The Conjurer's Bird

by Martin Davies

  When the Endeavour finally anchored in Deal, they had been away almost three years.

  Their return was an even greater sensation than he could possibly have expected, his reception in London beyond anything he had imagined. Within days of their arrival he had become the public face of the expedition, the young man who had combined daring and adventure with the most dedicated pursuit of knowledge. While Cook sank quietly into the routine debriefings of the Admiralty, Banks took the same message into polite society and opened a new world to its imaginings. If he had feared that the uniqueness of his experience would not be readily appreciated, he was quite wrong. And if the pictures and paintings of the places discovered were not enough, the specimens collected there were a wonder of their own. He had collected plant samples that would fascinate botanists for years, and there were other, even more sensational things to describe. It was hard to talk of plants and propagation while your listeners wanted to marvel at the shape and habits of the kangaroo. Carried to fame by both the novelty and the daring of the tales he had to tell, Banks was rushed breathless through parlors and dining rooms, scarcely able to believe the honors paid him.

  At first he rode this wave of celebrity as a small boat rides the storm, frantic in his activity, yet lifted from wave to wave without control of his direction or his destiny. For five days after his return he did not visit Harriet Blosset until she sent him a hurt, reproachful letter complaining of his very public negligence. He went to see her then, and each found the other altered, so that the interview was awkward and unsatisfying. She found him constrained and uncertain where before he had been easy and amusing, and his talk of distant islands was less interesting to her than talk of a future with her in London and the shires. She greeted him coldly, unaware how much of her attraction had been in the openness with which she showed her feelings for him. This proud, resentful Harriet was a stranger to him. As their interview progressed he found her less striking than he remembered, the creamy white of her skin less perfect and her gait less graceful and natural. He wanted to touch her, to feel the softness he remembered, but the formality in her manner gave him no encouragement. They sat together for a painful, inconclusive half hour and then he excused himself. His time was not his own, he told her, and he was bound in a few days’ time to return to Revesby to inquire into the management of his estates. On his return, he promised, he would call again, and then there would be time to talk of the future.

  Perhaps it was the excitements of London society or the rigors of his voyage that had affected him, but as he journeyed back to Revesby he barely thought of his last visit there. His thoughts were on the improvements he might make and the decisions that needed to be made about rents and rates. He was surprised on his arrival to be greeted by people and faces he hadn’t thought of for over three years, each of them smiling and eager to make him welcome, their reserve quite blown away by the fame and fortune he had obtained for himself. Their effect was to make him pause and remember, and it was his welcome in Revesby that brought him properly home. Amid all the greetings there was a moment of sadness for him when he heard of Dr. Taylor’s death, two years before. The doctor’s family, he was told, had left Revesby shortly after, their circumstances much reduced. It was commonly known that they had gone to live with Mrs. Taylor’s family in Clerkenwell, and Miss Taylor, the eldest of the daughters, had married a curate. Her younger sister, still only seventeen, had married a man of forty who owned a little property in the Fens.

  Banks felt genuine sadness at the news, but he comforted himself with the discovery that his estates had been well managed in his absence: after three days of accounts and rent books, he was satisfied that there were no dreadful acts of neglect that needed remedy. Much of his time at first was spent in the dimness of the Abbey with the ledgers, but in the afternoons he would head into the sunshine with his steward, Nicholson, to see for himself how things stood. The tenant farms, the cottages, the deer park and gardens—each was inspected and found satisfactory.

  It was on the afternoon of his sixth day that he and Nicholson, returning on foot from one such expedition, turned their attention to the woods that lay between the Abbey and the village. It was a hot afternoon in late summer, and the shade was welcomed by both of them. A few minutes into the trees, Banks found himself looking around as if surprised at where he stood. With Nicholson at his side, his thoughts had been entirely on business, and it came to him as a shock to recognize the place where he found himself.

  “This way, if you will,” he muttered to Nicholson, and struck off to his right. “There is a little clearing this way, I believe.”

  The steward followed him until both emerged into a space between the trees where the canopy parted and let in the sun. Banks was smiling quietly to himself.

  “How little things change,” he murmured. “After so many years away, it is strange to find the paths, even the shapes of particular trees, exactly as they were when I stood here last.”

  Nicholson looked around him. “There’s no denying the woods change slowly, sir. I daresay your children will run down these paths and believe they’re the first to discover them.”

  Banks nodded. He liked Nicholson.

  “Tell me,” he said. “When I was here last, there was a young lady who used to roam these woods as if they were her own. Her father had the house at the end of the village. He was something of a free-thinker and there was always scandal attached to his name. And he was much given to drinking and insulting his neighbors.”

  “Yes, sir, I know the gentleman you mean. He died a couple of years back, in the spring. An unpopular gentleman he was in these parts.”

  “And the daughter? Where is she now? Is she married?”

  “She’s gone, sir. I don’t know where. Not married, though, I’ll warrant. Not if what they say is true.”

  Banks had been looking around the clearing, but at this he stopped and looked sharply at the man beside him.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, sir,” the steward began uncomfortably, “I don’t pretend to know anything for certain, but the women in the village always held that being her father’s daughter, she was…Well, you know, sir. Coming from a family like that.”

  If he hoped his employer would take pity on his embarrassment, he was disappointed. Banks’s questioning gaze forced him to continue.

  “Well, there was a lot of talk, sir. About where she went and who she went with. There was no talk of her marrying, sir.”

  “Really, Nicholson! That sounds like no more than common gossip.”

  “I don’t know, to be sure. But I saw her for myself, sir, just once since she left here. It was up in Louth on market day. I don’t usually go that far, but there were some horses I wanted to see. I saw her quite plain up near the church and, well, she was very smartly dressed, sir. Not like we’d ever seen her here in Revesby when her father was alive.”

  Banks looked down at his feet while he digested this.

  “And she was alone?”

  “With Martha, sir. The woman who used to look after her father.”

  Banks looked up, his features firmly set and a little stern.

  “Thank you, Nicholson. That is very interesting. But of course it is taking us very far from a proper valuation of all this timber…”

  With that the two men turned toward the Abbey and continued their inspection, leaving the clearing empty but for the sunshine and a pair of small birds that fluttered quickly to the forest floor when they were gone.

  It was another three days before Banks was able to find the time to ride to Louth. During that time it occurred to him many times that there was no reason for such a visit, yet he went anyway. The fortunes or otherwise of his former neighbors were, he knew, no concern of his, but his return to the woods had stirred memories, and he was in a reflective mood as he guided his horse into Louth marketplace. He was frowning as he dismounted.

  In Louth he called on friends and inquired after her by name. They were de
lighted to see him and insisted on his taking tea or wine or luncheon, but none of them could help with his inquiry. Next he tried a friend of his father’s, a local magistrate who knew the town and its surroundings better than anyone else. He seemed puzzled by the request.

  “Most likely she is married,” he concluded. “I probably know her by a different name. You have been away too long, Joseph, to expect everything to stay the same. She is probably the mother of two strapping young boys by now.”

  “Indeed.” Banks smiled, uncertain of himself. “It was only a passing thought. If you had known her whereabouts, I would have liked to offer my condolences for the loss of her father.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied the older man. “Very proper. Now, why not step this way and sample some of the very excellent port wine that has been sent me by my nephew?”

  It was another hour before Banks was once more at liberty. Uncertain how to proceed and feeling a little foolish at the rashness of his expedition, he made his way across the market square toward the church where Nicholson claimed to have seen her. It was late afternoon and the town smelled hot and airless; coming to the churchyard, Banks was happy to sit for a moment in the shade of the lych-gate, where the air seemed cooler. With the market over for the afternoon, the whole town seemed to have fallen silent in the heat, and the churchyard promised shadow and solitude. The church was an old one, with an impressive spire, the foot of its walls green-mossed by the passing years. He looked out across the gravestones of the parish. Some were fallen into angles and nearly obliterated by lichen, where others were clean and poignant. A private, hidden place. Leaving the shade, he began to make his way around the church, pausing at some of the stones to read their messages, pleased to be thinking of something other than his own foolishness. After a leisurely circling of the church he returned to a long green stone sunk into the grass near the lych-gate. It seemed, if possible, even older than the rest, but he was unable to decipher its inscription. Coming to it again, he lowered himself onto his haunches and began to scrape with his fingernails at the lichen that hid the names of the souls at rest there. Engrossed by the task, he worked quickly, and the first name was almost legible when a voice spoke behind him.

  “Lichen pulmonarius,” it said.

  SHE OFTEN walked that way in the afternoon when the heat in the little town was oppressive and the churchyard offered peace. It was always a quiet place at that hour, and it was rare for her to encounter anyone else within its walls.

  But then, on that unremarkable August afternoon, she turned into the lych-gate at an hour when the town was quiet, and was confronted by a figure crouching by a gravestone. She recognized him instantly, from somewhere deep inside, and the shock of it disarmed her. In the days before her father’s death, she had often imagined how the moment would be if she were to meet him again. But that had been long ago, in Revesby, before her life had changed. She had never imagined seeing him in Louth. Even when she had heard, fifth-hand, that he had returned and was safe, she had put him out of her mind. It was easier that way.

  On seeing him in the churchyard she could only stare. His back was turned. His hair was dressed differently. She must be mistaken. It was too unlikely, it was too impossible. In that hesitation, any thought of escape was lost. He was no more than eight yards away from her, and the urge to observe him was too strong for her. She heard Martha approaching from behind and held out a hand to make her stop. Then she stood in silence and watched as he worked at the green stone with his nail, until she realized with amazement that she knew what he was scraping at. The words escaped her before she’d even decided to speak.

  HE TURNED and looked up so suddenly at the sound of her voice that he almost lost his balance. Standing at the lych-gate, slight and straight, watching him, she was partly concealed by shadow but was instantly familiar, her figure and her face exactly as he remembered. A beautiful face, he thought suddenly, though he had not always thought so. Then she moved so that the light fell differently, and in brighter sunshine he noticed differences. She was paler now, he decided, looking for the freckles he remembered and finding them fewer and less prominent. As if she has been too much indoors, he thought.

  As he began to step toward her, she seemed to move back but then stopped and stood her ground, her face serious and her eyes meeting his. He opened his mouth to speak, to call her by her name, but as he began she shook her head and held up her hand.

  “No, you must not call me by that name. I have a different name here.”

  He stopped, no more than a pace away from her.

  “Then you are married?”

  The shake of her head was almost imperceptible.

  “No, I’m not married. Here I am known as Miss Brown.” Her eyes were still meeting his. He looked around awkwardly, not sure what he planned to say or do. Then he met her eyes again.

  “Our acquaintance was very short, Miss Brown. There are too few botanical artists in the world for me to neglect them when I meet them. Fewer now than when I saw you last. I would very much like to hear how things have been with you.”

  She looked down for a second or so before speaking.

  “Martha,” she said, indicating the seat near the lych-gate. “Please wait for me here. I have something to say to Mr. Banks.”

  He held his arm out to her. When she took it he paused at the touch of her hand and then she moved forward and they stepped out a little awkwardly from the lych-gate shadows.

  It wasn’t until the following evening that Katya and I talked about Joseph Banks’s mistress. We spent the day on the tourist trail, driving through weak sunshine from Tudor manor to Georgian pile, paying entry fees and asking questions. There is a part of us all that can rise to the challenge of a search, and that day both Katya and I were full of energy and our spirits never flagged. Katya was particularly good. When we found the Old Grange closed for the season, she stepped boldly up to the front door and roused a startled woman in pearls. At Pulkington Hall she discovered a bald, red-faced man who seemed so charmed by her interest that he insisted on showing us his greenhouse. Neither of them had ever heard of the Ainsbys.

  Not everywhere was closed. We watched cheese being made at Radnors, and at Fairbanks we made our own crop circles in the long grass by the Pixie Glen. We found one house that was liberally supplied with cases of stuffed birds, mostly Victorian, which to the surprise of the caretaker we studied with enormous care. By four o’clock the fields were turning gray. It was dark as we drove back to Stamford along unfamiliar roads, our world shrunk to the tunnel of light dug by our headlamps. Suddenly Katya began to laugh.

  “Did you see the look of that woman’s face when you congratulated her on her stuffed grouse?”

  There was a low, happy chuckle in her voice that made me want to smile. But instead I rolled my eyes and grimaced. “Well, what else could I say? She’d just caught me standing on an antique chair, peering at it.” I began to laugh, too. “Anyway,” I retaliated, “at least I didn’t flirt with anyone. You and that old man in the tea room…I thought he was going to insist on coming home with us.”

  The oncoming headlights lit up her smile. “I had to be nice. From the look of him, he’d probably been around here in person since 1914. And since you mention it, the woman at the Old Grange definitely liked you. She went all giggly whenever you asked her anything.”

  We parked the car near the station and found a dimly lit Italian restaurant where we settled down with a bottle of wine, still laughing at ourselves. After a couple of glasses I pushed the menus to one side and got out the photocopies I’d read the night before.

  “You remember we noticed that Joseph Banks had a mistress soon after he came back from his voyage with Cook? Well, I looked her up and guess what I found out.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. That’s what’s interesting. In all the books about him she only seems to exist between the lines. People refer to her, but no one tells us anything. They don’t even know her name. Here, read this.�
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  The first sheet was a page from an aging biography of Banks by a man named Havelock. It was part of a chapter describing the couple of years after Banks’s return from his round-the-world expedition with Cook. I’d marked the passage I was interested in.

  Little is known about Banks’ personal life after the end of his engagement to Miss Blosset. It seems he was content to postpone thoughts of matrimony and concentrate his energies on his scientific calling. However it is unlikely that a young man of such wealth and good looks would have ignored the fairer sex entirely and it is perhaps unsurprising that there was talk of a mistress. The Town & Country Magazine, a scurrilous publication that was always ready to lampoon men such as Banks, referred to her only as Miss B—n and suggested that Banks was sufficiently attached to her to install her in rooms in Orchard Street. But whatever the gossip it proved a transient affair and after 1774 she is not mentioned again. Happily adventures such as this one did not distract Banks from his scientific duties….

  “‘Scientific duties’ indeed! Patronizing sod.” Katya narrowed her eyes and made a little growling sound at the back of her throat. “I hope none of the ‘fairer sex’ ever tried to distract Havelock from his work.”

  “Unlikely, if his prose is anything to go by.”