The Botanist’s Daughter : A Novel (2018)

by Nunn, Kayte

  Before they left the city, Elizabeth had made enquiries of the next ship departing for England, but discovered that there were likely to be none headed in that direction for several months. It was imperative that Daisy take the Devil’s Trumpet cutting and seeds to Kew as soon as possible, for it could only be a matter of time before Mr Chegwidden, with his resources and knowledge of the area, came across it for himself. She intended to book a passage for her maid on the next available sailing, but decided to wait until closer to the time to ask her to undertake the journey. She also had no intention of informing her husband until it was absolutely necessary, for she did not wish him to raise any objections to her plan. She found herself frustrated both at the delay and the almost bovine slowness of her body. Her rounded stomach was too big to allow her to sit and paint for long periods as she had been used to, so she contented herself with a seat placed in the shade of a cypress tree and watched the hawks that frequented the area glide and swoop high above her.

  This was where she was sitting when she got the first indication that the baby might come early. She shifted in her seat, wondering if the pain was from something she had eaten at breakfast. She suffered an almost constant burning in her throat as the baby pressed up on her stomach. Sofia had brewed a viscous, milky concoction that she swore would help, but Elizabeth gagged after one sip of the slimy liquid and chose instead to put up with the dyspepsia.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Sofia was by her side. ‘Did you call me?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe I did,’ replied Elizabeth, knowing that, uncomfortable as she was, she definitely had not made a sound.

  ‘You look tired. May I?’ Sofia placed her long brown fingers on Elizabeth’s belly, gently pressing on it. Elizabeth closed her eyes and enjoyed the comfort her hands brought. Sofia had inherited her mother’s healing touch.

  ‘This baby, he wants to come soon,’ said Sofia.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I am not ready. Señor Calabras said it would be weeks yet.’

  Sofia gave her a look that seemed to Elizabeth as wise as time itself. ‘I doubt that I am wrong. It is written in the sky – the moon is nearly full – I have been watching and waiting.’

  Elizabeth was suddenly terrified, thoughts of her mother crowding her mind, a voice in her head reminding her she was miles from a doctor.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed now, sweet one,’ Sofia soothed. ‘I have helped many women have their babies, and all will be fine.’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ Elizabeth protested. ‘My mother—’

  ‘I know, mi corazon, but do not worry. Just do as I say and before you know it you will have a beautiful baby in your arms.’

  ‘Oof!’ Elizabeth leant back in the chair as another wave of pain, stronger this time, swept through her.

  ‘Come. We should go to your bedchamber. I will send someone to let Tomas know. Lean on me now.’

  Elizabeth took her arm and they made their way haltingly back to the house.

  ‘Talk to me, Sofia. Tell me a story,’ she said much later. ‘Anything to take my mind off this … this …’ Elizabeth was lost for words. The pain was unlike anything she had ever known; she felt even more wretched than she had when she was aboard the Corcovado and struck down with seasickness. Waves of contractions ripped through her, leaving her panting for breath and every muscle trembling uncontrollably.

  Throughout it all, Sofia had only left her side once, to assemble a bizarre collection of objects: a grey feather, what looked like an amethyst that sparkled even in the dim light, and a crude silver figurine. Daisy, coming in to check on her mistress, pursed her lips as she saw the amulets but said nothing.

  ‘Hush now,’ Sofia soothed, brushing back the damp gold hair from Elizabeth’s forehead. ‘I remember the time my mother first took me to a birthing. I was a young girl. Ayee, I was so scared, I imagined the woman was going to be split in half like a melon.’

  Elizabeth looked up at her anxiously. The thought of such a thing chilled the sweat that had broken out on her forehead, and she swallowed, her throat dry from the guttural moans she had been unable to silence.

  ‘But she was fine,’ Sofia continued. ‘A few short pushes and out came this wet, wriggling bundle of arms and legs, covered in a fine, dark hair. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen, and I could not hold back my tears of joy. A new life, my mother said, is a sacred thing.’

  ‘Did your mother use her herbs to help the women?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Of course,’ said Sofia. ‘As I will for you.’ She walked over to a table on the far side of the room on which stood several small dark glass bottles. ‘Here,’ she said, returning with one in her hands. ‘A few drops of this will help you sleep better than you have in your entire life. You must get some rest, for you will need your strength soon enough.’

  ‘What strange magic is this?’

  Sofia gave her a mysterious smile. ‘No te preocupes. Open your mouth.’

  Elizabeth, too exhausted to protest or even care what she might be ingesting, opened her mouth like a baby bird as Sofia dispensed a dark, oily liquid that tasted like bitter almonds. She barely had time to recoil at the vile taste before she was dragged into oblivion.

  When she woke, it was dark outside and Sofia was by her side. Daisy sat, looking anxious, at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Tomas?’ she asked.

  ‘He is waiting outside, do not worry.’

  Before she had time to ask to see him, a wave of pain crashed over her. Daisy moved to her side and wiped her brow with a cool cloth. Sofia gripped her hand tightly. ‘It is almost over. Be strong now and all will be well,’ she promised. ‘Daisy, can you fetch me some more water, please?’

  ‘What was in that medicine?’ asked Elizabeth after Daisy had gone. ‘I cannot believe I slept through this. I had the strangest dreams … My mother was there, looking just as she does in a painting at home …’

  Sofia held her gaze. ‘It was a tiny, tiny amount of that herb, the one you asked me about when we first met. Trompeta del Diablo.’ She said the name in a whisper.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she gasped, but this time it was not from the pain.

  ‘A sliver from the leaf, no larger than my smallest fingernail. Soaked in oil and then the oil is strained. But you must tell no one of this. Mr Chegwidden is one of several Englishmen who have come to Valparaiso in recent times to search for this plant. Those of us who know how to use it do not want it falling into the wrong hands. It is extremely powerful, but more than that, it is also very dangerous.’

  Elizabeth could do no more than nod.

  ‘It is almost impossible to find unless you know exactly where to look,’ said Sofia. ‘They all think it grows high in the mountains, but I do not know why. In fact, it prefers the warmth of the valley.’

  Elizabeth allowed herself a small, secret smile. She relaxed back on her pillow and let the urge to bear down, to push this baby out of her no matter what the cost, take her over completely.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  CORNWALL, SUMMER 2017

  ‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you.’

  The woman standing in the doorway spoke with a very precise accent, the vowels clipped and formal. She was small and round, with a cardigan stretched over her ample bosom and floral-print dress. Her shock of white hair was neatly pinned back under a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her skin was liver-spotted and creased with deep lines, but her faded blue eyes held a look of sharp focus.

  ‘I know exactly who you are,’ the elderly lady went on. ‘You’re that girl who wrote to me.’

  Anna exhaled the breath she had been holding in. ‘Yes, Miss Deverell, I am,’ she said with relief. ‘Anna Jenkins. But have we caught you at a bad time? You look as if you are about to go out?’

  ‘No dear, I’m just back from church. The flowers this week weren’t a patch on mine. Still, you’ve got to let others have a turn now and again, don’t you? And who are you, young man?’ she asked, turnin
g her attention to Ed.

  ‘Oh, he’s a friend of mine,’ said Anna. ‘Edwin. Edwin Hammett-Jones.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you Miss Deverell,’ Ed said formally.

  She looked him over critically and seemed to approve. ‘You’d better both come in, then. I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll stay for a cup.’ They were statements, not questions. She was obviously used to people obeying her orders, thought Anna as she watched her head off down the cottage’s dark hallway. Anna and Ed followed, finding themselves in a small sitting room crammed with furniture and books. There was not a spare inch of horizontal surface that didn’t have a figurine, towering pile of hardbacks or lamp on it. ‘Off you get, Mr Darcy,’ Florence barked at a fat ginger cat that had been sunning itself on a chintz sofa. The cat lazily flicked its tail at her but didn’t move. ‘Have a seat, I shan’t be a jiffy.’

  Anna caught Ed’s eye, which was a mistake as he was trying hard to keep a straight face. ‘Mr Darcy?’ he said incredulously when Florence had left.

  ‘Shush!’ said Anna. ‘She might hear you.’

  ‘What? She must be ninety if she’s a day. Not a chance.’

  ‘Stop it!’ cried Anna, but she couldn’t help her lips curving in amusement, both at Ed and the improbably named cat.

  There were two old-fashioned wing-backed chairs upholstered in sun-faded rose-patterned chintz, and they took one each, the sofa having been requisitioned by the ginger tom.

  ‘Here you are, then,’ Florence bustled back into the room carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, saucers, sugar bowl, milk jug and a plate of sugared biscuits.

  ‘Let me get that for you,’ Ed sprang up to offer assistance.

  She fixed him with a steely glare. ‘I’m perfectly capable, thank you.’

  Anna was reminded of Granny Gus again. Florence had the same uncompromising look.

  Ed sat down once more, but not before flicking a look of amusement at Anna.

  ‘One lump or two?’ asked Florence.

  ‘Oh, none for me, thank you.’ Anna took the proffered cup and saucer and rested it on her knee.

  ‘Quite right too, dear. People these days eat far too much sugar.’

  Anna had been on the point of reaching for a biscuit, but stilled her hand. Ed had no such qualms, however, and helped himself to two.

  Florence sat on the sofa, unceremoniously shoving Mr Darcy to its far corner. ‘So.’ She folded her hands in front of her. ‘Exactly why did you wish to see me? It’s not very often that I receive such an intriguing letter. You said you had found an old photograph of Trebithick?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Anna. ‘As I mentioned in my letter, I was having some work done on my grandmother’s house in Sydney – well, actually it’s my house now – when the builders found a box. This was one of the things in the box …’ Anna reached into her bag and pulled out the picture of John Trebithick.

  ‘And you came all this way because of an old photograph?’

  ‘Well, there were a few other things in the box as well …’ Anna hesitated to reveal more until she was certain about the photograph.

  ‘Such as?’ The old lady was not to be fobbed off.

  ‘Some jewellery – nothing particularly valuable; some drawings. There was also a diary.’

  The old lady raised her eyebrows. ‘All right then, let’s take a look at this photograph.’ She patted her chest in search of a pair of spectacles that hung from a chain around her neck. Locating them, she put them on the end of her nose and peered at the picture that Anna held up in front of her.

  There was silence.

  Florence turned the photo over. ‘Well, it’s definitely Trebithick Hall. You can tell that straightaway.’

  ‘Yes, we went and had a look yesterday,’ said Anna. ‘Even the rhododendron is still there.’

  ‘It’s one of the oldest in all of England,’ said Florence, a note of pride in her voice. ‘We nearly lost it in the storms of ’87.’ She put the photograph down next to her cup of tea and went over to a bookshelf on the far side of the room. Rummaging among its contents, she pulled out books seemingly at random, all the while muttering under her breath. With an exhalation of victory, she found what she was looking for and turned to show Anna and Ed. ‘A biography of John Trebithick, my great-grandfather.’ She turned the pages, coming to rest at the plate section in the middle of the book. She passed it to Anna, handing her the photograph as well.

  ‘It’s almost identical!’ cried Anna, comparing the two. In the picture in the book, the young girl was looking to the right, as if her attention had been caught by something just out of view. Anna read the caption aloud, ‘“John Trebithick and his daughter Elizabeth” – Elizabeth. I knew it had to be her.’ She continued, ‘“Sir John had recently returned from a plant-hunting expedition to South America.”’

  ‘So, my dear, I wonder quite how almost the exact same photograph came to be – where did you say? Australia?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna.

  ‘How extraordinary!’ Florence flipped to another page in the book. ‘There’s one more photograph of Elizabeth here, of the mourning party after John Trebithick’s death.’

  Anna stared at the photograph. It showed a number of black-clad people in a funeral procession; they were following a horse-drawn hearse, the animals festooned with ostrich plumes. Standing in the foreground, by the horses, was the same young woman – Elizabeth. Anna looked closer. She could just make out that Elizabeth was wearing a jet necklace over the bodice of her dress. ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘I think I have that necklace! It was in the box. There was a mirror, too. With the initials AH on it. Do you think it might have been her mother’s – Augusta’s?’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Florence, ‘I must say, I don’t know what to make of all this.’

  ‘What became of Elizabeth?’ asked Ed. ‘It would seem that that is where we should start to try to unravel this mystery.’

  ‘Yes indeed, young man,’ said Florence, looking at him over her glasses with respect. ‘I expect we should.’

  ‘Can you tell us any more about her?’ asked Anna. ‘I’m afraid we missed most of the tour of the house yesterday, so I didn’t get the chance to ask the guide.’

  ‘Hm,’ snorted Florence. ‘Neil? He wouldn’t tell you much in any case. Sticks to the script and never wavers. No imagination, that man.’ She took a sip of tea and set the cup noisily back on the saucer. Then she leant forward towards them and began to speak. ‘I grew up at Trebithick Hall, though my father, George, was forced to turn over the house and what land was left to the National Trust more than fifty years ago. The place was falling down around our ears and there was no money to repair it. He thought that, as he had no son for an heir, it was the best course of action.’ Florence gave a derisive sniff. ‘I was nearly forty, unmarried, and never likely to be. I was living here,’ she indicated the room they sat in, ‘in the holidays anyway. I was headmistress at Truro School until I retired. Fifteen years ago this July.’

  Anna wasn’t surprised to hear this. Florence Deverell might be slightly hard of hearing, but she had a teacher’s brusque manner and a mind as keen and precise as a scalpel.

  ‘Do go on,’ Ed urged. He looked as anxious to find out what happened to Elizabeth as was Anna.

  ‘Father’s parents, Robert and Georgiana, were largely the ones responsible for Trebithick going to rack and ruin. Not that one should speak ill of the dead, particularly when they are one’s grandparents,’ she broke off. ‘But still, it’s the truth.’

  ‘Why was that?’ asked Anna.

  ‘They cared little for the upkeep of the house and let the plant business founder. By all accounts, they preferred to spend their money indulging in holidays on the Continent and the purchase of fine wines. In fact, the cellar was one of the only things of value that my grandfather managed to accumulate. He certainly didn’t have the same luck with the stock market. When my father inherited Trebithick, he also inherited debt like a noose around his neck. Don’t get me wrong,
it was a wonderful place to grow up, but I’ve never forgotten the freezing winters in those draughty old rooms. I’m certain that’s why my mother died young. Pneumonia.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Anna, but Florence waved her concern away.

  ‘Ancient history. Besides, I’m far more comfortable here than I would have been at Trebithick. Though I do miss the gardens.’ She sighed, looking out of the window at the patch of lawn stretching towards a field that arced down to the ocean.

  ‘Anyway, where was I?’ For a moment Florence looked confused and her eyes clouded over, and Anna suddenly saw her for the old lady that she was, despite the fact that she otherwise managed to give a general impression of sprightliness. ‘Oh yes,’ she continued, her focus sharpening again. ‘Elizabeth. Younger sister of my grandmother Georgiana. Well, she was quite the artist. There are several of her drawings on show at Trebithick. Early work, I think. Neil will be able to show you.’

  Anna’s eyes met Ed’s, and she knew they were both thinking of the sketchbook.

  ‘Did she become famous?’ asked Anna excitedly.

  Florence paused, and sighed. ‘Well, in a way I suppose she did.’

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  VALPARAISO, 1887

  ‘Here she is,’ said Elizabeth as she presented the tightly wrapped bundle to Tomas. An unblinking pair of dark blue eyes and rosebud lips were all that could be seen. ‘A daughter,’ he said, wonder in his voice as a teardrop trembled on his dark eyelashes. ‘She is perfect. But so tiny.’ Tomas cradled her as if he were carrying the most fragile piece of china, walking over to the window to get a better look at his first-born. ‘She has my chin,’ he said, edging the blanket down with the tip of his finger.