The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘No. You’ll ride.’ Not prepared to argue any longer and fearful that she would collapse as the tension wore from her system, he scooped her up and deposited her on the saddle, then before she had time to think leapt up behind her, encircling her with his arms as he grabbed the reins.

  After a few moments she relaxed back against him, the fight seeping out of her, and the tears began.

  Thankfully a light still showed in the windows of the inn. He suspected it probably burned all night welcoming the wagons loaded with illegal French brandy. Tonight he’d welcome a large slug, as would Rose.

  Once they’d entered the courtyard he slipped from the horse and pulled Rose down. Her legs crumpled and he lifted her into his arms and made for the door. Loath to put her down he kicked the door three times in succession, heavy and loud. The Judas window opened.

  ‘Master Finneas!’ The door swung open. ‘What’s all this? Come in. Come in.’

  Heads lifted as he carried Rose into the taproom towards the fire.

  ‘Move yourself for the lady.’ Old Bill booted a half-sleeping form out of the chair closest to the fire and he lowered Rose into it. The shaking had worsened and her face was colourless, her lips carrying the tell-tale bluish tinge of cyanosis. ‘Brandy.’

  ‘Here.’ A mug found its way into his hand and he held it against her lips.

  ‘What’s all this about then? Not like you to be in trouble with a woman. Thought that was your brother’s game.’

  Finneas shook his head, elbowed Bill Penhaligon out of the way and held the pewter mug to Rose’s mouth. The tip of her tongue moistened her lip and then she took a sip and coughed, sitting bolt upright, making the hood fall back from her head. She pushed the mug away as colour seeped into her cheeks.

  An audible gasp filled the room, then a heavy silence.

  ‘’Tis young Jenifer.’

  ‘’T’aint. Never be.’

  Would it never end? Finneas tossed back the remainder of the brandy and held the mug out for more. ‘Her name is Rose. And, you’re close. She’s Jenifer’s daughter.’

  Twenty-two

  Cornwall, England 1820

  Rose blinked the room into focus and squinted through the haze of smoke and candle glow. Wizened faces, wrinkled brows, sweaty bodies and above all curiosity. She felt like a specimen under glass, no better than the poor mallangong the Royal Society had rejected.

  ‘You say she’s young Jenifer’s daughter?’

  ‘She’s got the look of old Tomas about her.’

  ‘And Jenifer’s eyes. Never forget those. Bold.’

  Finneas held the mug out again and she took it, gripping both hands tight around it to still the shaking. Lifting it to her lips, she took a sip, and another. Perhaps this liking for brandy was something she got from Mam.

  ‘Her name is Rose Winton.’ Finneas stood with one hand reassuringly on the back of the dilapidated stuffed chair she sat in.

  ‘So young Jenifer got herself married.’ The one they called Bill nodded and folded his arms with satisfaction. ‘Plenty who would have liked that job. Thought I might have a chance.’

  ‘You’re old enough to be Jenifer’s grandfather.’ A thin lanky man with a beard smelling strangely of earth and dirt moved closer and peered into her face. ‘Always thought I’d have the pleasure.’

  Rose swallowed the last of the brandy and put the mug down on the table. She couldn’t sit here and let them discuss Mam or her like they were Macarthur’s fine Spanish merinos ready for breeding. And what about Finneas? Why was he just standing there letting them stare and point?

  ‘And what’re you doing here, lass?’ The man with the brandy flagon squatted at her feet and filled up the mug. She shook her head. If she had any more the room would spin and the warm glow would toast her alive. She looked up at Finneas hoping he would save her. As she’d warmed up the memories came crowding back. All she could see was the poor girl.

  ‘Finneas.’ She struggled up out of the deep chair. ‘I have to talk to you. Now. Privately.’

  ‘Who’s a lucky lad then?’

  Finneas lurched as someone dug him in the ribs. He nodded his head. ‘Do you have a private room we could use, Bill?’

  ‘Wiv or wivout a bed?’

  The colour flew to her cheeks as the raucous laughter filled the smoky room.

  ‘Without will do just fine, preferably with a fire, unless you’re ready to return to Wyck Hall, Rose.’

  She shook her head. Julian might be there. She knew now without a doubt she hadn’t dreamed it. It was Julian she’d seen hovering over that poor dead girl. The thought chilled her blood; she never wanted to see him again.

  She’d visit the barrow in her nightmares for the rest of her days, of that she had no doubt. She’d thought she’d die without having told Finneas she loved him, without having achieved Pa’s dreams, without fulfilling the trust he’d placed in her, without knowing Mam’s story.

  ‘Use the snug. There’s a fire in there and the missus has taken to her bed.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Finneas held out his hand to her. ‘Come with me.’ He must have known the way because no one gave him any directions. She had to duck her head as they left the room and went down a darkened passageway. Darkness had never held any fear for her before but now she clutched Finneas’s hand and his fingers clasped hers in a reassuring squeeze. ‘It’s just down here. Mind your head.’

  He pushed open the door on his right and led her into a small parlour. Two chairs sat either side of a roaring fire and a sweet smell filled the room. ‘This is where Bill and his wife hide out when they’ve had enough of their customers.’ The room was warm and the chairs inviting. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you something to drink. Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’ And she never wanted to touch another drop of brandy. ‘A cup of tea. I would love a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  A flutter of panic rose in her chest as the door closed behind him but she leant forward and spread out her palms to the fire and let the tranquillity of the cosy room calm her. A pang of homesickness hit her. After the splendour of Grosvenor Square and the ancient majesty of Wyck Hall this felt more like home than anywhere since she’d left New South Wales.

  The warmth from the fire seeped into her blood and she slipped the cloak from her shoulders and rested back in the chair, her eyes drifting shut. And then it all returned.

  Julian. The swirling black cape the smell of blood and the girl. The girl sprawled on the stone slab. A hand landed on her shoulder. And her scream bubbled up and exploded, filling the tiny room with her anguish.

  ‘Rose, Rose. Ssh. It’s all right, I’m here.’

  She tipped her head back and saw Finneas’s concerned face hovering over her, his caring brown eyes nothing like the cold hard obsidian chips of her brother. A long quivering sigh eased between her lips.

  ‘We have to talk. You have to tell me. I should have listened before.’

  She didn’t want to talk. Wanted to bury it deep within her, lock the door and barricade it tight.

  Finneas’s warm fingers massaged her shoulder and she leant back into his exquisite touch, half pain and half pleasure. Relief and so, so soothing.

  ‘One step at a time. Tell me what you found in the barrow when we rode out on the moors this morning.’

  She tried to order her thoughts. This morning seemed a lifetime ago. Sitting and drawing the picture of Dozmary Pool. ‘I finished my picture and went to the barrow. There’s a small chamber to the left. The sunlight comes in through the broken wall. I was looking at the walls. At home the blackfellas make their drawings on cave walls. I thought I might find some. Instead I found an inscription.’ The words were etched in her mind as deeply as any carving but she couldn’t bring herself to utter them, as though by giving them voice she’d prove them true. ‘It had my Mam’s name and her birth date—and another date, February 2nd.’

  ‘Candlemas,’ Finneas’s voice was hard
ly more than a whisper.

  ‘Candlemas?’ She’d never heard the word before.

  ‘It’s one of the dates on the old calendar. A celebration of sorts. Go on.’

  ‘That’s all really. I thought perhaps Mam wasn’t Mam, that she’d died and someone else had taken her name.’ It sounded so foolish now spoken aloud in the warmth of this cosy little room with Finneas’s comforting hand resting on her shoulder. ‘She lied to me about Pa, about Julian—oh God, Julian.’

  ‘What about Julian.’ Finneas’s hand fell and he leapt to his feet, standing in front of her, peering down at her, all compassion wiped from his face.

  ‘Nothing. I …’ She couldn’t say it. Julian was Finneas’s brother and she was going to say she saw him standing over the body of a dead girl. The shivering returned.

  Finneas dropped to his knees in front of her. ‘I’m sorry. I scared you.’ He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I went back to the barrow. I wanted to record the inscription. To show it to you. I didn’t think you believed me. I didn’t do it. I have to do it before I forget.’ She rummaged in the pocket of the cloak.

  ‘Leave it now. Tell me. We’ll record it later. You won’t forget.’

  No. She’d never forget.

  ‘It was almost dark …’ She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put the horror into words. Had to. ‘I saw a light, thought perhaps it was the brandy smugglers you’d talked about. It wasn’t.’

  Anger and concern vied for pride of place. He had to force her to tell him, force the words from her before they grew in her mind, and selfishly to validate to his fears, suspicions that he’d never voiced, pushed away for lack of evidence.

  ‘A man in a swirling black cape.’ Her voice quivered, barely above a whisper.

  ‘And?’ It couldn’t have been Methenwyck. He could hardly lift himself from his bed never mind make the journey to the barrow; his lack of sight alone would prevent him. Julian had taken his place, was responsible for the missing village girls.

  ‘On the stone, on the stone …’ She raised her hand to dash away her tears, then she lifted her head, the same look he’d seen when she faced the Royal Society: steely determination. She dragged in a steadying gulp of air. ‘There was a girl, naked, on the stone slab.’

  ‘There was no one else …’ He’d seen no evidence of a body. Was she imagining it. Someone, Mrs Pascoe perhaps, had filled her head with the local rumours.

  ‘I saw her with my own eyes. I touched her. She was dead.’ Rose’s voice strengthened. ‘No pulse. Her skin was cold to the touch.’

  His index finger and thumb rubbed together remembering the smell of death and the dark pool on the altar stone.

  ‘Once again you don’t believe me. That’s why I went back to the barrow. To copy the engraving. Proof.’ She tossed back her corkscrew curls, her eyes blazing. ‘I don’t invent things. I am an observer. I’ve been trained to watch and record the details. Pa taught me.’

  She was right. No hysterical woman. No passing flight of fancy. A trained scientist. Something he kept forgetting to take into account.

  ‘He told me I was welcome.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise the voice; it was muffled by his cowl. Then he reached out and touched me.’ Her hand went to her neck. ‘When I saw his eyes I recognised him.’ Her face paled.

  ‘And?

  ‘It was Julian. He had a drop of blood here.’ She touched the corner of her lips. ‘He licked it away. I tried to run but he brought me down. He put his arm around my neck and hugged me to him.’

  Compressed carotid artery. How would Julian know to do that? An inheritance gift from Methenwyck perhaps. The bastard.

  ‘The next thing you were there, lifting me.’ She held her palms up in a gesture of defeat. ‘You know the rest.’

  He lifted the collar of his cloak and touched the delicate skin of her neck; there seemed no sign of bruising. How long had she lost consciousness? He tried to work out the time. How long had Julian had to clean up his filthy work and what had he intended to do with Rose? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  And Caroline knew. That’s why she’d said ‘find Julian’. Not Rose. He ran his hand over Rose’s hair, smoothed it back from her face then tucked his cloak tighter around her legs. ‘Try and rest. It will be different in the morning.’

  ‘Please don’t leave me. I don’t think I could bear to …’ her voice petered out.

  ‘We both need some rest. Close your eyes.’

  He sat watching the rise and fall of her chest as her lashes fell like dark moons against the pallor of her cheeks, the movement of her eyes settling, her muscles relaxing, until she slept.

  More than anything else he wanted to return to Wyck Hall, challenge Julian, and confront Methenwyck. He had a part in this, and so did Caroline. Caroline held the key. She knew more than she admitted. What he’d seen as anxiety and frailness was no such thing. It was fear and some form of guilt. She’d picked her words carefully, oh so carefully. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and Rose mumbled something and turned slightly.

  He cast his mind back to his childhood, the pranks, enacted for generations, rites of passage. And the girls who’d vanished from the village, always at the change of season. He could no longer write it off as the unsubstantiated rumbles of a village that still marked the old calendar with May Day dances, Beltane fires and harvest festivals. He’d wanted proof and now he had it.

  Easing himself out of the chair he stepped lightly to the door and opened it a fraction. The noise from the taproom wafted down the hallway. He closed the door behind him and made his way towards the sounds, catching the words. Trevan, Old Tomas, Jenifer. He slipped into the taproom and reached out a hand to Bill, inclined his head to the door.

  ‘I need your help, Bill. I’ve left Rose asleep in the snug by the fire. I don’t want her disturbed. Can your wife stay with her in case she wakes? I have business. I’ll be back before daybreak.’ He reached into his pocket for some coins.

  Bill stilled his hand. ‘Not necessary. Old times’ sake. We owe it to the Trevans, many a folk he fixed with those herbs of his and young Jenifer too. She was a good girl. Never thought she’d stole nothing.’

  Finneas nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and headed for the stables.

  His horse gave him a belligerent look as he slipped the bridle over his head and threw the saddle onto his back. ‘I know. I know. Too much for one night but this can’t wait.’

  With the moon full he gave the horse his head and took the track from the inn. The West Country mail coach slowed as their paths met and the driver lifted his hand in recognition, probably relieved he wasn’t a lone highwayman out to try his luck, and then Finneas cut across the moor.

  It couldn’t have been much past ten when he arrived back at Wyck Hall though all the lights were doused except for the kitchen. He left his horse in the stables and made his way through the scullery door.

  Mrs Pascoe sat at the table, a cup of tea in front of her, legs stretched out and her skirt up around her knees. She leapt up the moment she saw him. ‘Master Finneas! The mistress is waiting for you. Refused to go to bed until you got back and where’s young Rose? She’s not …’ Her face blanched.

  ‘I’ll go to Caroline immediately. She’s in her sitting room?’

  ‘No, downstairs. By the fire. Told me to douse the lamps. Sitting in the dark she is.’

  ‘And Julian? Is he back?’

  She gave a dismissive shrug, her mouth tilting down at the corners. ‘Not as I know, but that’s as may be.’

  Caroline first. Rose was safe. Julian never set foot in the inn; way below his dignity and even if he did Finneas’d like to see him get past Bill and his bunch of free traders. He pushed open the door and closed it behind him.

  ‘Finneas, is that you?’

  Caroline shot upright in the chair and
onto her feet in one swift movement. How could he have believed she was sick? Not physically sick. He had every intention of getting to the bottom of it even if it took all night.

  ‘Have you spoken to Julian?’

  ‘No. He returned and went straight up to see his father. What of Rose?’

  ‘Rose is safe.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s …’ he started and then stopped. If walls had ears then houses held secrets and he would not jeopardise Rose’s safety. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘Sit down Caroline. It’s time. I need to know the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ She sank back down onto the sofa, her hands wringing her perpetual handkerchief until it resembled a hangman’s noose.

  ‘Rose went to the barrow. Julian was there.’

  Every vestige of colour drained from her face. ‘What happened?’

  ‘That’s what you are going to tell me. She’s your niece, for God’s sake, your own flesh and blood.’

  ‘As is Julian. My brother’s child.’

  ‘Your brother’s children. Tell me about Jenifer. What happened to her?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve never spoken of it.’ She threw a panicked look over her shoulder. ‘Methenwyck.’ The name spilt from her lips like poison.

  ‘What happened to Jenifer?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her hands tore at her handkerchief.

  ‘What was her crime?

  ‘Nothing. She was innocent.’ Caroline inclined her head and let out a long slow puff of air. ‘I am responsible. Mrs Pascoe and I, we slipped the Methenwyck rose, wrapped in my handkerchief, into her grandfather’s food parcel and told the constabulary she’d stolen it. I never believed they would sentence her to death.’

  ‘To death?’

  ‘At Bodmin assizes.’

  ‘But she’s alive. Alive in New South Wales. Rose is her daughter. Julian her son.’

  ‘She was reprieved, her sentence transmuted to life. Never to return.’

  ‘Stop. Stop right there. You have to tell this to Rose. Not to me. She has to hear it. I have no understanding of why you would do that.’

  ‘There was a good enough reason. Rose and Julian wouldn’t exist but for my actions. I saved Jenifer.’