The Botanist’s Daughter : A Novel (2018)

by Nunn, Kayte

  ‘Now, you should have everything you want here. There’s a bathroom next door and you’re welcome to use the kitchen. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

  Anna dropped her bags on the floor with a thunk and, as the door closed behind the woman, fell on the bed. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  Two hours later, staring wide-eyed at the steeply angled ceiling and listening to the burble of a radio and underneath that, the buzz of a lawnmower somewhere outside, she still couldn’t drop off. She was bone-tired but her brain felt like it was on speed, with too many disjointed thoughts flashing through it. Eventually she sighed and got up, determined that a shower would help.

  She nearly burst out laughing when she opened the bathroom door. It looked as if a lavender bush had vomited up purple everywhere, from the sprigged wallpaper to the matching shower curtain to the purple carpet. There was even a vase of the dried spears on the windowsill. Anna loved the fragrant plant, but not necessarily floor-to-ceiling. Standing in the shower – the tiles were lavender too – only added to her sense of dislocation.

  Later, feeling slightly more awake after her lavender-hued shower, Anna headed out, armed with directions from her voluble host. The clouds had parted and a warm breeze lifted her hair. She reached the Thames – a wide stretch of the river where slim boats glided across the surface, their occupants rowing in perfect synchronicity, ripples spreading out behind them – and followed the narrow leafy path that ran alongside it.

  She looked at her watch. Only twenty-five hours until her appointment with Dr Hammett-Jones.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  VALPARAISO, 1887

  Elizabeth and Daisy arrived at the Estancia Copihue in the late afternoon on the appointed date, having travelled since dawn from Valparaiso with the Campbells in a galera – a small carriage that jounced over the rutted road, leaving them shaken to their bones. Mrs Campbell had eventually convinced her to attend, regaling her with stories of dancing and feasting at previous fiestas. Sibyl and Mrs Gordon were also to arrive later in the day, as well as several others from the town, many of whom Elizabeth had become acquainted with since her arrival.

  The residence was situated at the base of a steep hill and surrounded by flat grasslands. Snow-capped mountain peaks rose in the distance behind the house, which although it was large, appeared dwarfed by the majestic landscape. A low stone wall stretched the length of the long adobe building, and a woman – a housekeeper, Elizabeth surmised – stood in the doorway, ready to welcome the hot and dusty travellers. They were ushered to their rooms, the woman speaking rapid Spanish that Elizabeth found hard to follow. She had picked up a few words and phrases over the previous weeks, but the woman’s accent and delivery was too tricky to make much sense of. Nevertheless, her meaning was clear as she pointed in the direction of a small stone-floored whitewashed room that contained a timber bed made up with a brilliantly hued, scarlet and ochre thick wool blanket, a chair and a woven rug on the floor of similar colours to the blanket. Elizabeth sank onto the bed, surprised by its softness; she had expected something far more unforgiving from such a rustic setting. ‘I should like to rest awhile,’ she said to Daisy, who had lingered by the doorway to make sure of her mistress’s comfort.

  ‘Of course,’ said Daisy. ‘I shall endeavour to find out what time the festivities are expected to start and wake you at least an hour before. Would you like me to help you with your boots?’

  ‘That will be most agreeable, thank you, Daisy,’ replied Elizabeth, raising her feet off the floor and offering them to her maid.

  She was woken from a deep slumber several hours later by Daisy shaking her shoulder. ‘Miss Elizabeth,’ Daisy called. (Daisy had tried but often failed to continue the practice that they had adopted on the ship of calling her mistress by her Christian name only.) ‘Wake up! Wake up or we shall be late.’

  Elizabeth blinked and looked groggily about her, not recognising the unfamiliar room at first.

  ‘I have your gown ready,’ said Daisy. ‘It was a little creased from being packed away in the trunk, but I have been able to air it and the fabric looks almost as fine as it did when it was first delivered.’

  Elizabeth gazed at the dress. It was one of her favourites, cut from pale-pink silk damask, with a tight-fitting bodice that sat low on her shoulders, designed to show her creamy décolletage to its best advantage. Silk-covered buttons fastened at the back and a sumptuous bustled skirt was caught up in a bow to reveal ivory satin beneath. Ostrich feathers, dyed to match the damask, waved at each capped sleeve.

  ‘You have put on some of the weight you lost on the voyage, I am pleased to see,’ said Daisy. ‘I was worried that this would be too loose.’

  ‘No, it fits perfectly again,’ said Elizabeth once the dress was buttoned up. She smoothed the bodice beneath her palms. ‘Thanks in no small part to the skills of Mrs Campbell’s cook!’ she laughed.

  To complete the outfit, Daisy fastened around Elizabeth’s neck a seed-pearl choker with a cameo portrait that had belonged to Elizabeth’s mother. Elizabeth raised a silver hand mirror to her reflection. The light in the room was dim, there only being a small window set high up in the wall, but she knew that she had never looked better. Her hair, dressed expertly by Daisy, shone, and her fair skin was luminous. ‘You look beautiful,’ exclaimed Daisy as she stepped back to look.

  ‘Thank you, Daisy. It is as much the result of your handiwork as anything God-given,’ she said modestly as the two exchanged a warm smile. ‘Now, don’t let me hold you up any more, for you have yourself to get ready as well.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. And I am so fortunate that we are of a similar size.’ Daisy had only brought plain day dresses with her, never expecting to be part of any such grand festivities, but Elizabeth had insisted that she join her at the fiesta.

  ‘It is a shame that Messrs Williamson and Windsor are not included in the party,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘They are due back in Santiago at the end of the month, I believe,’ said Daisy, colouring slightly. ‘Mr Williamson sent a letter a few weeks ago.’

  ‘I see,’ said Elizabeth smiling at her. ‘I was not aware you were corresponding. You must be fond of him.’

  ‘A little,’ Daisy admitted. ‘I do enjoy being able to write to him, thanks to your lessons.’

  ‘Well, be careful you do not catch the eye of any other gentlemen tonight, for in my gown you will look quite striking, I do believe.’

  ‘Oh, miss, I am but a maid,’ Daisy demurred.

  ‘Nevertheless …’

  Elizabeth had lent her an aquamarine dress, originally made for Georgiana, with elbow-length sleeves and intricate embroidery of butterflies and bees. It set Daisy’s red hair ablaze. ‘Fire on the water,’ Elizabeth had declared with pleasure when her maid had first tried it on.

  Elizabeth gathered her fan, for it was a warm night, and made her way to the main hall. Butterflies massed in her belly, for she had not seen Tomas since her arrival, and she was nervous at the prospect. The guests were to assemble in the hall before being escorted across to the estancia’s main barn, which had been commandeered for the fiesta. As she stepped into the hall she noticed Mrs Gordon and Sibyl and several other of her new acquaintances milling around, chatter filling the air. It seemed that no matter where one was in the world, the excitement brought on by the prospect of a party was universal.

  ‘You look quite splendid,’ said Elizabeth to Sibyl, who did indeed look very pretty in a russet-coloured taffeta gown that matched her rich, conker-brown hair and emphasised her delicate shoulders and tiny waist.

  ‘As do you, dear Elizabeth,’ she replied.

  Elizabeth was not surprised to see Damien Chegwidden among the guests, looking as immaculate as the last time she’d seen him, in a starched collar and dark frock coat, slim trousers and highly polished shoes. Society in Valparaiso was small, and this gathering was a large one. He was also acquainted with Tomas, so his inclusion was an obvious one. He smiled at her, looking as sm
ug as a cat that had caught a rat. She fluttered her fan, giving him the barest nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘I see that your maid is in attendance tonight,’ he said, coming over to where she stood.

  ‘She is more companion than maid these days,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘And where does a maid come by such a sumptuous gown, I wonder? It looks as if it were fitted especially for her.’

  Elizabeth did not like his tone. ‘It was my sister’s, if you must know,’ she said, snapping her fan in annoyance. She would need to keep a careful watch on him that night, for Daisy’s sake especially.

  Just then, a hush came over the guests and Elizabeth turned to see Tomas making his way towards them. She couldn’t help it; her heart beat faster at the sight of him. Unlike previous occasions where he had been clad in informal, traditional clothes, for the fiesta he had donned European dress, with dark trousers and a fitted tailcoat over a waistcoat that was as white as the breast of a gull. His hair was slicked back and the effect was, to Elizabeth at least, mesmerising.

  With him was the beautiful girl from the market.

  ‘Oh my,’ breathed Sibyl in Elizabeth’s ear.

  Elizabeth pretended to be unaffected by Tomas’s attire and indeed his very presence, though she did not know how the whole room could not hear the beat of her treacherous heart. She fanned herself, feeling the temperature in the room rise markedly.

  ‘Señora Gordon, Señorita Bligh, Señorita Gordon,’ he said, coming over to them and bowing low. ‘I am so pleased that you could come to our little party. I trust you have rested from your journey?’

  Elizabeth could do no more than nod.

  The girl from the market greeted them with a wide smile. ‘Welcome, welcome. Tomas has told me so much about you. You must be Señorita Bligh,’ she said. ‘I have heard tell of your hair like spun gold and your talent at drawing. And Señorita Gordon, perhaps we might persuade you to play the pianoforte tomorrow before you leave? It is in sore need of tuning, I fear, but you might find it sufficiently mellow of tone.’

  Damn it. Not only was she even more beautiful close up, but she was charming too.

  ‘Sofia,’ laughed Tomas, ‘I see I have no introductions to make. How clever you are to identify our guests so easily.’

  Pure jealousy stabbed Elizabeth as she noticed the fond smile Tomas bestowed upon Sofia. Damnation! How had she not known he was married, and to such a lovely woman?

  ‘It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ said Sofia. ‘Tomas speaks very highly of you.’

  Elizabeth could do no more than give a curt nod of greeting and force her lips into a smile.

  ‘Well, shall we make our way to the barn?’ said Tomas to the assembled guests. ‘I think you will find everything is ready.’

  As she walked outside, Elizabeth could see that darkness had fallen, but that the inky sky was bright with stars. Her father had loved to point them out to her and Georgiana on clear summer nights, but as she surveyed these heavens she couldn’t make out any of her favourite constellations. She felt suddenly homesick for the first time since she’d left Cornwall, and longed for the comfort of her sister, and the familiarity of Trebithick Hall.

  ‘Are you quite well, señorita?’ Tomas’s voice was warm in her ear. She had been so absorbed in her stargazing that she hadn’t noticed that the rest of the party had gone on ahead of her. She collected herself and blinked back a wayward tear that threatened to spill over. ‘Yes, yes, thank you. I was merely looking for a few familiar faces.’

  ‘In the stars? What an interesting thing to do. You are a most intriguing woman, señorita. Of course you would know that the stars you see here are quite different from the ones in the northern hemisphere.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, feeling foolish once more. Of course they were. ‘But that doesn’t stop one looking, does it?’

  ‘I suppose not. Come now, we have a wonderful fiesta ahead of us. I think you shall enjoy it.’

  Elizabeth allowed herself to be escorted along the brazier-lit path to the barn, where the sounds of revelry streamed out the door, infecting everyone within earshot with exuberance. She caught the mouth-watering aroma of roasting meats and as they drew closer could make out the shapes of men turning great sides of beef over hot coals.

  The barn was a cavernous space, with a few rough-hewn tables set at the edges and long benches for seating. At one end was a group of musicians – violinists and a harpist playing a rousing tune that had even Elizabeth’s feet tapping. Several of the Chilean guests were dancing, doing a kind of heel and toe shuffle, stamping, kicking and hopping on the hard-packed dirt floor beneath their feet. They each held a bright handkerchief in one hand, waving it above their head with a flourish as they moved. Those watching clapped and pounded their feet in time to the music. ‘It is called the cueca,’ Tomas explained, leaning in so that she could hear him over the hum of the music and the crowd. ‘Our traditional dance.’

  ‘It’s certainly very lively,’ she said, caught up in the spectacle.

  He left her side briefly, returning with two glasses. ‘You must be thirsty,’ he said, handing her a large goblet filled with a pale cloudy liquid. ‘I hope you like it.’

  She took a tentative sip. It was sweet and refreshing.

  ‘It’s made from fermented apples,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh! Cider!’ she smiled.

  He smiled back at her and their eyes met. Elizabeth tried to drag her gaze away from their piercing blueness, but she failed. ‘I should not keep you. Surely your wife desires your company?’ she said.

  Tomas looked confused. ‘My wife?’

  ‘Yes, Sofia. Your wife.’

  Tomas threw back his head and laughed. ‘Sofia?’ He laughed again. ‘Señorita, Sofia is not my wife.’

  ‘She isn’t?’

  ‘No. Sofia is my sister. This is her home too.’

  Realisation dawned on Elizabeth. ‘Oh,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I assumed she was your wife. You know you failed to mention earlier that she was your sister,’ she snapped, annoyed with him.

  ‘If that is the case, then you have my humble apologies. An oversight. Our manners are perhaps not as refined as those of the English? But let us not dwell on that this evening. Would you care to try this dance?’

  Opportunities for dancing at Trebithick Hall had been scarce, but her governess had nonetheless schooled her in the quadrille and the waltz until she was proficient, if not expert – but this, this cueca was something entirely different. ‘I am uncertain …’ she began.

  Tomas ignored her protest and whisked her towards the centre of the room. Thankfully a different tune started, and the dancers began to turn about in a kind of polka. Elizabeth recognised the movements and was soon twirling around in Tomas’s arms, her heart growing lighter with every step.

  So, he was not married. She did not know why that should cause her such joy, but it did.

  The fiesta continued well into the early hours, with Elizabeth pausing from dancing only to refresh herself with the cold cider that Tomas offered and, when there was a break in the music, to feast on empanadas containing a flavoursome meat, rather like her favourite pasties from home, and then chunks of skewered beef and lamb served with a spicy sauce, a salad of tomatoes and onions, all washed down with red wine or more cider. Tomas stuck by her side almost the entire evening, only leaving her for a single dance with Sibyl, and one with Daisy, whose flame-red hair sparked in the candlelight and earned her several admirers.

  In a brief interlude from the dancing, Sofia and Elizabeth had discovered a mutual love of plants, Sofia revealing that her mother had passed on much of her herbal knowledge before she died. Elizabeth was thrilled – this was the news she had been hoping for – especially when Sofia offered to teach her the very next day the names and healing properties of some of the plants that grew on the estancia.

  Elizabeth noticed her maid keep her distance from Mr Chegwidden, and she tried her best to keep a watchful eye on him, anxious
that he should not trouble Daisy again. For his part, Damien Chegwidden stood on the sidelines, refusing to take part in the dancing, but not taking his eyes off Elizabeth for a moment. He wore a faintly curious expression, his brows knitted together, as if she were a puzzle he could not figure out.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  LONDON, SUMMER 2017

  Anna waited by the Elizabeth Gate at eleven the next morning, too anxious to admire the golden laburnum in bloom in front of her. She’d woken at stupid o’clock, thinking for a moment that she was back in her apartment in Sydney. Then she heard the gentle tweets of unfamiliar birds, and everything clicked into place. London. Kew. Dr Hammett-Jones. A thrill of excitement zinged through her. This was really happening.

  She had spent the previous day wandering along the river until finally giving in to tiredness in the early afternoon and returning to her lodgings, falling into a deep, almost drugged sleep. She’d woken in time for dinner and then crashed again, sleeping through until morning.

  She’d headed out early, walking the short distance to Kew Gardens and arriving as it opened, taking an hour to explore the grounds before her meeting. The huge expanses of green immediately soothed her as she wandered. She barely scratched the surface of what the great gardens had to offer, but gazed in awe at the spectacular Alpine House, the elegant Nash Conservatory, and sweltered in the giant Victorian glasshouse. She stopped to admire the succulent garden and the giant lilies in the Waterlily House, some of the pads of the Victoria amazonica more than a metre across, before wandering into the Rose Pergola, through a tunnel of blooms, rambling roses – including the ‘Danse Des Sylphes’ and the pink-blossomed ‘Mary Wallace’, she read – trained to climb in an arch over her head. Granny Gus would have loved it. So would have Simon.