A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel

by Caroline Vermalle

  The old man reached under the blanket and produced a small key upon a chain. He inserted the key into a brass catch, releasing the clasp that secured the contents of the bundle. With the catch undone, it was clear that what at first had appeared to be several journals tied loosely together was, in fact, a single tome. In addition to the leather strap, the leather covers of the journals were stitched together, and the slight discrepancies in sizes, types of paper and signs of wear suggested that the collection had been built up incrementally over time.

  The old man opened the journal from the back and after leafing through the last pages, which were entirely blank, he flipped towards the beginning of the journal, through the musty and wrinkled pages revealing highly detailed, annotated anatomical drawings of plants and flowers, each one a representation of a theoretically perfect specimen.

  Robert leaned forward to get a better look, but at the same time keeping his feet planted at a respectful distance “I can read books that don’t have pictures in them, you know.”

  A smile creased the old man’s wrinkled face when, upon stopping almost exactly halfway through the first book in the assembly, Robert saw that there was a page missing and that on the facing page next to the torn remnant, instead of a drawing, there was only a rust coloured watermark staining the page in the rough outline of a bird.

  “What’s that?” asked Robert.

  “Please don’t let my brother disturb you, sir,” said Jack, without looking up from where he had been preparing the tea on the sideboard against the wall furthest away from the fireplace. “How are you feeling? Do you have all your things?” Jack placed a tray down on a large bench table at the centre of the room and began pouring tea into the first of several porcelain cups.

  “Oh, everything seems to be in order, thank you.”

  “Robert, be a good lad and give this to Grandmamma.” At Jack’s request, Robert reluctantly did as he was told. The old lady did not touch her tea, but continued her needlework, as if lost in the detail of the pattern that was beginning to emerge within the frame.

  “Can I offer you some tea or a biscuit, perhaps?” asked Jack as he began to pour more tea into a battered tin cup that he retrieved from a hook on the wall.

  “Thank you, that would be most welcome,” replied the old man. “I’m afraid that we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Francis Masson, and I am forever indebted to you, sir.” He tried again to rise to his feet to shake Jack’s hand, but the effort proved too much and he sank back into the chair with an apologetic smile.

  The old lady’s cup and saucer clattered to the floor. Robert rushed across to help, picking up the pieces of broken chinaware as Jack did his best to ignore the commotion. “Jack Grant. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Masson.” In place of a handshake, Jack handed the tea to the old man, who wrapped his hands around the cup, drawing as much warmth from it as he could. “Are you all right, Grandmother?” Jack asked in a slow and deliberate tone.

  But she appeared not to have heard, and after Robert had wiped the spilled tea with a tow-cloth rag, Jack returned his gaze to the old man. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Masson, what were you doing out on this godforsaken road in the middle of such weather?”

  “God did not forsake it, since He put your good self on my path, Mr Grant.” The old man closed his eyes as he brought the cup up to his nose and gently inhaled its scent. “I was looking for flowers, witch hazel to be precise.” He then sipped his tea carefully, his eyes still closed. “Oh, that is delicious. Ceylon, is it not?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t really know much about tea, Mr Masson, I’m more of a coffee man, myself.” Jack watched as the old man drank from the cup, each time closing his eyes and inhaling deeply before taking a sip, which he then swallowed carefully and deliberately.

  “Well, your family must be worried about you, mustn’t they?” continued Jack. “The storm is just about over now. Smithers will drive you home when it is safe. Where do you live?”

  “My family? Oh no, I … I live alone. I was due to sail for England, but the ship was delayed when the weather turned, and so I thought I would make one last foray.”

  Just then, shafts of winter sunlight poured through the south-facing windows, signalling the end of the storm. The garden had been transformed into a world of crystals and stalactites, sparkling in the timid sun. Even the strongest of trees sagged under the weight of the ice that encased their leafless limbs.

  “This ice storm. It’s quite something, isn’t it?” asked the old man. “It’s the first time I’ve seen one. This climate, though, the cold … I fear it is something I will never get used to.”

  “Are you not from around here?”

  “From England, well, originally I’m Scottish but His Majesty the King sent me here a few years ago.”

  “Really?” asked Jack, the surprise in his voice making plain his scepticism. “In what capacity, may I ask?”

  “I am, I was … his gardener. I suppose you could say that I came here to hunt. They are such elusive things, flowers, and this cold is much worse than I expected. I had become so used to the heat …” his voice trailed off as he slipped into reverie.

  “My knowledge of geography is not what it ought to be,” said Jack, his patience beginning to wane, “But I don’t recall England having a particularly hot climate, and Scotland even less so.”

  “Quite right.” Mr Masson drained the last of his tea. “But you see, I did most of my collecting in Africa.”

  “Africa?” cried Robert, his eyes shining. “Did you see lions? Did you get to kill one?”

  “Really, Robert!” Jack scoffed.

  “It was very nearly the lion that killed me!” exclaimed the old man. “Please trust me when I tell you, young sir, that facing a lion is not something I would like to experience ever again.”

  “Can you believe it, Jack?” cried Robert. Jack could not. “How big was it? How did you kill it? Did you use a gun or a spear?” Robert jumped up and ran around the room holding an imaginary rifle and making shooting noises.

  “Now, Robert,” interrupted Jack, turning towards his brother and adopting the same stance and tone of voice he had seen his father use so many times before. “I am sure Mr Masson is too worn out to tell stories. Leave him be.”

  “It’s is no trouble at all, Mr Grant, really,” the old man reassured him, before turning to Robert and saying in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, “In Africa, there were hippopotamuses too. Do you know what they are? Hippopotamus amphibius …”

  With Robert’s mouth agape as the old man began to embark on a detailed description of the quadruped, Jack left the summer kitchen and walked through the reception room, across the main hall and then into the dining room, where he found his mother placing the final touches to a table set for the feast. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  “Nice table, mother. I would say your best one yet.”

  “Thank you, Jack. I thought you were looking after your guest?”

  “Well, if you fancy hearing tall tales about lions and hippopotamuses, then be my guest. I am sure that Mr Francis Masson, servant to the King of England no less, would be only too pleased to oblige.” Jack looked beseechingly at his mother and pleaded, “I’ve done as you asked and looked after him, but I think I have had about as much as I can bear. Where’s Smithers? Is he ready to go yet?”

  “You can’t send him out now, Jack. With all that ice on the road, it’s not safe.” George Grant said as he ambled in wearing a smoking jacket, whilst still perusing his ledger. “Besides, all this talk of lions sounds like just the thing for our readers at the Gazette. Maybe you can get the story out of him before our guests arrive, what do you think? You did say that you were tired of writing obituaries.”

  “Fanciful tales of fantastic beasts was not exactly what I had in mind,” Jack retorted.

  “Really, Jack, I am sure you are exaggerating,” Mary Grant said. “Lions, here in Canada? T
he poor man must really have had a knock. Perhaps I should see for myself.” She passed her eye over the table one last time and then made off in the direction of the summer kitchen, with Jack dragging his heels close behind.

  ***

  Despite the mayhem of the afternoon, Mary could not help but smile at the sight that greeted her in the cheery warmth of the summer kitchen: Robert, wide-eyed and transfixed, sat atop an old wooden chest that he had dragged over, while the old man, with his worn leather book on his lap, had shrugged off his blanket and was describing incredible scenes with an energy and animation that belied his feeble condition. Mary hovered at the door, keeping out of sight and not wanting to break the spell.

  “… and when you think they’re taking a bath, beware, they run underwater as fast as on land! Oh, and there was the time with the poison arrows … But wait, I must start with the beginning. Let’s see. It was in 1772. Good grief, is that really thirty-three years ago already? It is, isn’t it? How quickly time passes.”

  Masson had not heard them come in and Jack joined his mother at the doorway and theatrically stifled a yawn. With a silent nod and a frown, she gestured for him to re-join, which he did, reluctantly.

  Satisfied that the old man was not about to run stark raving mad through the house, upsetting all her careful preparations, Mary cast a final eye over the room before discreetly backing out and closing the door behind her.

  Masson looked up at the sound of the door shutting and then across to the old woman, who still seemed in a world of her own. After only the briefest of pauses, he turned to Robert and, with a sad smile, began his tale.

  “It was a hot summer’s day in London — I remember it like it was yesterday — and when I think that it all started because of a mistake.”

  CHAPTER 4

  MAY 1772, LONDON

  There was no escape from the sun as it bore down mercilessly on Ian Boulton and James Simmons. The two men stood and waited at the end of Crane Court, a small cul-de-sac off Fleet Street that was home to the Royal Society. In front of the men was a small trestle table, which had been placed to one side of the main entrance so as not to impede the comings and goings of the Society’s illustrious members. Fixed onto the cast iron railings behind them was a small sign with the words “Botanical Expedition” carefully stencilled in black.

  “Bad traffic for sure,” said Simmons, squinting at the sun from under his three-cornered hat. “They’ll come.”

  “It is twenty-five minutes past ten already,” complained Boulton, as he snapped back the cover of his watch before putting it in to his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. “Didn’t you say ten o’clock at the south door? Show me the advertisement again.” He pulled at the starched stock around his neck and wiped at his brow, being careful not to skew his wig as he examined the broadsheet that Simmons was hastily spreading over the table. The words had been ringed in pencil and as Boulton re-read it for the seventh time that morning he could not imagine how they could have made it any clearer that all applicants were to present themselves at the south door of the Royal Society no later than ten o’clock on the morning of the first of May. The advertisement ended with the words, “No submissions will be accepted beyond this date and time. All enquiries are to be addressed to Mr Boulton, secretary to Sir Joseph Banks.”

  Boulton huffed in frustration as he finished reading. “But is it obvious that this is the south door?” he asked, worry creeping into his voice. “Perhaps you should have put up a bigger sign.”

  “The sign is as per your instructions, sir, and if I may be so bold as to suggest that a gentleman proving incapable of locating the south door may, by definition, be unworthy for consideration. After all, if one is applying for the post of botanical explorer, then surely one should know one’s north from one’s south?” Simmons grinned at his own joke as he refolded the newspaper.

  “And may I suggest to you, Simmons, that being in the post of my assistant, your function is to assist. You can be assured that should we return empty-handed, Sir Joseph will prove perfectly capable of showing us the door, and it will matter not one jot whether it is the south or the north one!”

  In the distance, the Bow Bells sounded half past the hour. Boulton muttered an oath and watched helplessly as the pedestrians going about their business on Fleet Street all walked past the entrance to Crane Court without showing any interest whatsoever. His brow patting increased to a frenzy, threatening to dismount his wig entirely.

  “Well, that’s that, Simmons. You don’t happen to have a relative with the requisite qualifications, do you?” Boulton asked, his tone almost hysterical.

  “I’m afraid my lot are all gone to the colonies, sir. My wife’s family, however,” he snorted derisively, “showed remarkable navigational skills in finding their way into my house, but now seem unable to find their way out.”

  Boulton stared down at his diminutive assistant, unable to understand how the wretched man could so brazenly fail to appreciate the seriousness of the predicament that they now faced. “Well, what do you propose I tell him? Hmm? And then there’s the Admiralty. And the King. Oh dear God.” Boulton was now sweating so profusely and in such a state of agitation that Simmons could not be sure whether it was perspiration or tears that cascaded down his cheeks.

  “Hold on a minute, sir,” Simmons looked passed Boulton and to an approaching figure. “We may not be out of luck just yet.”

  Boulton followed Simmons’ gaze and saw a man turn the corner into Crane Court from Fleet Street carrying a battered wooden container the size of a hatbox.

  His eyes were verdant sparkles, at odds with the serious and unsmiling face in which they were set. He was not younger than thirty years of age and was strongly built, but he pulled and fidgeted at his clothes. Although they were neat and clean, they seemed to sit uncomfortably upon him, as if they were new or were seldom worn. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was long, bleached a lighter shade of brown by the same sun that had tanned his skin, and it had been hurriedly tied back into a ponytail. On top of his head was a three-cornered hat which, unlike the rest of his ensemble, was battered and worn.

  He was tall and walked with his chest thrust out, but not in a way that was pompous or aggressive. His upright gait only implied a sense of certainty of purpose and direction that, when combined with his size and build, sent out a subtle message to others that it might be better to step aside rather than to block his path or hinder his progress.

  But Boulton was in no mood for subtleties. He grabbed Simmons by the elbow and rushed straight towards the man who saw the pair coming and, sensing a confrontation, instinctively pulled the box towards his chest with his left arm in order to free his other.

  He veered to the right so as to avoid them, but they changed course to match him and just as a collision seemed inevitable, Boulton beamed his most convincing smile and opened both arms expansively, effectively blocking the pavement. “We thought you would never come! Please do hurry, Sir Joseph is waiting.”

  The man let the case drop to his side and replied with the faintest of Lowland lilts, “Sir Joseph Banks? Waiting for me?”

  “Indeed,” said Boulton hurriedly, his smile widening to almost impossible proportions. “He’s with the Admiralty right now, deciding who will go on the expedition. We must hurry.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” the man said firmly. “I'm here to deliver seeds and a sample of Paeonia albiflora.” Boulton looked to Simmons, who simply shrugged.

  “From China?” he said holding up the box by way of explanation. “They are for Mr Solander from Mr Aiton.”

  “Seeds?” asked Boulton, caught between confusion and disappointment.

  “Yes, seeds. My name is Francis Masson. I’m an under-gardener at the service of His Majesty the King at his gardens at Kew.”

  “Seeds,” Boulton repeated emptily. “So … not an explorer, then.” His eyes started to lose focus.

  But a smile had started to spread across Simmons’ feral face. “
Did you say a gardener, sir?”

  “Under-gardener, actually, I—” began Masson.

  But Simmons cut him off, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice. “With, I am sure, an excellent knowledge of flowers?”

  Simmons glanced sideways at Boulton, who started to nod enthusiastically. Simmons then reached up and, although barely able to place both hands on Masson’s broad shoulders, he looked the taller man square in the eye before asking, “Mr Masson, sir, you’re in good health, I trust?” He gave the man a firm slap on the shoulder as if to check.

  “Well, yes,” Masson said, trying to shrug out of the smaller man’s surprisingly firm grasp. “But I’m afraid that I am late already, and Mr Aiton would be most displeased—”

  “You know your north from your south?”

  “Of course, but if you will just step aside,” replied Masson, beginning to lose patience.

  “Then you, sir, are just the man we need! Isn’t that so, Mr Boulton?”

  Boulton looked Masson up and then turned back to Simmons. A smile slowly replaced his frown and surprised by the certainty he suddenly felt, he could only utter a single word in reply:

  “Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER 5

  With no time left to lose, Simmons and Bolton frogmarched a still-protesting Masson through the front door and down panelled corridors that smelled of tobacco and old books.

  Sir Christopher Wren, Samuel Pepys, the Earl of Halifax, Isaac Newton — not a smile amongst the bunch of them as they peered mirthlessly down from beneath flowing wigs, captured for posterity on canvases that lined the walls of the corridors along which the three men now raced. Through the efforts of these men, the Society had claimed a place at the forefront of the enlightened world and as Masson was dragged beneath their eminent gazes, he couldn’t help but feel that the only emotion their unblinking stares conveyed was one of undisguised disdain.