The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘I’m going to go and see what I can do to save the sketchbook.’

  ‘What sketchbook?’ Gayadin held out the daguerreotype and Tamsin wrapped it up and slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘I’ve got Charles and Rose Winton’s mallangong drawings. They’re in Sydney.’

  Gayadin nodded her head and heaved herself to her feet. ‘They always drawing, and painting with them little boxes.’

  She’d like to give the daguerreotype to Gayadin as a thank you but right now it was one of the few tangible pieces of evidence she had—if you could call it that. In all honesty who was going to believe an old Aboriginal woman, although she could see no truth in Mrs Adcock’s words that Gayadin lived between two worlds. She might be old but there was nothing wrong with her memory—she hoped.

  ‘I’m going to go into Cessnock to see about Mr Kelly’s will. Thank you for showing me, thank you for telling me.’

  ‘You good girl. You come back quick. Old Gayadin not got much time.’

  Her words brought Tamsin up short. She hadn’t much time either. She had to have the matter resolved before Shaw reclaimed the sketchbook from the Library.

  Fired with determination Tamsin took off down the path. She had no idea how she’d get to Cessnock—the post wagon met the Cessnock train and then went back but when or at what time?

  Before she’d even made it through the door of the Family Hotel Mrs Adcock nabbed her. ‘Well. Did you find Gayadin? Did she know who was in the picture?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Mrs Adcock, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I need to get into Cessnock and see the solicitors. Is there anyone I can get a lift with?’

  Mrs Adcock’s eyes lit up.

  ‘And aren’t you the lucky one. Bill’s just having a bit of morning tea and he’ll be heading back.’

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Bill does the post run. He’ll give you a lift—let’s go and ask him. Then you’ll have time to tell me all about it while he finishes his scones and tea.’

  Tamsin clambered out of the wagon right outside Kelly, Baker and Lovedale. She had exactly an hour, no more, no less or she’d miss her lift back. The bell above the door jangled as she pushed it open and she found herself face to face with an older woman with grey hair pulled back into a severe bun.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Baker or Mr Lovedale, please.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  The woman sniffed and began to shake her head.

  ‘It’s a matter of urgency. It relates to the will of the late Mr Kelly of Wollombi.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Alleyn, Tamsin Alleyn.’

  Her eyebrows rose and her mouth pursed as she stood up. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Appointments are necessary.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ Tamsin lowered herself onto the wooden chair pushed up against the wall, her feet jiggling, quite unable to sit still no matter how hard she tried. When she walked out of the door she might well have the answer to the ownership of the sketchbook and a whole lot more. A fast pulse beat in her temple and her mouth was dry as dust. She couldn’t, mustn’t think about it. She’d be disappointed if Gayadin was wrong and no matter what the old woman said the facts had to be proved.

  After an eternity the door opened and the grey-haired woman came back out followed by a small rotund man, his watch chain stretched across his ample stomach. ‘Miss Alleyn, come this way, please.’ He held out his arm and directed her into a sparsely decorated office, leaving the door open. ‘Please sit down. My name’s Lovedale.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘I believe you have something you wish to discuss about the will of the late Mr Kelly. I presume you saw our advertisement in the Maitland Mercury, or perhaps the Sydney papers.’

  Her mouth framed the word no and she changed her mind. She couldn’t imagine Gayadin having much success explaining her story to this man. ‘Yes, yes I did.’

  ‘You do realise any claim will have to be accompanied by written evidence such as birth, death or marriage certificates.’

  ‘Yes, yes I do.’

  ‘And you have those documents.’

  ‘No, not at present.’ And it was highly unlikely she’d ever be able to produce them. She had no recollection of anything like that when the house was packed up. Mother and Father probably carried their paperwork with them when they travelled. Maybe the Misses Green could help. Or even the Missionary Society.

  Mr Lovedale let out a sigh, ‘Perhaps when you have the documents you would like to call back.’

  In for a penny. ‘I believe Mr Kelly was my grandfather.’ There she’d said it. Now what?

  ‘I see. That’s a very close relationship. We were under the impression he had no immediate next of kin.’

  ‘My mother, Mavis Alleyn, was Mr Kelly’s daughter.’

  He pursed his lips, might have whistled given half the chance. ‘May I suggest you bring your mother into the office when you return with the necessary documents.’

  ‘Both my mother and father are deceased.’

  ‘In that case you’ll have copies of their death certificates.’

  ‘No, no I don’t. I was orphaned when I was twelve. Over ten years ago. My parents were missionaries, they were killed in the Islands. I don’t have any family papers.’

  Whether it was the use of the word orphan or the sudden wave of exhaustion that hit her, so bad that she was forced to rest her hands on the other side of the desk, she had no idea.

  Mr Lovedale’s eyes softened. ‘As you may know Frederick Kelly was the founder of our little business. It still carries his name. He was very kind to me when I was a struggling clerk, after my own father died. I see it as a duty to ensure that his will is honoured, hence my somewhat defensive stance. Advertisements in newspapers tend to bring out a series of fortune hunters. Perhaps you would be good enough to recount your story and I will do everything in my power to see if we can find the necessary evidence to support your claim.’

  Twenty minutes later Tamsin stood outside Mr Lovedale’s office, her thoughts swirling. She’d told the story of the sketchbook and the subsequent search for Rose Winton. Something she’d said along the line had hit a chord and Mr Lovedale had produced a notebook and started firing questions at her demanding dates, addresses and so many names her head was spinning.

  And then he’d asked the unthinkable. So much for being a modern woman—if Mrs Williams only knew. He’d called the grey-haired woman into the room and introduced her as his wife, who hadn’t batted an eyelid when he’d asked her to remove her boots. Tamsin thought she’d die of embarrassment, until Mrs Lovedale had clasped her hand and nodded. Mr Lovedale refused to offer any explanation. Just insisted she remove her boots. When she’d done it he’d just nodded and explained that simple syndactyly was passed down the generations. And that’s when she’d realised Gayadin was right.

  Who would have known that the toes that she’d seen as an affliction for so long would be the very thing that would save the sketchbook. Not just the sketchbook, Mr Kelly’s entire estate.

  Bill was true to his word and when she arrived at the corner where he’d dropped her, he was sitting behind the wheel of a Model T van looking very pleased. ‘Got a run to do, thought you might enjoy the ride.’

  She climbed inside and settled onto the wooden seat. Nowhere near as comfortable as her previous experience but beggars couldn’t be choosers and she wasn’t going to be begging Shaw Everdene for anything.

  An hour later Bill dropped her off and she raced up the stairs, praying the Telegraph Office hadn’t closed. She fell through the door and was greeted by an apple-cheeked woman with a huge smile.

  ‘What can I do for you, lovey?’

  ‘I’d like to send a telegram to Sydney.’

  ‘Forms are over there. Fill it in and I’ll get it off before we close.’

  She turned to the little shelf and wrote a quick
message to Mrs Williams.

  STAYING IN WOLLOMBI STOP MIGHT HAVE FOUND OWNER

  OF SKETCHBOOK STOP

  DO NOT RETURN TO EVERDENE STOP TAMSIN

  There was no might about it, at least not in her mind, however it seemed a bit presumptuous to claim anything until the matter was sorted out. Mr Lovedale had said he was ‘cautiously optimistic’ and suggested she stay in Wollombi for a few more days while he ‘made some enquiries’ and hopefully found some ‘hard evidence’. Mrs Lovedale showed no such restraint. She’d caught her in the tightest, rib-cracking hug she’d ever encountered and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Neither of them had made mention of Mrs Rushworth, just referred to the other claimant giving her the distinct impression that Mrs Rushworth hadn’t endeared herself to them. She’d given Mr Lovedale Mrs Quinleaven’s letter to the Library but he hadn’t seemed to think it was of very much significance.

  Shaw couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer. His father and Mrs Rushworth had to be faced. He peered into the mirror dangling over the kitchen sink and scraped the razor across his chin. He’d managed only a few hours sleep collapsed over the kitchen table when he couldn’t keep his eyes open a moment longer. Sadly, he needed to have another word with Mrs Rushworth and see what she could tell him about her mother’s background. She must know something that she wasn’t giving up. How Mrs Quinleaven had met Kelly would be a great start, and her date of birth. If she’d been born before 1856 then chances were her place and date of birth wouldn’t be recorded. What he wouldn’t give for some machine that could pull all the answers up at the flick of a switch.

  With a sigh he knotted his tie and shrugged into his jacket before making his way down to the ferry. Someone was in his corner because in under an hour he was outside Everdene, Roach and Smythe in George Street. He buttoned his jacket, hoping to detract his father’s usual comments about his appearance then entered the building.

  ‘Morning, sir.’ The bulldog doorman guarding the entrance ushered him inside. ‘Mr Everdene’s expecting you. Asked me to tell you to go in as soon as you arrived.’

  He took the stairs two at a time, trying not to lose any momentum; the very air in the building sucked the life out of him. He knocked and entered without waiting for a response.

  Father looked up and nodded tersely then returned to the piece of paper he was studying.

  ‘Good morning, Father.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the desk and waited.

  ‘We’ve come to a decision.’

  We? No point in asking the question. He knew this trick. If he jumped in he’d put his foot in it.

  ‘The Library doesn’t have a leg to stand on. I want you to go with Mrs Rushworth to collect the sketchbook. There is no reason for them to keep it any longer. She’s meeting you there.’

  ‘It’s not due to be collected until Monday.’ He’d promised Tamsin they could have it until then.

  ‘What difference does a day or two make? According to Mrs Rushworth when she rang the Library they said they’d come to the conclusion it’s authentic.’

  ‘Who told her that?’

  Father gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Some old biddy, a Mrs Williams, I think. Quite why we are expected to deal with these underlings I have no idea.’

  Neither ‘old biddy’ nor ‘underling’ suited Mrs Williams particularly well, however it wasn’t an argument worth having.

  ‘Mrs Rushworth wants the book in her possession and on the open market.’

  Mrs Rushworth or his father? Something snapped. He was sick of it, sick to death of this God-given right Father believed he had to ride roughshod over anyone who stood in his way. ‘I gave my word that the sketchbook would remain in the Library until Monday.’

  ‘Pah! A couple of days here or there aren’t going to make any difference.’

  ‘But legally Mrs Rushworth hasn’t …’

  ‘Don’t give me that rubbish. She’s signed a statutory declaration to say that her mother gave her the sketchbook several years ago, to ensure it remained in the family.’

  How had Mrs Rushworth come up with that gem? Was she intending to claim a link to Charles Winton?

  ‘Mrs Rushworth is entitled to her mother’s possessions. The rest can wait.’

  He clamped his mouth firmly closed. If his research was accurate the sketchbook belonged to Rose Methenwyck’s family.

  ‘Now what arrangements for the sale have you made?’

  ‘I have to follow up on a couple of leads.’ None that had anything to do with the sale of the book but Father didn’t need to know that. Perhaps he could stretch it out by another day or two.

  ‘Why? If this is to do with the ownership of the sketchbook I wouldn’t waste your time—and certainly not the company’s resources.’

  ‘I won’t be wasting your money. It will be my own.’ Though God alone knew where he’d get it. Curiosity could be an expensive vice. ‘I thought with your copious connections and contacts you could help me.’ Flattery. It should work. It always had in the past.

  His father leant back in his chair and interlaced his fingers across his expansive girth. ‘Contacts. Worldwide. Yes. Reputation is all that matters in this day and age.’

  ‘The sketchbook contained a pencil drawing of Dozmary Pool in Cornwall. You wouldn’t by any chance know of a company of solicitors I could contact in Cornwall would you? Cambourne or Bodmin to be precise.’ And the clincher. ‘It could well affect the final value.’

  ‘Perhaps I misjudged you. You have been following through. Very good, very good. Give me a moment.’ He rummaged in the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a notebook, somewhat the worse for wear. ‘When we were in England your grandfather asked me to collect some paperwork. Took a very pleasant few days touring around while he enrolled you in school.’

  That he remembered—the horror of those first few days in boarding school, the odd boy with the strange accent and skin that was far too dark after spending his first thirteen years under an Australian sun. He forced the memory aside.

  ‘Here we are. And as luck would have it, it’s Bodmin. Thought I remembered the name.’ He scribbled something down, tore the sheet from his pad and slid it across the desktop.

  Shaw folded and pocketed the piece of paper without a word.

  ‘Now off you go. Don’t want to keep the clients waiting. Mrs Rushworth will be at the Library …’ he looked up at the clock on the wall ‘… on the hour.’

  ‘I’m not going back on my word.’ Tamsin thought little enough of him already. If he went barging in there and demanded the sketchbook before the date they’d agreed she’d never speak to him again and that was something he didn’t want to happen. In the last few days he’d come to realise how much he’d enjoyed her company, enjoyed working with her and in his heart of hearts he agreed with her: the sketchbook should be on public display.

  ‘Don’t give me that claptrap.’

  ‘I firmly believe it is a grave mistake.’ He’d lose his golden key into the world of bibliophiles, and the chance at the library at Will-O-Wyck, but there’d be other books and morality was more important than money. It had taken him a while to come to that conclusion and sitting here in front of his father, knowing that the man was motivated by greed, firmed his decision.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’ Father lumbered to his feet and stomped to the door, throwing it open. ‘Big mistake asking a boy to do a man’s job.’

  Tamsin couldn’t tolerate Mrs Adcock’s inquisitive stares a moment longer so she downed her cup of tea and took off without any breakfast. There was a large possibility that she might be arrested for breaking and entering but she couldn’t help it. She had to go and have another look at Will-O-Wyck.

  She trudged up the road framing her defence in case she was caught. If worse came to worst she at least knew a solicitor who might bail her out.

  Shunning the driveway, she cut through the trees and walked along the bank of the brook on the opposite side to Gayadin’s cotta
ge. She didn’t even want to speak to her. Not until she knew. As she rounded the bend she saw Gayadin bending down pulling at the weeds surrounding the gravestones. Maybe that would be her job one day.

  Feeling more like a thief than anything else she tiptoed across the lawn where she’d seen all the people taking tea after Mrs Quinleaven’s funeral and then bolted the last few yards and landed on the verandah, panting from a strange mixture of excitement and sheer terror.

  She’d never done anything remotely illegal in her life. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, the Misses Green’s perfect student. The thought made her smile; she’d waited long enough to break the rules. She dropped down on the steps to catch her breath.

  Not a sound came from the house; the door was firmly closed and the windows shuttered. How on earth would she get inside? Perhaps there was a kitchen out at the back, a servants’ entry. Once her heartbeat returned to normal, she edged along the verandah, down one side of the house, past more shuttered windows through the heavy silence. It was as though the house sat waiting for her to fall flat on her face.

  As she’d expected she found the kitchen around the back, a separate stone building joined by a covered walkway to the house. The door hung wide open. She slipped inside. The tabletop was covered with crockery, all washed and stacked in neat piles. There was no heat coming from the wood-fired stove and the ice chest was dry. One cupboard held a mishmash of glasses, no food—not even a tin of the Peek Frean biscuits Mrs Quinleaven favoured. Mrs Rushworth must have cleared up ready for the sale.

  Pulling the door closed behind her she gazed around and made a split-second decision. She flung her shoulder at the back door, the entry to the house. It groaned and swung open and she stood inside blinking furiously, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  To her left a staircase led to the upper level and ahead of her stretched a long hallway with closed doors. The very hallway Shaw Everdene had led her down from the front door the first day she’d seen the sketchbook, when she’d believed he was the answer to all her prayers. The toad.