The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Looks good to me.’ Shaw put down the basket and spread out the blanket. ‘Have a seat. I’ve got some lemonade if you’d like a drink.’ He pulled out a couple of bottles, popped the lid and handed her one.

  ‘Do you realise the implication of this sketchbook?’ Tamsin pulled her legs up and tucked them close to her body shifting on the chequered blanket until she’d made a comfortable indentation. ‘It should be on public display, and Winton should be credited with his discoveries.’

  He shrugged. In many ways he agreed with her, if what she said was correct and the provenance of the book could be proven. ‘Private collectors would pay a fortune to get their hands on it.’ His grandfather would have walked across oceans for it.

  ‘Private collectors? Don’t you understand? This is a major discovery. It could turn the scientific world on it toes. The platypus was the obsession of the nineteenth century. It defied all the known classifications. If the dates in Winton’s sketchbook are accurate he was twenty, thirty years ahead of everyone else. If nothing else he deserves recognition. It can’t go into a private collection no matter how much someone is prepared to pay. Please encourage Mrs Rushworth to honour her mother’s wishes and let me take it back to Sydney.’

  ‘It’s not my decision.’

  ‘She said I should deal with you, that you were her solicitor.’

  ‘My father is.’ He shrugged his shoulders. His father wasn’t the easiest man to get along with however he managed to maintain a civil relationship. ‘I work for him.’

  ‘You have some influence then. What do you know about Mrs Quinleaven?’

  ‘Lived here for ages. From all accounts, she worked as a live-in housekeeper for Mr Kelly for many years. He owned Will-O-Wyck. He was a local solicitor and took his wife’s death very hard and that’s when Mrs Quinleaven stepped in.’

  ‘What happened to Mrs Rushworth’s father?’

  ‘Mr Quinleaven? Disappeared, vanished. Never seen again. Some say he was a casualty of the African War though I have a suspicion the marriage was over long before.’

  ‘And Mr Kelly left everything to Mrs Quinleaven when he died.’

  ‘So Mrs Rushworth has led us to believe.’

  ‘Surely she knows.’

  ‘She was estranged from her mother. Hadn’t spoken to her for many years.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My suspicion is that she didn’t approve of her mother living under the same roof as Mr Kelly.’

  ‘She was his housekeeper for goodness sake. And none of this helps us discover how the sketchbook got into Mrs Quinleaven’s hands.’

  ‘There’s really very little that can be done. The decision will be made by the benefactors.’

  Tamsin let out a long sigh and stretched out her legs. ‘How do you know there isn’t anything else significant in the house?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  She leant across the rug, her dark eyes sparkling. ‘I’d give anything for a look around the rest of the house, especially the library. There could be all sorts of interesting things hidden away. It seems strange there should be just this one sketchbook.’

  And so would he, but from what he’d gathered the Rushworths would sell everything; they needed every penny they could raise. ‘The house and contents are to be sold.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame. Perhaps you could change Mrs Rushworth’s mind. There’s so much interest in Australiana since Federation.’

  ‘I thought that was rather more in the line of household items. You know, all those ghastly jugs and cups and saucers with koalas clinging to the handles.’

  ‘Australia’s answer to Art Nouveau. This is far more important and once the Mitchell bequest is sorted out there’ll be a further surge in interest.’

  Which would increase the value of the sketchbook. ‘Maybe the Mitchell would buy it.’ That would solve the problem, the best outcome for everyone. Mrs Rushworth would get her money and honour would be satisfied.

  ‘No chance of that. The building alone is way over budget.’

  He stared out across the brook searching for any movement that might indicate the animals were about—and for something to change the conversation. He didn’t want to keep saying no.

  She was like a puppy with a shoe and a bit of pleasure leached out of the day with the sinking sun. ‘Looking through the house and library might give us a clue as to how the sketchbook ended up there. Winton lived at Agnes Banks out past Parramatta and all his known work went up in flames in the Garden Palace fire … that’s why I’ve been trying to get copies of his correspondence with Banks from the Royal Society. I can’t imagine how one sketchbook ended up here in Wollombi.’

  He had to change the subject. Mrs Rushworth’s heart was set on making as much money out of the property as she could. There was no possibility she would let Tamsin go poking around the house, especially if she was advocating donations. ‘It’s getting close to dusk, the perfect time.’

  ‘Adult males are most visible in late winter and early spring so the timing’s right. They spend an increased amount of time on the water surface watching for rivals during the mating season.’ She let out a short sharp laugh. ‘I sound like a textbook. I’ve become obsessed with the creatures since I discovered Winton.’

  ‘I’ll be very surprised if we don’t see one. The locals said they’re around if the conditions are right.’

  The shadows stretched out towards evening and the bottle of lemonade Mrs Adcock provided had sat in a puddle of late afternoon sun. Tamsin hadn’t touched a drop.

  She brought it to her lips and grimaced. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Toss it out. I’ve got tea in the flask.’

  She flicked the lemonade in a high arc sending it towards the bank of the brook catching the last rays of the sun as it dipped behind the surrounding hills and disturbed the water skippers hovering on the calm water surrounding the reeds.

  ‘Try this.’

  She took the cup and clasped it between her two hands and looked directly at him with a gaze of such intensity it disconcerted him. ‘I have every intention of convincing Mrs Rushworth the book needs to be assessed and displayed in Sydney. Perhaps she’d be prepared to leave it at the Library on view for a period and still retain ownership; maybe it has some special personal significance.’

  Shaw leant back on his elbows and stretched out his legs. She could try but he didn’t like her chances, not unless there was a payment involved.

  Tamsin swirled the tea and inhaled the steam.

  ‘Is the tea to your liking?’

  She took a sip. ‘Yes, thank you. The water is incredibly calm, there’s not a breath of wind.’

  ‘The best kind of weather for platypus spotting I’m told.’ He stood and held out a hand to her. ‘Bring your tea. We’ll sit down over there, closer to the water. I was told the burrow is in that sandy part of the bank on the other side.’

  He pulled her upright and she swung close to his chest, her scent filling his nostrils. Linen and lavender and a tiny dab of something citrusy—lemon, unless he was mistaken. Her dark hair brushed against his hand as he steadied her and he felt a stab of lust.

  She must have noticed his reaction because she raised her hands and stepped back, a ghost of a smile crossing her face. ‘I’ve never seen a platypus before.’

  ‘Move over a bit closer to this tree.’ Shaw patted the smooth trunk of the gum. ‘It’ll mask our outline.’ He’d dropped his voice to a whisper forcing her to lean closer to catch his words. ‘They don’t like sharp noises or sudden movements. I’m told we have to look for tell-tale bumps in the water.’

  Tamsin kept her eyes riveted on the bank on the other side of the brook. ‘Everything I’ve read indicates they’re shy and secretive creatures. In this light they’ll have a silvery shine, not the usual chocolate brown.’

  He scanned the shallow water. ‘One of the locals said he spotted one feeding the other evening.’ He pointed to the right of the bank. ‘He was diving and
coming up then just floating around treading water while he chewed his dinner. The man said to watch for a bullseye pattern on the top of the water.’ He closed his hand around her arm and inclined his head.

  A flash of response flickered in her eyes, either the prospect of seeing the platypus or maybe his proximity. The latter he hoped. She was gorgeous and totally natural; not a flicker of pretence or flirtatiousness.

  The slightest splash echoed in the sheltered hollow and she drew in a gentle sigh, undoubtedly for the platypus whose glistening shape glided through the water, then arched its back and launched downwards.

  Counting the seconds in a whisper, she chewed on her lip, eyes glued to the water waiting for the creature to resurface, and sure enough it reappeared about twenty feet downstream.

  ‘Watch the pattern on the water.’

  The concentric circles spread outwards and he envisaged the webbed feet paddling below the surface; then a hind foot appeared almost on the surface and the platypus gave a leisurely scratch before diving again, its path marked by the stream of small bubbles as the air squeezed from its fur. The ripples on the surface of the water spread wider until they reached the bank.

  ‘Magical, just magical.’ Tamsin whispered the words, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’ve read so much about them and yet this is the first time I’ve seen one. Here in the twilight I can imagine how Winton must have felt when he’d first discovered the creatures.’

  They stood shoulders almost touching in companionable silence while the platypus frolicked in the crystal clear water and the light dimmed.

  ‘The show’s over for tonight.’ Her voice broke the silence making him feel strangely disappointed and they picked their way carefully back up the bank to collect the remains of the picnic.

  ‘Can you imagine how many hours Winton must have spent watching them to collect so much knowledge? His drawings are so detailed. That’s what makes the sketchbook so valuable, not just its antiquity but the body of work it represents.’

  After tonight he wasn’t very sure selling the book was such a good idea; perhaps she was right but any chance of Mrs Rushworth giving it up would vanish once she realised its true value.

  He stowed the picnic hamper in the back of the car and helped Tamsin inside, placing the rug on her lap. ‘It might be cold now the sun’s gone down.’

  They clattered back down the track and he leapt out at the gate before she had the chance to offer. She looked so contented, warm and snug with the blanket tucked around her, he didn’t want her to move.

  Once they turned back onto the road she sat up a little straighter and loosened the blanket. ‘I believe Winton relied very heavily on the blackfellas’ knowledge and in those days, no one took the natives seriously. They thought they made it all up, were just saying what the white man wanted to hear, that they couldn’t be trusted to observe correctly. I don’t understand why he didn’t go to England to champion his discoveries. His knowledge would have brought science so much further. He was way ahead of his time if the date of the sketchbook is to be believed.’

  ‘Perhaps he harboured some sort of grudge because someone stole his work, made their name from it and he stayed bitter and angry.’

  ‘That can’t be right. And I can’t for the life of me work out how the sketchbook ended up here. He lived at a place called Agnes Banks, outside Parramatta. I wonder if there are still platypus there.’

  ‘You said they were shy creatures. It’s a thriving rural community now.’ The kind of area Ron Rushworth and his father would have their sights set on before too long—cheap land offering the opportunity to develop and make an excellent return. ‘That’s the advantage of this area, it is as though time stood still.’

  ‘Which is why I’d really like to see inside the house.’ She didn’t let the opportunity slip. ‘Will you put a word in for me with Mrs Rushworth? I really must ensure the donation goes ahead.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ What else could he say?

  Shaw cruised to a halt outside the hotel and before he could get out and open the door she shrugged off the blanket and stood beside the car. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening. I really feel closer to Winton now I’ve seen the platypus in its natural habitat.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to end now. It’s still early. Let me treat you to a nightcap. I’d like to hear a bit more about the Library and your job.’ And her thoughts on Winton’s book. He had a sense she wasn’t sharing everything and any little extra bit of knowledge would help him decide what he should do.

  ‘Perhaps another cup of tea.’

  ‘I was thinking of something a little stronger, can I tempt you?’

  ‘Tea will be fine.’ He pushed open the door and stood back while she walked through into the dining room.

  ‘You sit down here and I’ll go and have a word with Mrs Adcock. You’re quite happy if I leave you for a moment.’

  She gave him a look from under her heavy brows that stopped him from saying anything else and sauntered off to the bar.

  ‘Mrs Adcock could I trouble you for a pot of tea and some whisky?’

  ‘Strange combination.’

  ‘The tea is for Miss Alleyn and the whisky for me.’

  ‘And did she enjoy her picnic?’

  ‘She did. I’ll bring the hamper in once we’ve had our nightcap.’ The delights of a small town. He let out a huff of annoyance. Everyone believed it was his or her right to know everything. He was sick and tired of people poking and prodding into his affairs.

  ‘Just bring the tea into the dining room if you would.’

  He slid into the seat opposite Tamsin and she lifted her head and studied him, a slight frown marring the skin of her forehead. She was nothing like the girls his sister brought home with their rouged cheeks, coiffed hair and high-pitched giggles. Her no-nonsense dark brown eyes appraised him and she rested her chin in her hands.

  ‘So tell me the story of the donation.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. I’m surprised Mrs Rushworth didn’t mention it.’

  ‘She knew nothing of it. Came as quite a shock. Didn’t even know the sketchbook existed until we arrived the morning of the funeral. It’s been a difficult time for her.’

  ‘I can imagine. Losing parents is never easy.’

  Perhaps that accounted for the lingering sadness in her eyes. But more importantly he wanted to shout tell me about the sketchbook. All this polite conversation was getting him nowhere. ‘The sketchbook?’

  ‘Right yes. The Library received a letter from Mrs Quinleaven saying she had a sketchbook dating back to the beginning of the last century and she believed it might be of national significance. She wished to make a donation. She’d made a promise.’

  ‘What kind of a promise? To whom?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘Only that she wasn’t prepared to trust it to the postal system which is where I came in. I had some background knowledge because I’d requested the correspondence of the early Australian naturalists from the Royal Society. It’s been my responsibility to co-ordinate the project to tie in with the opening of the Mitchell wing.’ A blush tinged her cheeks as though she was very proud of the fact but didn’t want to brag. She must hold down a significant position at the Library, unusual for a woman. ‘How long have you worked at the Library?’

  ‘Coming up for five years.’

  Most unusual. ‘How did you get the job?’

  She let out a peal of laughter. ‘You mean what’s a woman doing with a job like that?’

  In a nutshell. ‘Yes.’ There was no pulling the wool over her eyes. She could read him like a book. He groaned inwardly. Probably spent her time reading between the lines.

  ‘I answered an advertisement.’

  ‘They advertised for a woman?’

  ‘Not specifically. But then they didn’t advertise specifically for a man. My credentials were accepted and I was asked to sit an examination. Along
with forty-three others. When I turned up they realised I was a woman.’

  That certainly wouldn’t be hard to miss. Her eyes sparkled, almost as though she was laughing at him. ‘And you sat the examination and passed it.’

  ‘Topped it actually and since they hadn’t blocked the position to women there was nothing very much anyone could do. They were opposed but Mrs Williams championed my cause. Her husband was the Principal Librarian until he died and she’d worked in a voluntary capacity for years.’ When Mrs Adcock placed a teapot and cup and saucer in front of her stopped speaking.

  ‘Sugar and milk?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘And here’s your whisky.’ She put it down with a bang and winked at him. ‘Don’t you keep the young lady up too late.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Adcock.’ The wretched woman hovered for a few more minutes and then, when neither of them resumed the conversation, she flounced off.

  ‘So you know my story.’ She lifted the cup to her lips and peered over the rim at him. ‘Will Mrs Rushworth definitely be selling everything?’

  He took another sip of his whisky. ‘Ultimately. Once the will is finalised.’

  She gazed out of the window into the darkness. ‘I really would like the opportunity to speak to her again about the donation. I feel certain once she appreciates the national significance of the sketchbook she will agree to let the donation go ahead.’

  He wasn’t going to manage to put her off. So be it. ‘I’ll drive you out in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’ She gave him a self-satisfied smile, downed the remains of her tea, lifted her hand in a brief wave and slipped through the door.

  Shaw sat for a few more moments. He couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. He should be encouraging Mrs Rushworth to donate the book, not prolonging the entire exercise but Tamsin fascinated him, unlike any woman he’d come across before. Independent and a tad feisty. The kind of girl that would give his mother a fit of the vapours and his father a run for his money.

  Eight

  Wollombi, New South Wales 1908

  When Mrs Rushworth’s icy blue gaze lodged firmly on her no-nonsense skirt and boots with the same disdain as yesterday Tamsin wished she’d taken a little more thought over her appearance.