The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘As I said there’s a slight hitch. Mrs Quinleaven notified the Library of the existence of the sketchbook before she died and asked to have it appraised. She was considering making a donation.’

  ‘And the Library is on the trail, too. Must be worth something. That’ll please the Rushworths. Better than nothing. They presumed the whole lot would come to them. The parcel of land alone is worth a fortune if it’s subdivided. What a mess. Go on. Off you go and see what you can find out about this Winton chap. The solicitors will follow the usual channels from Kelly’s end. We can’t do anything about that unfortunately.’

  Approval for a course of action. Also unusual. ‘Right. I’ll let you know what I find out.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Shaw bolted through the door and out into the sunshine. Next stop the Library—muster records first, and then Tamsin.

  After four hours ploughing his way through the muster records Shaw dusted off his hands, thanked the two cataloguers and as good as danced up the steps to the foyer.

  Mrs Williams’s face lit up. ‘Hello, Mr Everdene. Back again so soon?’

  ‘I’d like to have a word with Tamsin. Is she about?’

  ‘She’s downstairs poring over Winton’s letters, matching signatures and trying to find some mention of an R Winton. Let me—’

  ‘No, don’t bother. I know the way.’ He took off at a gallop before Mrs Williams had a chance to follow. The information he’d found was for Tamsin first. Not anyone else.

  He pushed open the door to the workroom, revelling in the smell of antiquity and history and the sight of Tamsin, with her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, her unruly curls tamed into a braid that hung down her back.

  She turned and smiled at him. ‘Shaw. How lovely!’ Her face flushed and her lovely wide mouth broke into a smile. ‘I’m getting nowhere slowly and it’s so frustrating. I need a distraction.’

  He’d be more than happy to oblige and he had something that would put the light back into her beautiful eyes. She needed a break and he intended to provide.

  ‘I’ve looked through most of the correspondence and I can’t find anything after June 1818, a request from Winton to present to the Royal Society. That can’t have happened. They would have made him a fellow in a heartbeat if he’d shown them his research. He was way ahead of his time. There’s no mention of his personal life at all. No wife, no daughter, not even a son. I found a reference to Banks paying him a stipend—a paltry sum. And thanks for a set of sketchbooks and some materials. Paint and ink I expect.’

  ‘Perhaps Banks had lost interest in Winton’s work or he never followed through.’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least I can’t imagine why. The question of the platypus had the entire scientific world running around in circles.’

  ‘I found out something interesting in the muster records.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Why didn’t I think of the muster records. I was so busy with the letters it didn’t cross my mind. Tell me.’

  ‘Get your bag and lock up. I’ll meet you upstairs.’

  ‘It’s another hour until I finish.’

  ‘Mrs Williams won’t mind. I’ll have a word with her.’ He wandered down the corridor stopping every now and again to look more closely at one thing or the other. How he envied Tamsin working every day amongst all these antiquities. The law held no interest for him. It was the smell of polished wood, ink and old paper, dusty books and binding leather that made his blood thrum.

  By the time Tamsin had tidied up her desk, locked the sketchbook back in the safe, retied her hair, pinched her cheeks and shovelled the bulging pile of notes and the tin into her satchel, Shaw had disappeared and her heart rate had kicked up about ten notches. It was so good to see him so soon; not much more than twenty-four hours had passed since they’d examined the sketchbook. Without a doubt he’d be sweet-talking Mrs Williams so she could get off early.

  She belted around the corner and up the stairs and discovered him leaning across Mrs Williams’s desk, his broad shoulders straining his shirt and his jacket hooked over his shoulder, dangling from one finger. ‘Why don’t you come with us, Mrs Williams?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly. You don’t want an old lady like me hanging around with you two.’

  Tamsin slammed her lips shut before she squawked something totally inappropriate. Neither of them had done or said anything to indicate they were any more than colleagues with a common interest. They weren’t, she reminded herself.

  ‘No. Off you go, I’ve had a busy enough day. I intend to have an early night.’

  Tamsin edged up to the desk. ‘You don’t mind if I leave now, Mrs Williams?’

  ‘Enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought we’d walk through the Botanic Gardens to the Quay and find something to eat. I have a hankering for Chinese noodles and we’re celebrating. Come on.’ Without waiting for an answer Shaw took off across the foyer and headed for the doors.

  Tamsin hefted her satchel onto one shoulder and ran a couple of steps to catch up with him.

  ‘Let me carry that.’ He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder then slipped his arm through hers, his eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve got news.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Not until we’re sitting down and I have your undivided attention.’

  As if he hadn’t already. She tossed her head and tried for a pout, not something she was very good at. ‘Good news or bad?’

  ‘The best.’

  Once they’d skirted the tram terminus, the bustling afternoon crowd around the Quay made it difficult to talk. Shaw grabbed at her arm and towed her through a tiny door into a dimly lit room and led her to a small table tucked into the corner. He dumped her bag beneath the table and squatted down on one of the rickety stools. The smell of frying spices from the huge pans made her mouth water and after the mad hustle and bustle outside even the banging and crashing and the hiss of the fat couldn’t ruin the sensation that they were cocooned in their own private space.

  Shaw eased a bottle of beer out of his bag and raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Beer?’ She’d never drunk beer before. The thought made her feel quite racy, thoroughly adventurous.

  He took the lid off and poured it into two glasses that had seen better days, handed her one and clinked his against hers. ‘Here’s to Rose Winton.’

  ‘Rose! Rose Winton? You found her. How?’

  ‘Drink up. It’s a toast.’

  The bubbles fizzed against her lips then transferred into her throat making a potent mix with the excitement his words brought. Rose Winton. R Winton. She’d known, known all along that the signature was female and now he’d confirmed it. ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘I took my father’s advice. The musters. Alphabetical arrangement, subdivided into male convicts, female convicts, freemen and women.’ He pulled a small legal pad from his jacket and fanned the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘Taken between February 5th and March 5th, 1811. Charles Winton, a freeman, listed as living with his housekeeper, an ex-convict, and a Rose Winton, a ten-year-old girl born in the colony.’

  ‘What about Rose’s mother?’

  ‘No mention of a mother or a marriage; no mention of marital status or religion at all.’

  A sense of satisfaction spread through her. She’d been right from the beginning, known Rose was a female. ‘Where were they living?’

  Two large steaming bowls of soup appeared in front of them, vegetables and all sorts of bits floating on the top.

  ‘Agnes Banks.’

  ‘Then it has to be her.’ Tamsin lost all interest in the soup and stared out through the narrow doorway at the twinkling lights of the quay reflecting in the water. ‘It was the area Macarthur had his land grant—the best land in the colony in the early days. The Aborigines used to burn along the river so it was all fertile grazing land. And there’s that lagoon there, some native name. It’s mentioned in one of Winton’s letters.�
�� She squinted into the distance trying to recall the name. ‘Yellow-Mundee. That’s it. Winton told Banks the natives knew all about the platypus. It was only the arrogant English who thought they were exhibiting their ignorance of natural history making up stories that defied the accepted laws of classification.’ Tamsin let out a huge sigh. ‘That is wonderful. I feel so much more connected with the sketchbook now we know Rose’s name. I’m even more determined now to show that Charles Winton was the first person to make sufficient scientific observations and prove the platypus wasn’t some Chinese sailor’s idea of a hoax.’

  ‘You’ll get us drummed out of here. Taste the soup, it’s delicious.’

  ‘I feel a bond with Rose, as though I belong to a very special club.’ She took a sip of the delicious broth then chased a small piece of bright red meat around the bowl.

  ‘Is this a women-only club or can I join too?’ His grey-green eyes twinkled at her in the half-light of the tiny, shabby restaurant and her curl of excitement wound tighter. ‘Of course you can. You’re a founding member—you found Rose. I’m going to see if I can find anything else about her.’

  ‘I do know a little more about her.’

  ‘There’s more?’ She punched him lightly on the top of his arm before sipping at the clear soup from the strange bowl-shaped spoon. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Once I had a name I searched the shipping records and a Rose Winton left Sydney in early December 1819 aboard the Minerva.’

  ‘She left Sydney.’ The spoon fell from her fingers and splashed into her soup. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘To England. London.’

  ‘London? Did Charles go with her? He must have accepted Sir Joseph Banks’s invitation to present to the Royal Society.’

  ‘Winton’s not listed on the passenger manifesto.’

  ‘That’s strange. Why would she travel to England alone?’

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe her mother went with her. Maybe she travelled with friends.’

  ‘There was nothing to show she had a companion?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  It was all very well having a job and living in a house by herself, but would she be brave enough to travel to England alone? ‘Why did she go? Did she come back?’

  ‘I couldn’t find any record of her returning.’ Shaw’s face crumpled a little.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just impatient. I know these things take time. Did you find anything out about the housekeeper from the muster records? It must have listed a name.’

  ‘A Jenifer Trevan. That’s where it gets a bit strange.’

  ‘Jenifer Trevan?’ Tamsin’s skin tingled. ‘Jenifer Trevan?’

  ‘What’s the matter? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

  ‘How can you forget? The tin. Mrs Quinleaven’s Peek Frean tin—the piece of paper with the epitaph.’ She let out a huge sigh. ‘It can’t be the same person. You said an 1811 muster. That’s over twenty years after she died.’

  She foraged in her satchel until her fingers clasped the tin then pulled it out and eased the lid off. ‘See here.’ She unfolded the scrap of paper.

  Shaw slapped his hand against his forehead. ‘I’d forgotten. Too caught up with everything.’ He lifted his eyes and gazed straight into her own and her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Who do you think she was?’

  ‘Winton’s housekeeper. She can’t have died. I can’t find anything in the earlier musters that record Jenifer giving birth to a child, daughter or otherwise. The only other records at that time would be church records and if they didn’t attend church any birth wouldn’t be recorded.’

  ‘So who is Jenifer Trevan?’

  His lips twitched and she knew he had something else he wasn’t telling her. He rested his elbows on the table and for one second she thought that he would lean across the table and kiss her. Her face flushed and she batted the thought away.

  ‘I found her in the convict records. She arrived here on the Lady Juliana …’

  ‘The Floating Brothel?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘What has this to do with a house in the Hunter? I need to go back to Wollombi and see Mrs Rushworth. Make sure there isn’t anything else in the house.’

  ‘Mrs Rushworth is back in Sydney.’

  The sizzle and hiss from the huge pans faded and stopped, the breeze from the open windows stilled, nothing but the pounding of her blood as it pumped through her temples.

  ‘Her husband contacted my father to see how we were going with the sketchbook.’ His eyes skittered across to the window and she had the strangest sense he wasn’t telling her the whole story.

  Sixteen

  London, England 1820

  The forecourt of the Gloucester Coffee House was a riot of activity. Three mail coaches, ostlers running backwards and forwards harnessing horses, passengers clambering aboard coaches. Steam rose from the piles of straw littering the cobblestones and everywhere the overriding stench of horse manure permeating the damp mizzle.

  Finneas grasped Rose’s arm and steered her across the road. ‘That’s the Exeter coach on the right.’

  The bright red wheels of the coach stood out in the lights; half a dozen people sat wedged onto the roof, and a passenger bundled up in a greatcoat had grabbed the spot next to the coachman. Thank heavens he’d managed to procure two of the four seats inside otherwise they would have had to delay the trip.

  Finneas turned to a scruffy boy lounging against the side of the inn, trying to look inconspicuous. ‘Pick up the trunk and carpetbag from the carriage over there, boy,’ he ordered, then led Rose to the side of the mail coach and opened the door.

  The stench of alcohol and tobacco billowed out and the two portly gentlemen sprawled across the two seats eyed him with distaste; obviously they’d hoped to be the sole occupants for the journey. ‘Make room for the lady, gentlemen.’

  With a deal of grumbling and rearranging one of the two men moved across leaving the seat facing backwards vacant.

  ‘Thank you.’ Where the hell was that boy?

  ‘Where d’you want these?’ The boy dumped the trunk down and tossed Rose’s carpetbag at his feet.

  ‘I’ll take that.’ She grabbed at the carpetbag, not game to trust her precious specimen and sketchbook to the luggage racks. Clasping the bag close to her chest she put her foot on the step, then turned back to him. ‘I pity the poor horses that have to pull this weight. There must be at least thirteen people, never mind all the baggage.’

  ‘They’ll be fine. They change the horses every ten miles, once an hour on average. Sure you still want to go ahead?’

  ‘Oh yes. I can’t wait.’ Without a further backward glance she skipped up the steps and, with a confident nod to the two men, settled herself into the far corner.

  ‘I’ll just see your trunk loaded and we’re ready to go.’ He pulled the collar of his greatcoat up against the wind that whistled around his ears. What must Rose think of the English summer? Thank goodness Mrs James had done such a good job raiding Caroline’s wardrobe. She looked snug and comfortable with a pair of very fetching blue boots peeking out from beneath her matching riding habit.

  With a nod to the boy he flicked a penny into his hand and kicked the steps up before jumping into the coach. That way there’d be no additional passengers trying to wheedle their way inside.

  ‘We’ll be leaving soon. The best idea is to try and get comfortable and get a bit of sleep.’

  ‘I might be a bit too excited to sleep. I’ve never been on a coach like this before.’

  The two men opposite eyed her, making his hackles rise, then caught sight of the glare on his face and leant back, their faces a picture of contrived innocence. With a loud shout the coach pulled out and they were on their way.

  Rose sat unnaturally quiet and despite her assurances she wasn’t tired he could see her eyelids becoming heavier. Before long the swaying of the coach lulled her and her shoulder relaxed against him and she slept.

  A few mile
s outside Andover the larger of the two men opposite straightened up and stretched his legs sending Rose’s carpetbag skittering across the floor. In less than a heartbeat her eyes flashed open and she reached down to rescue it, throwing a filthy look at the blockhead opposite. Serve him right!

  She leant over and undid the clasp lifting the creature from the bag and resting it on her lap, her hand smoothing the dark fur. Both men reared upwards as though stung and stared first at the specimen and then at Rose, before mumbling to each other behind their hands.

  If the two obnoxious oafs didn’t stop looking at Rose from under their heavily lidded eyes he’d knock them out of the window. He moved a little closer to her, his thigh pressing against hers. Staking his claim. Making it pointedly clear they’d have him to deal with if they so much as raised their overweight buttocks from the seat.

  The more florid of the two rummaged in his greatcoat pocket and brought out a piece of paper, which he carefully unfolded and passed to his companion. His finger stabbed at the centre of the piece. ‘See the resemblance, no doubt about it.’

  Finneas didn’t need to look to know what it was. He wanted to cover Rose’s ears, turn her face from them. The colour had risen to her cheeks and she’d closed her eyes in some vain attempt to block them out.

  ‘Wonder if she’s got her tail under that riding habit.’ The pipe-smoking fool jabbed at the paper and looked pointedly at the hem of her riding habit, which hid her neatly booted feet.

  After a few moments the coach pulled to a halt. The driver appeared and threw open the door. ‘Andover. All out who’s going.’

  The two men heaved themselves to their feet and tumbled down the steps towards the lights of the inn.

  ‘With any luck that’ll be the last we see of them.’

  Rose tucked the specimen back into the burlap sack and placed it reverently in the carpetbag and slipped the clasp. ‘I’m beginning to think you must be sick to death of me and all the fuss I have caused.’

  He’d never felt better in his life. This delightful, fey girl had brought a ray of exotic sunshine into his life. She was hardly a traditional beauty with her unkempt hair and swarthy skin but dressed in Caroline’s cast-offs she could grace any country house party. And to add to it all she had a mind and knowledge of science that would rival most of the would-be physicians in London. ‘Not at all. Not one tiny little bit. I’m only sorry that your visit to the Royal Society wasn’t better received.’