The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  Mrs Williams huffed loudly. ‘What makes you so certain?’

  ‘The flourish, the R has a flourish and it’s matched in the W of Winton.’ She swallowed back the excitement in her voice; she must be calm and rational, analytical before she dropped the next bombshell. Folding her arms she leant back in her chair. ‘I’m certain it’s a woman’s writing.’

  ‘A woman? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would Charles Winton allow a woman to record his findings?’ Mrs Williams reacted just as Tamsin had expected.

  ‘Perhaps his wife?’

  ‘You found nothing in the correspondence to indicate he married, did you?’

  ‘He’s hardly likely to have discussed personal issues with Sir Joseph. He was his patron. He as good as employed him. What about the other watercolours and the line drawings? A lot of the drawings, especially those dated October 1819 aren’t signed.’

  ‘So what’s your premise?’

  She didn’t know what she was thinking, just that she felt as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice looking down, all jittery and weak kneed.

  ‘You can’t go jumping to conclusions. Surely you’ve learnt that by now.’

  Tamsin pulled the index across the table towards her. ‘Here are the page numbers and the signatures. As you can see quite a lot are unsigned. The watercolour says Pa Resting and it is signed R Winton. I think R Winton is Winton’s daughter.’

  ‘A baseless guess. Most unlike you. A little bit more work is required before I’ll agree with that. The sketchbook itself looks genuine enough. I hope it hasn’t been sullied. You’ve a lot more work ahead of you, my girl. You can’t even suppose that the watercolour is of Charles Winton—it could have been added years later. It could be anyone.’

  Trust Mrs Williams to put a dampener on things. She was as bad as Shaw refusing to acknowledge the fact that a woman could have done the drawings. It made her blood boil.

  ‘Now tell me all about these biscuit people.’

  Such an irrational spurt of anger, she let out a sigh. She’d prove it one way or another. R Winton was a woman. She was right, she knew it with every fibre of her being. Pushing the thought aside because she could do nothing until she went back to Banks’s letters she turned back to Mrs Williams. ‘Shaw took me to meet Mrs Rushworth the following day. She was sorting out the contents of the house, especially the library, throwing pretty much everything out.’

  ‘Nothing we’d be interested in, I hope. This modern disregard for our heritage is a disgrace.’ Mrs Williams gave a dramatic shudder.

  ‘That’s why I wanted a chance to have a quick look. The majority of the books were packed but there was a pile of newspapers and pamphlets from ten, fifteen, twenty years ago and a set of The Dawn. She said I could have them, they’re at home.’

  ‘I love that paper. That woman is an absolute gem.’

  Maybe, but her beliefs hadn’t influenced Mrs Williams enough to entertain the thought that R Winton was female. Perhaps it was time they discussed some of Louisa Lawson’s ideas in greater depth.

  ‘Underneath the papers I also found a copy of The Penny Magazine from June 1835 with an article about the water mole. I thought perhaps I could include it with the letters, and this old Peek Frean tin. I couldn’t get the lid off so I asked Mrs Rushworth if I could have it. Shaw said it was for my collection.’ Her mind darted back to his naughty grin; it still made her want to giggle like a schoolgirl involved in a prank.

  ‘I didn’t know you collected old tins. I must show you some I have. They belonged to my mother.’

  Tamsin pulled the tin from her satchel and her heart rate picked up just the way it had when Shaw finally removed the lid. ‘A handkerchief with the initials CM, some illegible pencilled notes, and a daguerreotype, a family, from 1845.’

  ‘Oh, very early. Australian? One of George Goodman’s?’

  ‘Yes, it must be …’ Her voice fizzled out as a series of goosebumps flecked her skin.

  ‘Yes. And?’ Mrs Williams drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Tamsin?’

  She took a sip of water, her throat suddenly dry. ‘Sorry. Someone walked over my grave. It happened the other day. I might be coming down with a cold or something.’

  ‘I want to know about the biscuit tin. You young things with your butterfly brains.’

  ‘There was also a name and some dates, almost an epitaph.’

  ‘An epitaph. What are you talking about?’

  ‘It said “Jenifer Trevan, loving granddaughter of Granfer Tomas Trevan, May 24th, 1772–February 2nd, 1788.” I feel as though it’s all intertwined, I just haven’t quite sorted everything out in my mind. Perhaps I should wait until I am more clear.’ She lifted the cool glass of water to her lips more for something to do than the need to drink.

  ‘Tamsin?’ Mrs Williams’s calm voice cut through the swirling confusion in her brain and she blinked away the image of the old woman in the graveyard.

  ‘I might be wrong.’ Her entire reaction to the sketchbook and the tin annoyed her. She’d never felt this invested or connected with any of her parents’ possessions or anything at the Library in all the time she’d worked there. The biscuit tin. Something skirted around on the edge of her mind just out of reach.

  ‘Well? Come along.’

  No such luck. ‘The tin was obviously some sort of record, the handkerchief and daguerreotype were tied up with a blue ribbon. Someone had gone to great lengths to preserve them.’

  Mrs Williams’s tilted her head. ‘Was the daguerreotype annotated, was there any indication who the people were?’

  ‘I hoped, but nothing. The only name was Jenifer Trevan.’ And the nagging thought in her mind that somehow the contents of the tin and the sketchbook were connected.

  Mrs Williams didn’t miss a beat. ‘You think the people in the daguerreotype might have something to do with Winton?’

  Tamsin nodded. It was ridiculously far-fetched.

  Thirteen

  London, England 1820

  Rose paced the floor incessantly, peering out of the window at the driving rain, the grey sky and the low clouds that shrouded everything in gloom. What she would give for the cobalt sky of home instead of this soaked, soggy weather that passed for spring. Every time she set foot outside the house the cold ate into her bones; her two dresses and muddy brown pelisse did nothing to keep out the wind’s chilly blast. She traced her finger over the condensation on the window, scrawled her signature—R Winton. She’d never be Barrington, didn’t want to belong to a man she’d never met, and in all honesty she wasn’t too sure she wanted Julian for a brother. She’d rather have Finneas. She sighed and rubbed it away with the heel of her hand. It wouldn’t do to labour the point.

  Julian’s reception had terrified her; he seemed so aggressive. Whereas Finneas appeared to be prepared to go to great lengths to make the meeting at the Royal Society eventuate. They’d talked about science and nature and politics and family; everything under the sun. Nothing seemed taboo. Of course, the fact that he had such an interest in the mallangong had immediately endeared him to her. And his offer to go and speak to the gentlemen of the Royal Society. Truth be told she had the distinct feeling Julian would rather she’d fallen overboard somewhere around Cape Horn.

  What if the Royal Society refused to accept Pa’s work? She simply couldn’t fail, couldn’t entertain the possibility. She should be allowed to present his research. All this ridiculous nonsense about women being some sort of inferior species. She’d like to think at least the great minds of science would accept there was no difference between a man and a woman’s brain.

  A little over an hour later a carriage stopped outside the house and Finneas leapt out, physician’s bag in hand, his rich brown hair tousled from the rain, and took the steps to the front door two at a time.

  The very sight of him made her heart lift. He had to have good news, why else would he be so exuberant? She left the window and smoothed the front of her dress, wiping away the dampness remaining on her hand
.

  The door flew open and he bounded into the room, eyes sparkling and a wide smile lighting his handsome face.

  She couldn’t contain herself. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I have failed.’

  The air swept out of her lungs. She was so sure he’d succeed; he didn’t look as though he’d ever failed at anything in his life. It didn’t appear to worry him very much. In fact, he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

  ‘I couldn’t speak to Sir Joseph. It appears he is suffering dreadfully from the gout and confined to his bed on his physician’s orders, not receiving visitors or attending to correspondence.’ Finneas threw himself into the chair drumming his fingers on his knee and chewing his lip as though he was trying to find the best way to deliver the final calamitous piece of news. ‘However I did manage to speak to the gentleman who will be chairing the meeting tomorrow evening.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wouldn’t budge. You cannot make a presentation and you cannot attend.’

  ‘Oh, Finneas.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. Was she to be thwarted at every turn? And why did he still have that ridiculous smile on his face. She’d imagined he would be more sympathetic to her plight. ‘What about Julian?’

  ‘No. Unlike Herschel he is not a fellow and therefore cannot present your paper.’ He pulled back his shoulders, his eyes positively sparkling with delight.

  The wretched man. And she’d thought Julian was the stumbling block, telling her she’d never be allowed to present Pa’s work because she was a female.

  ‘However, the secretary is prepared to make the presentation on your behalf providing the president and the fellows present grant permission.’

  She sank down into the chair. He hadn’t failed. ‘Will they agree? Will you be there?’

  ‘The secretary was optimistic. I shall be in the audience. I’ve been lucky enough to attend meetings in the past because of my interest in the sciences and they have agreed you may sit in the anteroom. The door will be left ajar. It will enable you to hear the entire speech and the response of the audience. There now. That has made you smile. I intend to ensure you do that more often.’

  He gazed down at her and for one foolish moment she thought to throw herself into his arms. A heady warmth washed her cheeks. ‘Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I cannot convey to you how happy you have made me. I will be eternally in your debt.’

  ‘Something I wouldn’t mind in the least.’ He stepped closer, his now familiar woody scent enveloping her.

  Without a second thought she clasped his warm hand between both of hers. ‘While I was aboard ship I wrote what I hope is a suitable presentation. I hope the secretary deems it worthwhile.’

  ‘I have no doubt he will. I have never met a girl with such a lively intellect and knowledge of the sciences.’

  His praise made her face flush again and her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Shall we go in to dinner? I believe Julian has taken himself out tonight so I shall have you all to myself.’

  She was in London, not in New South Wales where life was much simpler. She thought back to Mrs Metcalf’s etiquette lessons. ‘Would that be appropriate?’

  ‘Entirely! I am your relative, well, close family friend, since we share no blood. This house belongs to my mother and your brother lives here. And I promise you will be perfectly chaperoned by Hughes and Mrs James. It is entirely acceptable.’

  Rose gazed around the door at the assembled crowd. Her chest tingled and her palms grew damp as she waited. It was one thing to present Pa’s research herself, quite another to leave it in the hands of a man that she had never even spoken to but what alternative did she have?

  She peered around the door of the anteroom at the interesting mix of people filing into the room. Judging from the assortment of clothes and styles these men were from all walks of life. Some would be more than comfortable at court while others had the dishevelled look of scholars or poets. And there wasn’t another female in sight.

  There was an interminable wait while the secretary brought the meeting to order, read the previous minutes and attended to the correspondence. Finneas had explained that the meetings ended promptly at nine regardless of whether the business had been concluded and already the clock on the mantle indicated eight-thirty.

  The secretary walked to the lectern. The buzz of conversation ceased. ‘With the agreement of our president, who unfortunately is too ill to attend tonight’s meeting, I have been asked to …’ He cleared his throat.

  Rose leant forward in the chair trying to interpret his sudden pause. Was there some sort of a problem? Perhaps he found her handwriting difficult to decipher. To the best of her knowledge he hadn’t even glanced at the paper when they arrived, merely tucked it beneath a pile of others.

  ‘I have been asked to present Charles Winton’s direct observations of the internal structure of the Ornithorhynchus anatinus.’

  She exhaled slowly and drew her shoulders back, as though she was on the podium, preparing to speak.

  ‘More commonly known as the water mole, this native of the Great South Land is one of the many species of flora and fauna that would appear to be unique to that fascinating country.

  ‘Charles Winton has spent the last twenty years compiling a full case study. Evidence of his recent, groundbreaking research is thoroughly documented in this book.’ He held up the sketchbook for all to see.

  A grumble drifted across the tightly packed seats and the secretary cast a quick look over his shoulder at the anteroom then lowered his head. ‘According to Mr Winton’s research Ornithorhynchus anatinus is a taxonomic riddle. It does indeed nourish its young with milk. However, that is where the similarity to other mammalia ends. Apparently the female of the species lays eggs, or so Mr Winton contends.’

  She hadn’t written that. He hadn’t even mentioned the fact that they had dissected the specimens.

  ‘Lays eggs. What a nonsense.’

  ‘An affront to our intelligence.’

  ‘Employ a scientist, not a half-baked colonial dabbler to acquire some reputable information.’

  All the blood rushed from Rose’s head and she dropped her face into her hands. She was going to be sick. She dragged in a deep breath and lifted her head when the secretary cleared his throat and waded once more into the sea of discontent lapping the walls of the room.

  ‘The water mole is aquatic in its habits, frequenting rivers, small streams and lagoons or as the natives refer to them, billabongs. They are more often found in heavily wooded areas being shy animals happier in the dappled shade. The natives often hunt the water mole for its pelt but it has the ability to defend itself as it has a strong sharp venomous spur on each of its hind legs which can inflict dangerous, if not fatal wounds.’ He gestured to Pa’s specimen, which he’d placed on the table beside him and indicated the spurs on the back legs.

  ‘The animal’s no bigger than a cat.’

  ‘Venomous spur. What nonsense.’

  ‘Where’s your proof.’

  The secretary could certainly answer that question: he only had to look at her notes where she’d detailed Pa’s spurring. He did nothing, just stood then raised his hand. ‘Gentlemen. Gentlemen. A degree of scepticism is not only pardonable, but laudable … I too doubt the testimony.’

  Peering down at her set of notes the secretary ran his hand over his forehead; even from this distance she could see the beads of sweat peppering his domed brow as he skipped back up to the previous paragraph. ‘With the aid of the natives Winton captured several water moles and dissected them.’

  Rose wriggled her toes in her boots in impatience. Why was he using the name water mole? She hadn’t written that.

  ‘The female digs a more extensive burrow than the male. The eggs develop in the female’s body and one to three are laid in this burrow. After ten days they hatch. The female then feeds her young on a milky secretion which seeps from the skin.’

  ‘Absolute poppycock.’

  She squir
med in her seat. If only Pa could be here. He wouldn’t have remained silent. He’d be right at the front challenging the men whose questions and incredulity merged into a disparaging rumble.

  That was it. She couldn’t stand it a moment longer. With her heart hammering so hard she could feel it beneath the cotton of her dress she shot to her feet and stepped from behind the door and up onto the podium. A long loud combined gasp silenced the incessant rumblings. At least she had achieved something.

  Julian reached her side in a moment. ‘Rose you can’t. Leave at once.’ He hissed the words into her left ear and a whiff of brandy made her nose wrinkle.

  ‘I will not.’ She shook off his restraining hand.

  ‘Good evening, gentleman.’ Stunned silence greeted her words and the audience sank back into their seats. Making the most of the lull she ploughed on. ‘My name is Rose Winton. I am Charles Winton’s daughter.’

  Julian drew himself up to his full height, opened his mouth then subsided into the nearest empty chair.

  ‘I grew up in a place called Agnes Banks, west of Sydney where my father has a house and a small parcel of land alongside the lagoon on the traditional lands belonging to the Darug people. Much of the flora and fauna you find so fascinating is as natural to me as the lilac and larkspur your wives grow. I was present when the native retrieved this animal.’ Her voice seemed unnaturally squeaky in the high-ceilinged room as she gestured to the mallangong sitting next to the lectern.

  ‘Native.’ A raucous guffaw of laughter replaced the silence.

  ‘Notoriously disreputable.’

  ‘Perhaps the case has been somewhat overstated.’ The secretary’s piercing gaze scrutinised her like some scientific oddity.

  How dare he! She met his look with a defiant lift of her chin and moved forward. ‘I am able to provide an eyewitness account of Ornithorhynchus anatinus and settle once and for all the conjecture and disbelief that has been rife concerning this poor creature.’ She gave the stuffed specimen an affectionate pat as the grumbling reached fever pitch.