get into the place. He wandered into the kitchen and cleared an armful of books off the table and sat down, his thoughts circling around and around, wishing he’d brought the sketchbook home.

  He spun around in the chair and stretched his legs out under the table. Pain ricocheted up his thigh. ‘Sod it!’ He pushed up his trouser and examined the red line on his knee then crawled under the table and shunted the offending tea chest across the floor. The metal edging had come loose.

  Reaching for a knife he levered off the lid, releasing a blast of mustiness, vanilla and something that reminded him of almonds. He inhaled. It was almost floral, probably the old ink and disintegrating paper. Instantly he was back in Grandfather’s library, the wooden steps hooked to the highest shelves running along on a pair of wheels, the neatly organised books under subject headings—everything ranging from anatomical works and botanical illustrations to various periods of history, the works of Shakespeare and a collection of eighteenth-century novels; whatever had taken the old man’s fancy.

  He lifted the first few books from the chest and spread them onto the kitchen table, the dark green leather covers faded in places and the corners tattered. They looked like account ledgers. Tilting one he ran his finger down the frayed spine, avoiding the loose pieces of cotton that held the book together—he could feel the indentations of some writing but stains covered it. Holding it under the light he smoothed it out. Cellar Book, West Wycombe. Row after row of neatly entered names, dates and amounts. Why would Grandfather be interested in this? From memory of his time in England, West Wycombe was on the way to London, about thirty miles away. Too far for a man whose entire life centred around Oxford.

  The list of names read like some sort of eighteenth-century Who’s Who: clerics, politicians, poets, the same names repeated time and again interspersed with pages of accounts.

  He pushed them to one side and took out a pile of old papers. The sort of thing he imagined being pored over and debated in London coffee houses. No, not London coffee houses. Cornish. The West Briton and Cornwall Advertiser. He turned the pages. Columns of announcements of births, deaths and marriages. Shame he hadn’t stumbled on something like that today—it might have saved him time.

  Advertisements for horses for sale, work wanted, local events. He flicked through them then stacked them under the ledgers to keep them flat before turning back to the box. Dictionaries, atlases, more reference books, some copies of Milton’s poetry. His memory must have deserted him. Grandfather’s library was meticulously organised. Perhaps the packers had just shovelled everything into the nearest box.

  The thought reminded him of Mrs Rushworth and the library at Will-O-Wyck. What he wouldn’t give for a room like that. He’d fulfil his dream of leaving the law and setting up as an antiquarian book collector in a moment.

  With a disgruntled sigh he wandered into the front room and threw himself down in the chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. He’d think about it tomorrow. He rubbed at his eyes. Too many birth and death certificates, too much spidery writing, he needed some sleep. Father expected him in the office tomorrow morning to recount the whole Rushworth saga. There was more to it than he’d been told, the old man was taking the whole case personally. He had a stake in the Rushworths’ interests somewhere along the line, he’d put money on it.

  Mr Everdene lifted his head and eyed Shaw with a jaundiced look. ‘What time do you call this?’

  ‘Good morning, Father.’ Cantankerous old fool. If it was going to be the prelude to yet another diatribe about keeping up appearances he’d get up and leave. ‘If it’s any consolation I was working yesterday, following up on Kelly’s estate.’

  ‘Ron Rushworth contacted me this morning. What’s all this about a sketchbook? He wanted to know how matters were progressing.’

  ‘There were some old books in the house. Mrs Rushworth seemed to think one in particular might be worth a bit. She wants to sell it. Thinks the proceeds will solve their immediate problems. It belonged to one of the early naturalists, Charles Winton. I decided to see if I could find anything useful.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I hit a blank. I can’t even find out when or where he died. There was no compulsory registration of deaths in New South Wales until 1856. The book would be worth far more if I could establish the provenance. Find out something more about the man and his work.’ More importantly find out who R Winton was but that would just confuse the issue.

  ‘Could have saved you some time if you’d bothered to ask.’

  Shaw sat up. He’d expected a bollocking for wasting time and instead the wily old man was as good as helping. He squinted across the desk. What was he up to?

  ‘Have a look at the old muster records.’

  ‘Muster records?’

  His father gave one of his tedious sighs and shook his head. ‘I paid a fortune for your education, didn’t they teach you any history? Knew you’d be better off in Australia than mucking around in the ivory towers of Oxford. Started with Phillip, he used the naval system. In the early d
ays they used to keep track of the convicts. Then it expanded to a point where all non-military settlers were also required to muster. Under Macquarie’s governorship they became annual events.’

  For once his father’s doggerel held him captivated.

  ‘The last muster in New South Wales was in 1825. First census in 1828. I’m not sure why you’re bothering. Be better finding out about Kelly. When did he die? When’s his will dated?’

  ‘I haven’t got all those exact facts at my fingertips. Over ten years ago, his wife sometime well before that.’ Shaw ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to get his head in order. ‘The sketchbook might give us a clue to Kelly’s next of kin. He or Mrs Quinleaven must have got it from somewhere.’

  ‘And since books are your first love …’

  He wasn’t going down that path. Another argument about his plans to leave the law and set up on his own and he’d walk out and never set foot in the place again and right now the old man was proving more useful than he’d ever been. ‘Where are these muster records kept?’

  ‘Public Library of New South Wales. Where else?’

  Of course. Perhaps Tamsin had thought of that by now—after all she worked in the building.

  ‘Ron Rushworth’s keen to get the whole business sorted as soon as possible. We’ve got some investments hanging in the balance.’

  His guess about Father’s involvement wasn’t far off the mark. He’d suspected they’d been business partners for a while. Why else would he have been sent to deal with the matter?

  ‘Off you go. Keep me informed. And while you’re at it check the shipping records. He might have left the country.’

  ‘Winton came out on the First Fleet. He was unmarried.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The librarian from the Public Library.’ As soon as the words left his lips he realised his mistake. Father was onto him.

  ‘What’s the Library got to do with this?’