The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  A cloth swished as he wiped the table and then he handed her a pair of white cotton gloves. ‘I found these tucked at the back of the drawer with the book. Mrs Quinleaven was obviously convinced of its authenticity.’

  She pulled them on, smoothing the creases from each finger unable to contain the thrill that fizzled through her blood. Nothing in her life had ever produced this sense of anticipation and excitement.

  Shaw turned to the sideboard, slipped on another pair of gloves and opened the linen bag. Goosebumps prickled her arms and she pushed up in the chair craning to get a clearer view. He took out the book balancing it flat on his open palms. Soft brown leather with well-worn edges were held together by a brass clip; a dangling piece of cotton that must surely have once held the pages in place protruded from the bottom. It appeared to be in remarkable condition.

  He placed the book between them and sat down next to her. The cover was stained with ink and a few watermarks and the brass corners were scratched and dented. It certainly looked as though it belonged to the early nineteenth century, if not earlier, and it was obviously well used.

  Shaw drummed his fingers on the table, a strange reverence in his eyes. ‘I’ll let you do the honours.’ She warmed to him; he was as fascinated by its possibilities as she was.

  When she finally lifted the cover a cloud of mildew and neglect billowed and the familiar blend of old paper and ink filled the air. A silverfish sneaked between the pages and scuttled away in search of freedom. Her heart pounded and her mouth dried.

  ‘You’ve got the same look on your face I must have had. The sketchbook turned my innards upside down and inside out when I first saw it. I’m dying to get a decent look inside. Any idea how old it might be?’

  ‘At least a hundred years going by the dates Charles Winton corresponded with Sir Joseph Banks.’

  ‘So you know the background of this man Winton.’

  Of course she knew the background. ‘Sir Joseph Banks dominated, larger than life although by the 1800s he was far too old to travel; nevertheless his word was a command and anyone with any desire to make a name jumped to fulfil his every wish.

  ‘Winton sent sketches and observations to him over a period of years. From what I can gather their correspondence came to an end in 1818, which is strange because Sir Joseph maintained a serious scientific presence until his death in 1820 and research into the platypus continued.’ Perhaps the book would throw some light on Winton’s disappearance from the world of science. ‘Charles Winton was an avid correspondent for over twenty years. He sent samples and sketches to Sir Joseph in London annually. Banks paid him a stipend after he sent a skin preserved in alcohol spirit. The animal had been speared by the Aboriginals.’

  ‘So why did he drop out of sight?’

  ‘It’s unusual, especially for a naturalist, one right in the middle of the greatest debate of the century. Such a waste of talent.’ The paper rustled and her words dried in her mouth as she lifted the cover to reveal a line of copperplate:

  Description of the anatomy and habitat of the Ornithorhynchus anatinus by Charles Winton July 1817–

  ‘There’s no concluding date.’ She turned the first page, the thin piece of waxed paper rustling with a thousand unanswered questions to reveal a detailed line drawing. And then another. Why hadn’t these ever been sent to Sir Joseph Banks? And if they’d remained in Australia why weren’t they destroyed in the Garden Palace fire with all his other notebooks? ‘There’s no mention of a sketchbook in the correspondence I’ve seen; only a reference to some enclosed illustrations, nothing of this nature.’

  She didn’t need to look any further to know Mrs Quinleaven was right, it belonged in the Library. For heaven’s sake Mitchell would have snapped it up in a moment. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I would very much like the opportunity to have the sketchbook displayed in the Library and perhaps in the Mitchell wing when it opens. It is of enormous historical and national significance …’ Her words died on her lips. He must know the importance of the book otherwise he wouldn’t be treating it with such reverence. ‘It needs to be authenticated. A scientific notebook containing watercolours is most unusual. Presuming it’s original it must be displayed correctly for future generations.’

  ‘We haven’t seen enough yet.’ Shaw turned another page. ‘These pen and ink drawings are signed. I expect because they are the “scientific drawings”. The others …’

  The page turned to reveal a painstaking watercolour showing a platypus slipping from the bank into the golden brown waters, every one of the dark hairs on its sleek body individually painted, the light catching the top of its leathery bill. ‘Beautiful.’ She let out a sigh. ‘He was very talented.’

  ‘It is definitely his work.’ He traced a gloved finger above the signature C Winton.

  Her heart sank. ‘You thought it might not be Winton’s work?’ She leant closer; he smelt fresh and woody like a forest with a touch of sweetness blending with the musty scent of the old paper and ink. The combination made her heart race.

  She turned some more pages.

  ‘Some are signed C Winton and others aren’t signed at all. I think it’s safe to presume it is his work. After all his name’s on the frontispiece.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Creeping goosebumps flecked her arms. Were the works original or weren’t they? Had someone else used the blank pages in the book for their own sketches? Some hobbyist’s doodles. Mrs Williams’s words quivered across her shoulders. If the book had been tampered with it would lose much of its value.

  ‘Let’s go right through to the end. We can have a closer look afterwards. I really value your opinion.’ He slid the ivory rule under the paper and gently turned to the next page. A line drawing; a close-up of a platypus’s hind leg, male because the spur was clearly visible.

  ‘Is there a date on that one? The idea the males were venomous was ridiculed until 1876 when a man named Spicer witnessed and documented a spurring.’

  ‘Ah I knew there was a reason you had come. This is the kind of knowledge we need.’

  Another watercolour; again the same stretch of riverbank, this time a platypus, presumably female, shepherding two tiny juveniles down the bank to the water, their fur thinner yet their bodies rounded and plump. She could almost glimpse Winton’s spirit hovering as she turned the pages, as though he was thankful to have his work acknowledged.

  ‘You haven’t—’

  ‘Just a moment.’ She leant in for a closer look, then gave up on vanity and grasped her spectacles from her top pocket and shoved them on her nose. A burrow. The mother lying curled, the two juveniles latched to her chest, the fur damp, and the tiniest drop of liquid visible on the juvenile’s bill. ‘A mother feeding her young—that was disputed for years.’

  Shaw turned to the next page and the next. Detailed anatomical drawings showing the internal organs of the male and the female and on the facing page a cross-section of a burrow showing two small platypus feeding and an unhatched egg and what appeared to be the remains of some eggshell.

  ‘Stop. Stop right there. Is this dated?’

  Shaw gestured to the scribbled signature at the bottom—C Winton. ‘No date.’

  Tamsin’s heart began to race. Here was Winton’s irrevocable evidence he had written to Banks about. She itched to push Shaw’s hands away and pull the book closer.

  He must have sensed her frustration because he stood and began pacing.

  ‘When was this drawn?’ She scanned the page searching for a signature, a date.

  ‘I can’t see one.’

  ‘And the style is slightly different to the pen and ink sketches and other watercolours.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So who drew it and more importantly when because if it is correct it predates all other references to the platypus being oviparous.’ Her mind was spiralling out of control, the implications bumping for space, crowding out other thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’ve got me beaten. Oviparous?’


  ‘It means they lay eggs like a bird. How did Mrs Quinleaven get hold of the book? Do we know if it’s original? And if it is Winton’s was he speculating or did he have proof?’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Shaw sat down in the chair opposite and placed his large hands over hers, stilling her drumming fingers. ‘Look at me.’

  She gazed into his grey-green eyes, the same colour as the leaves framing the corner of the painting, then back to the page, blood throbbing in her right temple. She pushed her spectacles up pulling her hair from her face. ‘I don’t know what to think. I’m … this is …’

  ‘Calm down. We’ll go through each painting and every line drawing but first let’s get to the end of the book.’ He picked up the ivory rule and turned the pages rapidly past more line drawings and scribbled notes until he came to the back page.

  Another scene on the bank of the river. Which river for goodness sake? A shaggy haired, bearded man lounging against a tree trunk one leg stretched out, a sketchbook resting on his thigh and a twig, or maybe a stick of graphite, tucked behind his ear. It had to be Winton. There was no doubting the Australian landscape.

  ‘Look, this one’s dated.’ He pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the page. ‘August 1819.’

  ‘Where’s the signature? Do you think that’s Winton? A self-portrait?’ A nervous laugh bubbled between her lips. ‘It’s not Winton’s style.’

  ‘I don’t believe it is a self-portrait, however it’s similar to the other unsigned watercolour.’

  ‘Wait there’s something written here right down at the bottom of the page.’ Tamsin squinted at the faded cursive script that wound its way along the base of a fallen trunk. Resting.

  ‘So there is. A phantom contributor.’

  ‘Stop playing games with me.’ She pushed the chair back and leapt up. The frustrating man was toying with her. That sardonic grin tipping the corners of his lips again. ‘Do you know who painted it?’

  ‘No idea.’ He sat back, folded his brown arms. ‘Maybe Winton had an accomplice.’

  She slammed her palms down onto the table. ‘Are you telling me that Charles Winton, a renowned scientist and naturalist, responsible for these meticulous drawings and notes allowed someone else to scribble in his sketchbooks—books destined for his patron, Sir Joseph Banks?’

  ‘Hardly scribble. This is a very well-executed watercolour. Look at the drape of his clothes, his face. You can touch every blade of grass; and the hairs on his beard, look at them.’

  She let out a sigh, her finger hovering over the painting. ‘I wonder how old he was? He arrived with the First Fleet. That would make him in his twenties in 1788, possibly older—so in his forties more than likely. Not a young man.’

  Tamsin untangled her spectacles and pushed them up the bridge of her nose. The infuriating man was right. Without a doubt the book belonged in Sydney where its provenance could be explored in the hands of specialists. It was of national significance and it needed to be authenticated by someone with far more scientific knowledge than she had. ‘I must take the sketchbook back to Sydney.’ She eased off the white gloves and laid them on the table.

  ‘Not today.’ Shaw caressed the book with a protective gesture.

  A stab of disappointment hit her making her heart twist. ‘I’m booked into the Family Hotel for another night. I must see Mrs Rushworth and discuss her mother’s bequest.’

  He gave her a light thoughtful frown before closing the book and sliding it back into the soft linen bag. ‘I expect she can fill you in with a few more details. Why don’t you wait outside?’

  With her mind racing she turned to go and then stopped. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about the platypus down in the brook, do you?’

  ‘Around here?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of work collating papers at the Library, reading about Winton and I’ve never seen one in their natural surroundings. I was told there might be some around here.’

  ‘We could ask at the hotel. Would you like some company?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ The words were out of her mouth before she’d even thought about it. Now he’d probably think she was being forward. She offered a smile by way of apology. More excitement than anything else; her blood still thrummed with the implications of the sketchbook. ‘Thank you, I’d like that. Dusk is the best time to catch a sighting.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ He looked down at her feet. ‘I was going to say wear sturdy boots but I see you’ve got that covered.’

  She wiped the scuffed toe of her boot on the back of her leg.

  ‘You’ll need a warm jacket too—it’ll be chilly once the sun goes down.’

  ‘I think I can manage to dress myself. I’m not exactly a child.’ The haughty tone in her voice brought a flood of colour to her face as she stomped across the old timber floorboards to the door. The man had got under her skin with his nonchalant attitude and then, with the next word, she’d agreed to his company to see the platypus. She was completely at sixes and sevens. ‘Would you please go and find out if I can speak with Mrs Rushworth.’

  He picked up the sketchbook and slipped it into the linen bag. ‘I’ll do that right now. Go and wait outside in the sunshine. There’s a table and chairs on the verandah, to the right of the front door.’ And with that he left, taking the sketchbook with him and leaving her faintly disappointed. No matter what he or Mrs Rushworth thought, the sketchbook had to go back to the Library. It had to be assessed.

  After a quick glance around the dining room, bare of everything except the heavy cedar furniture and a brass lamp, she slipped out into the long corridor. The heels of her boots clicked on the wide timber boards as she passed the now closed doors. She rammed her hands in her pockets trying to control the temptation to peer inside the rooms. The house felt as though no one had lived in it, as though it was crying out for love. Perhaps Mrs Quinleaven had closed off a lot of the rooms. One woman living on her own would have rattled around in a house of this size.

  The sunlight streamed in the front door and it wasn’t until she was about to step outside that she noticed the door on her right was ajar. Curiosity got the better of her. The brass door knob was cold beneath her fingers when she eased the door open.

  Everywhere bookshelves crammed with row after row of wonderful leather-bound books. They ringed the room and the dusty scent of history filled the air. A large desk sat under the window overlooking the brook. A series of half-filled tea chests stood stacked in the centre of the room. Mrs Rushworth must have begun packing up. And overlying it all was the faint scent of something antiseptic. It reminded her of her father and his persistent demands that she wash her hands. Sometimes she’d thought she’d rub them away and she hated the residue smell of the soap.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  She almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Oh! Hello.’

  A tall thin woman with a canny look in her eye studied her from head to foot. ‘Miss Alleyn, I presume.’

  Caught in the act and badly. She shouldn’t have taken so long. She stepped forward hand outstretched. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. My curiosity got the better of me, Mrs Rushworth. It’s a beautiful house.’

  Mrs Rushworth’s cool hand touched hers for a brief moment. ‘Come and sit outside.’ She ushered her out of the room and along a sandstone verandah to a small table and two chairs. The view over a paddock to the tree-lined brook seemed as far removed from Sydney as she could imagine. She inhaled the aroma of slashed grass and realised with surprise that her shoulders had dropped. In the distance where the trees met the brook she could see an old woman wandering along, bending and picking the sundry flowers growing in the grass.

  ‘You wanted to speak with me.’ Mrs Rushworth flapped her hand in the air.

  Her moment of relaxation disappeared with the words. The hint of impatience in Mrs Rushworth’s voice and her waving hand put Tamsin in mind of a persistent fly buzzing against a window. ‘I did. Thank you. Firstly, I would like to offer my sincere condolence
s, and those of all of the Library staff, for your loss. We greatly appreciated your mother’s kind donation. It will not only benefit future generations but possibly unwrap a series of unanswered questions about the life of Charles Winton.’ There, that had come out all right. She had practised and refined the words over and over in her head last night in bed. She smiled into Mrs Rushworth’s eyes expecting to see a softening from memories of her mother. Nothing, except a steely narrowed gaze and a charged silence.

  ‘As I’m sure you know Charles Winton was a renowned Australian naturalist. One of the first.’ Her words spluttered to a halt. She’d made a mess of that.

  ‘Do you have any indication of the book’s value?’ Mrs Rushworth placed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘I don’t think anyone has considered it. It’s highly unlikely it would ever come up for sale.’

  Mrs Rushworth raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow and rested back in the chair folding her arms.

  ‘Your mother … Mrs Quinleaven contacted the Library with regard to donating the book—’

  ‘As my mother’s only living relative I am now the owner of the sketchbook.’

  ‘We have the correspondence from her.’ Why in heaven’s name hadn’t Mrs Williams given her the letter to bring? ‘It was her wish the sketchbook should go to the Library.’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss the matter any further, Miss Alleyn. I suggest you address all enquiries regarding the sketchbook to my solicitor, Mr Everdene. Good day to you.’ And with that Mrs Rushworth tip-tapped her way down the flagstone verandah and back inside the house. The door banged shut behind her.

  Tamsin closed her mouth with a snap. Solicitor. Shaw was her solicitor? He’d said Mrs Rushworth was a client of his father’s. Who was his father? What did it matter? She wanted to follow, hammer on the door. Didn’t the woman understand the significance of the book? Or that her mother’s last wish … she shook her hair back from her face and rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. What a mess!