The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  Before long the roof of Wyck Hall came into view and still Finneas hadn’t broken the stern silence between them. He’d sat chewing on his lips and letting out disgruntled huffs for the entire ride. Not that she’d tried to talk to him. All she could see were the words dug into the wall of the barrow and the dates. May 24th—Mam’s birthday right enough, but she hadn’t died in 1788. Mam’s lies about Pa and her past swooped around her head and roosted on her shoulders weighing her down.

  Mam lied about Richard Barrington, lied about Julian, how many more lies had she told? Had she made that inscription knowing she’d be leaving Cornwall? Was leaving a death to her? And why would she scratch her name and the date of her death into the wall of an ancient burial barrow? Nothing made any sense. Her head throbbed and her heart ached with confusion.

  When they entered the courtyard Finneas dismounted in one fluid leap and strode into the house banging the door behind him. She slipped from the saddle, her legs barely able to support her weight, and stumbled through the nearest door and found herself in Mrs Pascoe’s kitchen.

  ‘You all right, dearie? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’ Mrs Pascoe’s hands came down and eased her into a chair. ‘You’re freezing cold. Here, move closer to the fire.’

  She sat like a corpse while Mrs Pascoe unbuttoned Finneas’s cloak and pulled off her gloves, chafing her cold, blue hands in her work-worn palms. ‘Let me get you a cup of tea, we’ll put a splash of brandy in it. That’ll bring the colour back to your cheeks. Now where’s Master Finneas, I heard him come in. Banging around like I don’t know what. More like that brother of his than himself.’

  Mrs Pascoe’s chattering washed over her, her mind still stuck on the words she’d seen carved in the wall. Here lies Jenifer Trevan. What if Jenifer Trevan was buried there, and the mother she knew was not her mam, just like Pa was not her pa?

  A row of pilchards lined the table awaiting the knife, the smell making her stomach roil; she hated fish, and this was the worst she’d ever smelt. Mrs Pascoe put a steaming cup of tea on the table next to her. She picked it up and inhaled the steam, the brandy fumes hitting the back of her throat. She pushed it away.

  ‘Nay, drink it. Drink it now.’ Mrs Pascoe held the cup to her lips.

  ‘Sip. Go on. Sip it. There’s a good girl.’

  The mellow scent of nutmeg and mixed spices and warmth blossomed as the brandy hit her throat.

  ‘And another, that’s a girl. That’s better.’

  She grasped the cup and took it in her hands, wrapping her fingers around the warmth as the brandy made her blood flow and the room came back into focus. ‘Mrs Pascoe.’

  ‘There, there, dearie. That’s brought the colour back to those pretty cheeks. Don’t talk. Let the brandy do its work. Good strong French brandy that is. Old Bill from up Trevithick way stopped by with a couple of flagons. Don’t be telling the mistress like, but it’s good stuff to have. Specially for moments like this.’

  Mrs Pascoe could be right. Rose took another sip. ‘How well did you know my mother?’

  ‘Young Jenifer.’ The pitiful murmur slipped out between her lips. ‘Good as a daughter to me.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘My Jenifer? Die? She didn’t die. Not as far as I know. Not unless you’ve kept something from us. You be the living breathing image of her.’

  She took another sip of the brandy; it washed away the ugly taste in her mouth and loosened her tongue, gave her courage. If Finneas wouldn’t speak of it then she’d have to ask. ‘I went into the burial barrow on the moor.’

  ‘That’d account for the look of you. You don’t want to go poking around in them barrows—they’re no place for a young girl, no place for anyone.’

  ‘My Mam went there.’

  Did she imagine it or did Mrs Pascoe’s eyes slide towards the door? ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I found an inscription, scratchings really, on the wall. It said: “Here lies Jenifer Trevan, loving granddaughter of Granfer Tomas Trevan.” Her date of birth and the date of her death.’ Her voice choked on the final words.

  Mrs Pascoe fixed her gaze to the smeared window and rubbed at the thick glass with the heel of her hand then cleared her throat. ‘Feeling a bit better are you now? Colour’s come back to your face. You go and get yourself into some warmer clothes. I’ll busy meself. Master Julian will be home tonight. It’s Midsummer Eve. Always home for Midsummer he is.’

  Rose swirled the rest of the brandy-laced tea in her mouth. No one wanted to speak about the barrow. She’d seen the writing, seen it with her own eyes. Why wouldn’t they tell her? Finneas, then Mrs Pascoe. Maybe Lady Methenwyck would offer some answers.

  Once she reached her bedchamber she unbuttoned her riding habit and lay down on the bed. She searched the edges of her mind. She’d forgotten something. Something important. Why did no one believe her?

  Always record your evidence. It’s the only way.

  That’s what Pa said. Proof. She needed to validate her findings. Something she could hold up in front of their eyes and demand answers. She’d return to the barrow and copy the scratchings, draw them. Once she had tangible evidence they couldn’t brush her aside like some unimportant scrap of dust.

  If she left now she’d be back before dinner. It couldn’t take long, even on foot; if she ran she’d cover the distance in less than an hour. She reefed off the pretty blue boots, grimaced and pulled on her old clodhoppers from her trunk, which had miraculously appeared at the foot of her bed. She’d be more comfortable and faster. Then she grabbed the lantern and the little tinder box beside the bed and jammed her pencil and a piece of paper into her pocket.

  Ignoring the strains of Finneas’s raised voice and Lady Methenwyck’s incoherent murmurings she slipped out of the door and into the courtyard.

  ‘Julian hasn’t arrived yet?’ Finneas paced the carpet in front of the fireplace.

  ‘To the best of my knowledge no, unless he’s with Methenwyck.’

  ‘He isn’t and I checked the stables. No matter how much you dislike talking about the past it is time.’

  ‘The past is just that, past. There is nothing to discuss.’

  He hunkered down in front of her and she shuffled further back in the seat. ‘Caroline I know you find it difficult but the time has come. I found Rose in the barrow.’

  Her pasty face turned even paler and she groped in her sleeve for her handkerchief and sat picking at the initials embroidered in pale pink silk in the corner.

  ‘I’m not well.’

  ‘No, you’re not and for that I am sorry. However I don’t feel it is a malaise of the body, more of the heart.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have brought her here.’ She turned her head and stared out of the window. ‘And why the barrow? Everyone knows the stories.’

  ‘I didn’t take her to the barrow. I left her sketching Dozmary Pool while I went to the inn to fetch lunch. It took longer than I expected. I got waylaid by old Bill and when I returned she’d vanished. I found her stumbling out of the barrow, looking as though she’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘She had.’

  He had the most overwhelming need to shake Caroline until her bones rattled. Ever since he could remember she’d had a bizarre fear of the barrow. As a child he’d challenged her, slipped into the cavernous cave at twilight. Played games with the local boys, counting while they ran in circles around the burial stone, scaring each other to death. She’d had him beaten black and blue—that had cured him, but the rumours persisted. The village girls that never returned. Never any tangible proof, no evidence that could convince him they were anything but unsubstantiated rumblings. ‘A ghost, an apparition?’

  ‘A ghost of the past. Her mother.’

  What was she talking about? He picked up Caroline’s cold hand and rested his thumb against the hammering pulse in her wrist then chafed her hand. ‘Her mother, Jenifer Trevan, is alive and well and living in New South Wales, or she was when Rose left. You know that.’
r />   ‘Only too well. But for me she would not be.’ She twisted her handkerchief in her hands and with her head bent pulled another thread from the embroidered initials.

  ‘She was transported, transported for theft. I don’t understand. What did Rose find in the barrow?’

  Caroline let out a long sigh. ‘Jenifer was trapped in the barrow one night. There is an inscription. She wrote her own epitaph on the wall of the small chamber.’

  ‘Epitaph?’

  She nodded her head. ‘You know as well as I do of the hunting parties.’

  The traditional hunting parties once held at Wyck Hall. Methenwyck’s cronies would arrive from London, for rollicking gatherings to celebrate the start of each new season: the wild rides across the moor, the drunken revelries and all-night celebrations. ‘They’re still happening?’

  ‘They’re long over. Only Julian is true to the old ways and Methenwyck enjoys his visits.’

  Julian, the heir apparent who’d fashioned himself in the mould of Methenwyck to assure his inheritance. Never quite certain he’d receive what he saw as his due.

  ‘Rose’s mother, Jenifer, worked here as a scullery maid. Her grandfather had one of the grace-and-favour cottages. The walled garden was his work. He had the touch—anything from daffodils to roses would blossom. So did Jenifer. She could cure anything with her herbs and potions. But for her I wouldn’t have survived the loss of so many children.’

  Finneas rocked back on his heels, dropped Caroline’s cold hand, gritting his teeth to keep his patience. He blamed himself for Caroline’s oddity. He’d stayed away too long, too involved in his studies to take the time to visit and care for the woman who had given him shelter, made him what he was today. Age sat uncomfortably on her haggard face, lines etched deep that he’d failed to notice, a pallor to her skin. ‘Tell me about Rose’s mother.’

  Caroline dragged back her concentration, shook off the faraway look in her eyes. ‘She took shelter in the barrow.’

  He wanted to prod her further, shake her, and make her speak faster. He glanced out of the window at the lengthening shadows; the sky had darkened, almost as though Caroline had summoned the storm to illustrate her turmoil. ‘She was trapped, thought her turn had come. She wrote her own epitaph.’

  So, it wasn’t a figment of Rose’s imagination, she had seen her mother’s name. And he’d been so taken up with his need to keep her safe he hadn’t let her speak. ‘It’s true? You’ve seen it?’

  Caroline closed her eyes, laid her head back against the chair. ‘Just once, long ago. So long ago. The words are only visible when the sun is high.’

  ‘Jenifer didn’t die.’

  ‘No. When daylight came she found a way out through one of the old tunnels. Three weeks later she was accused of theft and transported.’

  And that’s what Rose found? Why hadn’t he waited? Why had he dragged her away? ‘You owe her an explanation. And so do I.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Unable to find the small bell Caroline kept on the side table Finneas strode to the door and called out, ‘Mrs Pascoe, would you come here, please.’

  He drummed his foot as he waited by the door, his thoughts swirling. What must Rose be feeling? Quite one thing to visit the grave of your family, quite another to find an epitaph but no body, and have no one believe you.

  With a lot of heaving and puffing Mrs Pascoe’s flushed face appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Mrs Pascoe would you please bring some tea, perhaps a little brandy too for Lady Methenwyck, and ask Rose to join us.’

  Sighing and shuffling Mrs Pascoe disappeared and he turned back to Caroline, the gruesome tales of his childhood sounding in his ears. ‘There’s never been any proof of the rumours about the girls who disappeared.’

  ‘You know about them?’

  ‘Of course. The village boys used to tell tales; the evil spirits that lurked there and carried girls away. Never boys.’ His laugh died in his throat at the sight of Caroline’s blanched face.

  ‘Nothing was ever proved.’

  ‘Where is Rose?’ He flung open the door to see Mrs Pascoe bent double spluttering furiously. ‘Mrs Pascoe, sit down please. I’ll give you something for that cough.’

  She waved her hand in front of her face, paused for a moment then the wheezing and snuffling began all over again. Respiratory infections were the plague of the moors.

  ‘Not here. She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘There be a storm coming.’

  ‘Has Julian arrived yet?’

  ‘This afternoon, said he was going down to the village.’

  ‘Finneas, close the door and come here.’ Caroline’s voice far stronger than he’d heard for many a year made him turn.

  ‘He said not to mention. Said he had matters to attend to.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pascoe.’ He closed the door on the housekeeper.

  Caroline stood, her face pressed to the window.

  ‘Go now. Do not waste any time. Go this minute.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Go and find Julian.’

  ‘I’m not worried about Julian. He can look after himself.’ Probably had some girl in the village he liked to visit. ‘Rose has taken it into her head to go for a walk and that storm’s way past brewing, it’s about to hit.’

  ‘Go and find Julian. Now. And don’t let him out of your sight.’

  ‘Caroline what are you talking about?’

  ‘Just do as I say. Find Julian before history repeats itself.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘You have no time to lose.’

  ‘It is Rose I’m concerned about.’

  ‘Find Julian and bring him home. No matter what it takes. Bring him home before it is too late. Tomorrow is Midsummer Eve.’

  Nineteen

  Sydney, Australia 1908

  Shaw stifled a yawn and tried to concentrate.

  ‘How are matters proceeding? I’ve been doing a bit of research myself. It seems that there might be another avenue we haven’t pursued.’

  No point in asking any questions. Father would get around to it in his own good time and then he’d go home and sort out a couple of boxes. He’d rather hoped he’d be spending the evening with Tamsin but she’d taken off from the Chinese place faster than a skyrocket, jumped aboard the first ferry and left him on the wharf like a plate of cold noodles. Hadn’t given him an opportunity to arrange another meeting.

  ‘Aren’t you even remotely interested in what I have to say?’

  ‘Yes of course.’ He hadn’t expected anyone to be in the offices when he’d dropped in to pick up the paperwork Father had left for him.

  ‘Will-O-Wyck, the property in the Hunter.’

  Shaw sat up a little straighter in his chair.

  ‘It seems it was granted in 1826. One of the first and one of biggest, pretty much everything between Wollombi and the village of Broke, with the exception of the Paynes holdings. Close on a thousand acres of prime land and it’s never been subdivided. The grazing lease came up for renewal a few years ago, and Ron Rushworth got wind of it.’

  Kelly didn’t only own the house and the small parcel of land around it. He might have been a recluse but he was a rich one. Shaw narrowed his eyes. The unmistakeable sheen of sweat on Father’s forehead and the constant scratching as he rubbed his hands together signalled there was more to this than he was party to. By comparison to the land value the sketchbook was worth nothing. ‘What exactly is our relationship with the Rushworths?’

  With a splutter Father laid his hands flat on the desktop. ‘A business one. As you know Ron Rushworth has been buying up large parcels of land on the north shore, building blocks. That’s what people want these days. A bit more space, a modern house, outside the city. Improved transport and the like. And the possibility of this bridge.’

  ‘And you’ve been facilitating these purchases.’

  ‘Made an investment or two. If the stupid woman had done what she was as
ked and approached her mother six months ago we wouldn’t be in this position.’

  That’s why he’d been sent off to Wollombi with Mrs Rushworth: to keep Father out of the dealings. It was all about money. ‘And you borrowed money to finance the purchase of land on Rushworth’s behalf.’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  Now he’d got the picture. ‘And Rushworth doesn’t have the wherewithal to meet the payments.’

  ‘That coupled with some heavy losses on the share market.’

  ‘He was banking on his wife inheriting the property. The extensive property.’

  With a curt nod Father rocked back in his chair. ‘The old lady lasted a lot longer than anyone expected. It’d be to your advantage to follow up on this. Not going to look good if Everdene, Roach and Smythe default on a loan. Ron Rushworth’s convinced they can make some claim on the property via squatters’ rights and circumvent Kelly’s will. In the meantime we need the money from the sketchbook.’

  Shaw exhaled slowly. They were clutching at straws. What he wouldn’t give to walk out of here and never come back. ‘To whom was the original grant made?’

  ‘One Finneas Methenwyck.’

  A bunch of campanologists took up residence in Shaw’s head. He had seen the name somewhere, written not spoken. Recently.

  ‘Kelly must have inherited it directly.’

  ‘I’ve got to be going. I’ll see what I can find out about this Methenwyck fellow.’ Methenwyck. If he’d seen the name written then the chances were it was either in some of the records he’d been trawling through looking for Rose Winton or one of the books and papers he’d unpacked at home. The Library would be well and truly closed by now so that would have to wait until tomorrow.

  He left the office and jumped aboard the next ferry, ran along the road and by the time he reached Blues Point Road he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He flung open the door and stumbled down into the kitchen. The lamp hissed and spat. Not tonight. He needed decent light tonight; he envisaged some long hours ahead.

  His jacket landed on the table with a thud and he grabbed a bottle of beer out of the ice chest, and then easing past the piles of timber he’d stacked against the wall he slumped down on the single chair in the middle of the room and closed his eyes. One day every wall in the tiny house would be covered with bookshelves and he’d know where everything was. As much as he was thrilled with his inheritance he hadn’t realised what a task he’d set himself.