The Botanist’s Daughter : A Novel (2018)

by Nunn, Kayte

  ‘Cool,’ said Ivy. ‘We learned all about the quarantine station in, like, year five. Did you know there are, like, ghosts there? For like real? Woo-oo …’

  Fleur hid behind Anna.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Anna’s mother. ‘Did you say Lily?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Lily was my grandmother’s name. Your great-grandmother.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Vanessa.

  Her mother raised her eyebrows at her.

  ‘Well, it has to be her, then,’ said Anna, feeling an excited fluttering in her belly.

  ‘What was Lily’s last name, Mum?’

  ‘Bailey, why?’

  ‘So, Marguerite married the carpenter!’ Anna exclaimed.

  ‘The carpenter?’

  ‘She mentions she met a man called Joseph Bailey on the ship, bound for Sydney.’

  ‘Oh, heavens darling, that was your great-great-grandfather, then.’

  ‘So, Marguerite was my great-great-grandmother – your great-grandmother.’

  ‘How exciting, love. I still don’t understand the connection to the sketchbook, though.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ admitted Anna. ‘Yet.’

  ‘Are you going to have them valued?’ asked Harvey, coming over to join them. ‘They might be worth a fair bit, you know. There’s a bloke at work, I think his wife works for Sotheby’s. I could ask him about it.’

  Anna bristled. ‘Even if they are, there’s no way I’d ever think of selling them,’ she replied.

  ‘You? What about we?’ asked Harvey. ‘Don’t they belong to the whole family?’

  ‘Harvey!’ chided Vanessa. ‘Stop teasing her.’

  Anna didn’t think he was entirely teasing. But his words had her feeling unnerved. It hadn’t even occurred to her the items found in the house might not be her responsibility. She’d been the one to find them, in the house that now belonged to her. She didn’t care about their value, monetary or otherwise. She simply wanted to find out for herself who the artist was and how the box had ended up in her grandmother’s house, as well as figure out the connection between the diary and the sketchbook – for there had to be one, she instinctively knew it. She half-thought that the E of the sketchbook might be the Marguerite of the diary; that she might have written under an alias or changed her name. But that didn’t explain the different handwriting. There was still so much to puzzle out. She couldn’t just leave them be; she had to know the story behind them, especially now she had discovered that the diary was written by her great-great-grandmother. This at least was a mystery she might have some chance of solving; answers she might be able to find. Then she would think about what to do with the drawings; perhaps donate them to a museum.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Harvey,’ said Anna’s mother, her tone brooking no opposition. ‘Granny left the house to Anna, and everything in it. And that’s that.’

  It wasn’t strictly true, but Anna shot her mother a look of gratitude.

  ‘And what about the photo?’ asked Vanessa. ‘Any more clues there? Anna’s tracked down Trebithick Hall,’ she explained to their mother. ‘That’s where the photo was taken, the one I told you about, the one in the diary.’

  ‘Well, it’s in Cornwall, in England,’ said Anna. ‘And definitely still there. It belongs to the National Trust. But,’ she paused, making sure they were listening. ‘The last of the family, a woman named Florence Deverell, is still alive. I searched up her name and found an FE Deverell living somewhere called Trevone Bay. So, then I looked on Google maps, and it’s really close to Trebithick Hall. It has to be her, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?’ she looked hopefully at her mother and sister.

  ‘Oh,’ said her mother. ‘That’s wonderful sleuthing, darling. I think you might be right.’

  ‘I tried calling, several times, but there was no answer. I sent a letter instead,’ Anna added.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to go over there yourself with the photo?’ asked Harvey.

  Anna fell silent, her buoyant mood suddenly deflating. They all knew she had never so much as left the country, never mind travelled as far as England. There had been plans, of course. She’d even had the tickets, sitting on her dresser. A six-week tour of the great gardens of Europe – Kew, Giverny, Versailles, Chateau de Villandry, even the Lost Gardens of Heligan, in Cornwall itself. That was all before Simon … she stopped herself from remembering any more.

  ‘Dinner’s ready, guys.’ Vanessa rounded up her girls, hustling them into the bathroom to wash their hands.

  ‘Can I sit next to you, Auntie Anna?’ Fleur asked.

  ‘Of course, darling.’ Anna pulled out the chair next to her.

  After they’d eaten, and Anna had read Fleur a bedtime story, she went back in to the lounge, where her mother and Vanessa were having a whispered conversation. There was, happily, no sign of Harvey.

  As Anna reached them they fell silent. ‘I’d better make a move,’ she said, getting the familiar feeling that she had been the subject of their discussion. It was something she had learned to ignore over the years. ‘Thanks for dinner.’ She hugged her sister and then her mother and made her way to the door.

  ‘Keep us posted on the diary, won’t you, darling?’ her mother called.

  ‘Will do. Thanks Mum,’ said Anna as she left. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too,’ her mother replied.

  ‘See ya, sis,’ said Vanessa walking to the door with her. ‘And sorry about Harvey earlier. He’s completely lacking the sensitivity gene. But he means well.’

  Anna held onto her snort of indignation until the door had shut firmly behind her. She would rather be single than put up with that kind of self-satisfied condescension in a partner. She found herself fuming at his assumption that she would never break the boundaries of her carefully controlled life. He didn’t know it, but he had inadvertently planted the seed of an idea in her mind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  VALPARAISO, 1887

  Upon their safe return, Daisy was ushered to the kitchen and Elizabeth joined the Campbells for a late dinner. Mr Campbell, as rotund and ruddy as his wife, greeted Elizabeth warmly. ‘My dear, you are most welcome in our home, as no doubt my good wife has informed you. Your father had become a close friend of ours and we feel his loss, though we are blessed to make your acquaintance.’

  After travelling so far and for so long Elizabeth was heartened by the couple’s extension of fellowship, and to be in the company of those who had known her father. She took a deep breath before speaking. ‘I am afraid I must ask that you not reveal my identity, nor my connection to my father. I have been led to believe that there are some who might wish me ill, and I would prefer to remain incognito.’

  Mrs Campbell gave a shocked intake of breath.

  ‘My story is that I am travelling to sketch the unusual flora of the region, a lady artist if you will. No more than that,’ Elizabeth continued.

  ‘Incognito, eh?’ Mr Campbell looked surprised, but agreed to Elizabeth’s request. ‘Of course, my dear,’ said Mrs Campbell. ‘As a mark of our respect for your father, we will breathe not a word.’

  ‘You did not say anything to Mr Flores, did you?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘No, no indeed.’

  Relieved, and hoping that she could trust them to keep her secret, Elizabeth picked up her fork, feeling a keen return of her appetite. They feasted on more fresh vegetables than she had seen in months, together with a delicious spicy beef stew; and after weeks of seasickness and poor victuals aboard ship, Elizabeth happily helped herself to seconds as soon as they were offered. It was not until near the end of the meal that she raised the subject of her rescuer again.

  ‘That man – Señor Flores – the one who came to look for us …’ She hesitated, taking a sip of the rich white wine in her glass.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Mrs Campbell, giving her a knowing smile. ‘He is quite an interesting man, I am sure you will agree.’

  ‘Well, actually, we hardly spoke. He
came upon us not twenty minutes from here.’

  ‘He is the son of one of the region’s most notable men, Señor Mateo Flores.’ Mrs Campbell warmed to her subject. ‘They say his mother was a machi, a Mapuche medicine woman, and those who are inclined towards spitefulness say that she bewitched Señor Flores, casting a spell to make him fall in love with her. Of course I’m inclined to consider that all nonsense, but there was apparently quite a scandal at the time. Though it was some thirty years ago now, people here have long memories.’

  Elizabeth looked at her hostess with wide eyes. ‘Do go on,’ she urged, just as Mr Campbell coughed loudly and waved his napkin at his wife as if to stop her from speaking.

  Mrs Campbell ignored him. ‘If ever the chilenos get sick they call on a machi; they are women of great power and their healing talents are highly revered,’ she said. ‘But, sadly, Sayelita – his mother, that was – died when Tomas was about ten. They were raised on the family’s estancia in the mountains, between Valparaiso and Santiago, though Tomas lives in Valparaiso most of the time. He sometimes works as an interpreter between the chilenos and the British and Spanish here, and as a guide, though he helps his father in their business too. He knows this area better than any man around, which is why, when he called by this evening, I sent him to look for you when you hadn’t returned by nightfall.’

  That explains his excellent English, thought Elizabeth. And his self-assurance.

  ‘He is a young man of great charm,’ said Mrs Campbell, winking at Elizabeth. ‘So, do be careful, my dear.’ There was mischief in her voice, but Elizabeth reminded herself that she had no wish to be distracted from her purpose, the task her father had set her. She was also anxious to catalogue and collect as many native plant species as possible; what she had seen so far had made the blood quicken in her veins.

  The conversation moved on to the subject of the recent war between Chile, Bolivia and Peru and the meal finished with no further talk of Señor Flores.

  Elizabeth slept heavily that night, though at first she was fearful she might not, because every time she closed her eyes the floor swayed beneath her as if she were in her cabin on board the Corcovado once more. So it was that when she woke the following morning, at first she didn’t know where she was. She had become accustomed to a darkened cabin, with Daisy coming in to rouse her from what was often a broken night’s sleep as the ship creaked and swayed around her. This morning, however, sunlight streamed through a small window, high up in the wall across from her bed. She could make out gentle birdsong, a repeated chirrup of exceptional sweetness, reminding her of the sound of linnets in the wheat fields that surrounded Trebithick.

  As she remembered the events of the previous day she stretched languorously, enjoying the feeling of her skin against the fine linen sheets, of not being suffocated by damp salty air and a constantly pitching, narrow bunk.

  The previous night, she had taken her first freshwater bath since leaving Trebithick Hall – saltwater had been their only lot on board ship – and Daisy had washed her long fair hair, giving it a final rinse with chamomile purloined from the courtyard garden. She felt it now, spread out and silky on the pillow, and her mind strayed to the memory of the dark, glossy locks of Tomas Flores. What would they feel like between her fingers? Tomas Esteban Flores … she rolled his name around on her tongue, liking the sound of it.

  A knock on the door brought her back to her senses. What was wrong with her? She had never taken the slightest bit of interest in a man before. Well, aside from Tommy Pengelly, the pastor’s son who sang like an angel in the church at Trebithick. That had been a brief fascination, ending when she saw him in the churchyard after a service one Sunday morning throwing conkers at the squirrels that lived in the horse chestnut trees.

  It didn’t occur to Elizabeth that it was perhaps precisely because she had been so isolated at Trebithick Hall, with only her governess and her sister for company, that she hadn’t had the opportunity to find any member of the opposite sex of her own age appealing. It had been different for Georgiana. When she was nearly nineteen, she had been whisked away to Plymouth to join their great-aunt for a summer, where she caught the eye of Robert. Elizabeth had been considered too young and was left at home to ride her pony and play among the glasshouses. By the time she was of age and might have been afforded the same experience, Great-Aunt Isabel was unwell and visitors no longer welcome.

  Now, Daisy appeared in the doorway, a bright smile on her face. ‘Good morning Miss Elizabeth. I trust you slept well?’

  ‘Better than in months actually. It is a blessed relief to be off the ship. Though I confess the ground still sways somewhat beneath me.’

  ‘I certainly don’t miss the smell of it. The fish guts and salt spray and other things t’were even worse,’ Daisy said with a shudder.

  ‘Today is Sunday, is it not?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes. Mrs Campbell said to ask if you would like to accompany her to church this morning. She will be leaving at ten.’

  ‘Of course. But what time is it now? It feels as if I have overslept.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Daisy, a laugh in her voice. ‘’Tis only early and we have plenty of time to get you ready.’

  ‘Well, you must come too. You might like to see something of the town.’

  ‘As you wish,’ replied Daisy with a quick bob.

  They made their way to the church in a mule-drawn cart. ‘It’s the easiest way to travel when there are a few of us,’ explained Mrs Campbell as she ushered them up the steps to the open carriage.

  The two young women gazed about in awe as they travelled the short distance to the town’s main streets.

  ‘Oh look,’ said Daisy. ‘That must be the church.’

  Elizabeth, who had been paying attention to the plants alongside the track they travelled on, turned her gaze to where Daisy was pointing. They were now on the flat land not far from the docks and in front of them was a stone church topped by a pretty tiered bell tower.

  ‘The Iglesia de San Francisco,’ Mrs Campbell said. ‘It also serves as a lighthouse. I thought you might like to see a traditional service. Catholic, of course.’ She murmured the last sentence under her breath. ‘Here,’ she said, handing them both folded lengths of black lace. ‘Wrap these about you; it is traditional to cover your head and shoulders here.’

  As they entered the church, Elizabeth saw that it was packed with families, and by their differing dress, of both Chilean and European nationality. They found a place towards the back and Elizabeth let the words of the service – in Spanish, which was incomprehensible to her – spill over her as she gazed at the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Lost in a daydream, she wondered if the opportunity might arise to be reacquainted with Señor Flores, not least – so she told herself firmly – because she was intrigued by the story of his mother. Sayelita would have known of the most efficacious Chilean plants, those to control fever, to banish evil spirits or to quell a delirium. She would surely have also known about the plant her father sought. Indeed, Elizabeth mused, perhaps Sayelita might have passed on some of that knowledge to her son? It was all well and good to sketch the almond groves and the fig trees, but she really wanted to find the medicinal plants native to Chile, the herbals and the curatives, the weeds with mysterious properties, with the power to heal or to harm depending on their preparation and dose, not to mention the one plant her father had charged her to discover: the Devil’s Trumpet. She was, of course, there to fulfil the promise she had made him, the promise that had kept her from collapsing with uncontrollable grief when he died, and had sustained her throughout the long and terrible voyage to Valparaiso. Even though she had been through the worst of the journey, she was well aware that her true test was now upon her.

  Chapter Twenty

  SYDNEY, AUTUMN 2017

  On Monday night a message from Noah popped into her inbox, and Anna eagerly clicked on it.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you last week, Anna. The person who might be able to shed some l
ight on your beautiful sketchbook is Dr Edwin Hammett-Jones. He’s a taxonomist at Kew, specialises in South American flora, and he has a side interest in British botanical illustrators. You can reach him at …’ she read, her eyes flicking quickly over the email.

  She was about to close it when she read the PS. ‘Let me know if you’d like a drink sometime, or maybe a movie?’

  Even though she was alone at home she felt her cheeks redden. Was she being asked out on a date? Oh God. She didn’t know how to reply, so she decided to ignore it for the time being. She closed the email and began to compose one to the very posh-sounding Dr Edwin Hammett-Jones instead.

  ‘Dear Dr Hammett-Jones,’ she began. She explained where she’d found the sketchbook and then uploaded a photo of a couple of the drawings that she’d taken on her phone. ‘If you are able in any way to assist in identifying the artist, I should be most grateful,’ she finished, pressing send and then shutting the laptop.

  Anna’s eyes lit on the silk bag of seeds that had also been hidden in the box. The thought she’d had when she first saw the bag resurfaced. She’d heard stories of seeds that were hundreds of years old being coaxed into life. Turning on her laptop again, she began to research. Yes, she’d been correct – there were even 1200-year-old lotus seeds found in a marsh in China that had been successfully germinated. Anticipation sparked through her. Maybe … just maybe.

  An hour or so later, having read all she could find on the subject, she closed the laptop. Taking a dozen or so seeds, she gave them a light scuff with a piece of sandpaper, and then placed them in a dilute solution she made up from a little compost and water, and left them to soak overnight. She resolved to think about Noah’s invitation in the morning.