The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  Two bright spots of colour flared on Mrs Rushworth’s cheeks, she straightened her hat and studied him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘It belongs to me. I have every right to have it in my possession.’

  ‘Do you want to explain what is going on?’ Shaw pulled up a chair and sat at the side of the desk with the sketchbook on his lap.

  With a harrumph his father pulled down his waistcoat and rested his pudgy hands on the desktop. ‘I accompanied Mrs Rushworth to the Library and collected the sketchbook, since you refused.’

  That wasn’t all. His father’s eyes gave him away as they slid to one side.

  ‘And?’

  ‘We have an interested party.’

  ‘The sketchbook belonged to my mother. I have signed a statutory declaration to that effect. I have every right to sell it and I intend to challenge the will and make claim on the property. My husband will be in contact.’ Mrs Rushworth stood and smoothed her skirt. ‘And bear in mind that any failure to recoup the funds will impinge heavily on the standing of Everdene, Roach and Smythe.’

  The tip-tap of her shoes across the timber floor echoed until the slam of the door filled the heavy silence.

  His father rested his elbows on the desk and dropped his head. ‘My hands are tied.’

  Shaw leant back in the chair. ‘Suppose you fill me in.’ There was no point in bringing up the Methenwycks until he knew what he was up against.

  ‘Nothing to fill in really. Kelly, Baker and Lovedale have contacted me to say they have found Kelly’s next of kin and that the property and all contents will pass to her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘A Tamsin Alleyn, Kelly’s granddaughter. They’ve tracked her down.’

  Shaw’s heartbeat stuttered to a halt. Tamsin was Kelly’s next of kin? How had that come about? Someone was barking up the wrong tree.

  ‘Mrs Rushworth can still make a claim against the sketchbook. We should still pursue the buyer. I’ll leave that in your hands …’

  ‘Stop right there.’ Shaw found himself on his feet, hands resting on the desk eyeballing the old man. ‘If Tamsin Alleyn is Kelly’s next of kin the sketchbook belongs to her. How can you go ahead with the sale?’

  ‘Mrs Rushworth is entitled to her mother’s personal possessions. Not the property or the shares.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing to indicate the sketchbook belonged to Mrs Quinleaven.’

  ‘It’s well worth Mrs Rushworth contesting and I’m leaving it in your hands. The last thing I need is for my involvement in this development to come to light. I want you to brief another company. They can handle the sale of the sketchbook—the monies from that will tide Ron Rushworth over, while you follow through on the will.’

  ‘I will do no such thing.’ He couldn’t believe what his father was suggesting. ‘If Tamsin is the rightful heir to the Kelly property then I will not stand in her way, and selling the sketchbook under those circumstances is tantamount to daylight robbery.’

  ‘Oh get down off your high horse. It’s the only way out. If you’re going to be a part of this business then you’ll do as instructed.’

  It was as though someone had thrown him a lifeline. ‘In that case Father, this is where you and I part company. I resign.’ The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think.

  ‘Yes, yes. Off you go boy. Take the rest of the day and have a look around that cottage of yours, and while you’re at it have a last run in that motor car.’

  It wouldn’t take the rest of the day to think about it. It wouldn’t take any time.

  It wasn’t until he was standing in George Street that he realised he had the sketchbook tucked under his arm. He stopped and looked up at the sign: Everdene, Roach and Smythe. The doorman swung the door open. ‘Mr Everdene?’

  ‘Nothing. Thank you. I’ll be on my way.’ He bounded down the street, his feet barely touching the ground and within a matter of minutes he was standing outside the Library.

  The moment he pushed open the doors Mrs Williams appeared at his side. ‘Oh Shaw, you’ve got it, thank goodness. I felt so absolutely dreadful when your father and Mrs Rushworth insisted on collecting the sketchbook. She had a statutory declaration. There was nothing I could do. Was there some mistake?’

  ‘Yes. Yes there was. I was wondering if I could have a word with Tamsin. I’d like this locked in the safe. Is it all right if I go down?’

  A frown crossed Mrs Williams’s face. ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Not here? Where is she?’

  ‘In Wollombi.’

  He’d been so busy chasing the Methenwycks he’d somehow managed to miss a vital piece of information. He still couldn’t get his head around the idea that Tamsin could be Kelly’s heir. How had she found out? And he thought he’d solved the mystery of Rose Winton. He handed the sketchbook to Mrs Williams. ‘I’ll leave this in your capable hands. It is to stay under lock and key and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’

  ‘Tamsin will be so pleased. I’ll send her a telegram and let her know as soon as I finish work.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell her when I see her.’ Without waiting for a reply he shot down the steps and took the path through the Botanic Gardens to the Quay. With an overnight stop in Wiseman’s Ferry he could be in Cessnock tomorrow morning. He needed to have a word with this Lovedale chap before he spoke to Tamsin and got her hopes up. The Rose Winton/Rose Methenwyck connection had to be sorted out. Wollombi by tomorrow and he didn’t have to worry about fronting up at Everdene, Roach and Smythe ever again.

  Wollombi, New South Wales 1908

  ‘I’m happy to inform you, my dear, that I have located a copy of your birth certificate.’ Mr Lovedale smiled benignly at Tamsin. ‘Obviously I will have to check these documents and complete the paperwork. Nevertheless I’m privileged to inform you that, as Frederick Kelly’s granddaughter, you stand to inherit the entire estate known as Will-O-Wyck and a substantial portfolio of shares.’

  Good heavens. She hadn’t thought very much about the property never mind a portfolio of shares … she hadn’t much faith in those. She’d almost forgotten the reason she’d wanted to talk to Mr Lovedale in the first place. ‘Did you have any luck with the sketchbook?’ It was all she cared about.

  ‘Ah yes. Everything is under control. We’ll get an injunction to prevent the sale until Kelly’s will is finalised. It might be a little difficult. Mrs Rushworth is of course entitled to her mother’s personal possessions. Basically anything that can be proved to belong to her, not part of the estate.’

  ‘But I have a family tree here in front of me, a direct line back to Jenifer Trevan, Rose’s mother.’

  ‘We have a good case, and of course the family trait which you display, that’s indisputable.’

  Tamsin wriggled her toes, and laughed. It sounded very much as though Mr Lovedale had everything under control.

  ‘I expect you’d like a good look around the house.’ He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and jiggled them.

  A flush of colour filled her cheeks. She might not mention that she’d already done that, jumped the gun. She’d tucked the stuffed platypus back in the bedside table before Mr Lovedale arrived. ‘I’d like that, Mr Lovedale. Thank you.’

  ‘Come along then. There’s someone who’s been waiting a long time for this moment.’ He glanced skywards and tipped his hat.

  Several days later Tamsin sat on the sandstone bench staring out across the brook and kicked off her boots. The sun had begun its slide below the surrounding hills bathing the garden in a golden glow. Mr Lovedale had appeared totally convinced she would inherit her grandfather’s estate and when he pressed the keys into her hands and insisted it was all above board and that she should take the time to get to know the property she had finally believed him. It seemed extravagant paying for bed and lodging when there was a perfectly good house crying out for some attention.

  Mrs Adcock had loaded her up with enough lemonade to fill the brook and afte
r lunch every day called to check on her, armed with pork pies, fruit cake, sandwiches and soup. It still felt rather odd, as though she was a visitor looking after the house, but staying had given her a sense of belonging that she’d never known.

  Yet somehow she still felt incomplete, as though something was missing.

  And that brought her mind back to Shaw Everdene. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since she’d stormed out of his house. The books in their packing cases in the study addressed to him were a constant reminder of his duplicity.

  There was little she could do about it. In a perfect world she’d like to share with him the full story of Emily Quinleaven. How she’d worked for years to solve the puzzle for Grandfather Kelly. If it hadn’t been for her persistence and determination, her cobwebbed notes and the daguerreotype in the tin no one would be any the wiser. She’d still love to know the story behind the handkerchief though.

  There was nothing intrinsically wrong with Shaw’s ambitions; in a way she admired what he wanted to do. Rescuing long-forgotten books, becoming an expert in the field.

  Sighing, she shifted on the sandstone bench and lifted her head at the sound of a slight splash. And there she was, the female platypus encouraging her little ones from the burrow in the sandy bank. She tiptoed closer absorbed by the antics of the fully furred juveniles as they braved the water for the first time.

  ‘She’s brought them out.’

  She jumped as the whispered words grazed her ear and the warmth of his breath trailed across the back of her neck. How she’d missed him. ‘Mr Everdene. I didn’t hear your motor car.’

  ‘I parked at the end of the driveway. I wasn’t certain …’ He paused, his grey-green eyes downcast. ‘May I sit down?’

  She returned to the bench and he lowered himself down next to her stretching out his long legs. Shaw, dressed in corduroy trousers and one of those soft shirts he favoured. He hadn’t shaved for a few days. It suited him, made him look more carefree, more like the man she’d first come to know.

  ‘I heard you’d handed Mrs Rushworth’s case over to your father.’

  ‘I had something more important to do.’

  ‘Another job?’ She had the most absurd impulse to stroke his cheek.

  He glanced at her and smiled. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Oh well. That’s good.’ Something the size of a bogong moth batted against the wall of her stomach. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  He didn’t look at her, just nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me from the very beginning Mrs Rushworth was determined to sell the sketchbook? Why conceal the truth?’

  He gave a long sigh. ‘I didn’t set out to conceal the truth. I didn’t think she’d have a leg to stand on.’

  Unable to sit still she wandered back to the edge of the brook and sat down on the bank searching for any sight of the platypuses but they’d vanished along with her ludicrous feelings for Shaw. He was pacing. He might have something on his mind but it was going to have to be good otherwise she’d be asking him to leave very soon. She still wasn’t sure he deserved the opportunity to explain.

  He threw himself down next to her raking his fingers through his hair. ‘I made a mistake. I was wrong. I was so determined to prove myself, my ability to be something other than a replica of my father, that I was swayed by the prospect of establishing my reputation as a bibliophile and I lost sight of what was important.’

  Tamsin paddled her feet in the water, kicking up the cool water and tracking the fall of the drops. ‘Yes, you did. Winton’s sketchbook belongs to the people of Australia. All of them, not just someone with more money than sense.’

  ‘Lovedale is convinced you’re Kelly’s heir. He wouldn’t give a specific reason just said he had indisputable evidence.’

  She kicked another splash of water into the air, then lifted her feet and wriggled her toes. He continued staring out across the brook not the least interested in her toes. Come to think of it she wasn’t quite sure why they’d caused her so much concern. ‘It seems there is a family trait. My grandmother and my great-grandmother had it. Mr Kelly told Lovedale about it just before he died. Said it was the surest way to know any claimants were who they purported to be. Simple syndactyly between my second and third toe.’ She waved her right foot in the air.

  ‘And you didn’t know?’

  ‘That it was a family trait? No. I don’t think my mother suffered the same affliction. Apparently it can skip a generation.’

  ‘It’s not an affliction, just a quirk of nature.’

  ‘That’s not what I was led to believe as a child. Mother said it was the mark of the devil, and coupled with the fact I’m naturally left-handed, the evidence was as plain as the nose on my face.’

  ‘What a load of archaic nonsense.’

  After a long time Tamsin tipped back her head and gazed into the grey-green of his eyes. ‘I’d love to know the full story behind Rose’s trip to England and how she met Finneas.’

  ‘I might be able to help there. I’ve been doing some poking around. Can we go up to the house?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She picked up her boots and felt rather than saw him nod, then the shadow of a smile crossed his face but the light had almost gone and it was difficult to know whether she’d imagined it or not. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something. Tell me.’ She stepped up onto the verandah and opened the fly-screen door. ‘Would you like to a drink? I’ve got some glasses, and Mrs Adcock set me up with enough lemonade to last a lifetime.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more, except perhaps to sit out here rather than inside.’

  ‘We’ll have to. I’m a bit short on furniture. The daughter of the previous tenant as good as stripped the house.’

  He threw her a wry smile.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ She skipped down the hallway, butterflies circling around in her insides like the ferris wheel she’d ridden on at the Royal Easter Show. It was so good to see him but he’d hardly apologised. More tried to excuse his behaviour. She pulled the bottle of lemonade from the bucket in the shade on the back verandah and gave the glasses a quick rinse. Perhaps she should apologise for jumping to conclusions. No, she didn’t owe him an apology.

  She couldn’t get back outside fast enough—her heart was doing the most ridiculous skips and bumps and hops. What did she want? She had to sort this out once and for all. She stopped, her shoulder against the screen door. Shaw Everdene was what had been missing for the past few days. She hadn’t realised his absence had made her feel incomplete, as though she’d lost something.

  He’d pulled the table out from the verandah wall so the light from the hallway shone directly on the surface and placed the chairs opposite each other. She poured out some lemonade and passed him a glass.

  ‘Cheers.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the Wintons and the Methenwycks.’

  ‘And the Methenwycks?’ She wasn’t sure she could toast the Methenwycks; even if they were her relatives she didn’t know enough about them. Not until she unravelled the last bit of the puzzle.

  It wasn’t until she put her glass down on the table she noticed the brown envelope in the centre of the table. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh that?’ Shaw shrugged his shoulders. ‘Something I’ve been working on and I thought it might interest you.’

  She frowned at him and sat down at the table lifting the brown envelope and hefting it in her hand. It was heavy, not a book, maybe some papers.

  ‘Go on, open it.’

  For some unaccountable reason her fingers shook as she unravelled the piece of string and opened the split pin securing the envelope. ‘Do I need gloves?’

  ‘No, sadly not.’

  No gloves, nothing old. She pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘Originals?’

  ‘Some and some.’ He took another sip of his lemonade.

  ‘Then I need gloves, a magnifying glass and an ivory rule.’

  He sketched an ir
onic smile. ‘The papers belong to me.’

  She could tell he was coiled tighter than a spring no matter how much he tried to disguise it. She pulled out her spectacles and angled the sheaf of papers towards the fading light. The West Briton and Cornwall Advertiser. The words blurred and her hands began to shake in earnest.

  The following is a more particular account of this disastrous event than the shortness of the time allowed us to lay before our readers last week.

  About half-past five o’clock in the morning of Thursday the 19th inst., an alarming, and, in the event, destructive fire broke out in the mansion of Wyck Hall, the seat of Lord Methenwyck. A female servant, one Mrs Pascoe, first discovered it. On awakening she found her room full of smoke, and on looking out of the window perceived fire issuing from below. She instantly alarmed Master Julian, Lord Methenwyck’s ward, but such was the rapidity of the progress of the flames, that all attempts to extinguish the fire were in vain. The flames spread, and speedily consumed the whole house.

  It has now been ascertained beyond all doubt that the fire originated from a fallen candle, which ignited the curtains and consumed Lord Methenwyck’s bedchamber before the alarm was raised.

  It is our solemn and melancholy duty to inform our readers that Lord Methenwyck and his heir, Julian, perished. Lady Caroline Methenwyck fortunately was not on the premises, as she had taken the afternoon mail coach with her guest, a Miss Rose Winton, visiting from New South Wales.

  Finneas Methenwyck’s whereabouts are unaccounted for and there are fears that he may also have perished in the fire. Members of the Bodmin constabulary are keen to interview him.

  Tamsin forced down the lump in her throat. Finneas Methenwyck. Rose’s husband. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘In my grandfather’s papers. It seems he had an interest in the monks of Medmenham Abbey.’