The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘So am I. I feel dreadful about Julian. If only I’d been able to present Pa’s work myself.’

  ‘Your work too, I believe. I had a closer look at the sketchbook.’

  ‘I don’t think of it like that. I’ve just always worked with Pa. From the first moment I could walk I trailed around after him. I even had my own sketchbook, though the sight of my early drawings and diagrams make my toes curl with embarrassment.’

  She made his toes curl. The warmth of her body next to his on the narrow seat was enough to give a man an attack of chronic carditis.

  After a little more than an hour the coach slewed to a halt again to change horses. There was a deal of shouting and the coach rocked then the driver appeared next to the door arms akimbo and a fierce scowl on his face. ‘What’s your problem?’

  A plaintive wail broke the night air followed by a woman’s scream.

  ‘Rose, sit tight.’ Finneas threw open the door and stepped out. ‘What’s happening?’

  The driver glared at the woman trying to clamber onto the roof with a wicker basket clutched in her arms.

  ‘She can’t ride up there. She’ll fall and drop the baby. Bring her down.’ Finneas opened the door of the carriage and leant inside. ‘Rose, would you mind dreadfully if we have some company? There’s a woman with her baby. She can’t travel up top—she’ll freeze to death.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ The irate coach driver puffed up his chest.

  ‘I most certainly can.’

  ‘If she can’t pay for a seat she doesn’t get to ride inside. And there’s passengers booked from here to Exeter.’

  ‘In that case I’ll travel up top.’ Finneas turned from the driver to Rose. ‘The cost of seats is prohibitive for most.’ He passed the wicker basket with the child inside to Rose and handed the woman up. ‘Should the coach take a turn too fast or be involved in an accident, she and her babe could be flung off the vehicle or trapped underneath if it overturns.’

  Rose reached out a hand and with a look of exhausted relief the woman staggered up the steps.

  ‘I’ll go into the inn and pick up something to eat and drink. Anything you’d like?’

  ‘Hot chocolate perhaps?’ She threw him such a delicious smile, his heart gave a thundering great heave as he rushed off to do her bidding.

  By the time he returned with a steaming mug of chocolate the two seats opposite were filled by a ratty-faced man and an oversized woman with an equally large hat. Rose had the baby on her lap, her carpetbag and the wicker basket stashed beneath the seat out of harm’s way.

  He passed the mug in through the window.

  Rose pressed the hot chocolate into the woman’s hand.

  ‘I can’t take that.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Drink up, it’ll do you good. You’re freezing.’

  Satisfied Finneas secured the window and pulled up the collar of his greatcoat before taking delight in clambering across the driver to the roof of the coach where he wedged himself between two trunks and a bale of wool. He’d be soaking wet when they reached the next stop but it wouldn’t kill him.

  Sadly he was right and by the time they’d crossed Salisbury Plains he was drenched. He climbed down from the roof and shook himself like a dog.

  ‘Oh my goodness! Look at you! You can’t stay out there. We can move up.’ Rose passed the baby to the woman and shuffled along the seat making a small space.

  He couldn’t sit there; she’d be almost sitting in his lap.

  She patted the seat. ‘Take your greatcoat off. It’s warm in here, you’ll dry in no time.’

  The other two passengers exchanged outraged glances.

  ‘Oh don’t be so selfish. Get in, Finneas, now.’

  He shrugged out of his coat, bundled it up and stuffed it beneath the seat then eased himself onto the edge and closed the door.

  ‘There’s plenty of room, shuffle back a bit.’ She turned her shoulders to give him more room.

  What was a man to do? He moved back and instantly regretted his action. Through his damp clothes he could feel the heat of her body and it played havoc with his own. Hunching his shoulders, he clasped his hands tightly in his lap and shook.

  ‘See, I knew you were cold. Sit back and enjoy the rest of the trip. Myriam and little Bob are getting off at Exeter.’ She swept her hand over the baby’s head. ‘You’re not too uncomfortable, are you?’

  ‘No ma’am. No, not at all. Thank you, sir.’ The woman bobbed her head and clutched the baby tighter as the guard rapped the butt of his shotgun on the door to warn of their impending departure.

  ‘Next stop Exeter.’

  The ratty-faced man shot to his feet. ‘Is this Sherbourne?’ He belted his wife in the ribs with his elbow. ‘We’re getting out here, wake up.’

  The guard pulled the door open. ‘Get a move on.’

  The couple stumbled out into the darkness.

  ‘Do you have a problem with bushrangers? I hadn’t noticed the shotgun before.’

  Rose twisted closer, too close sending another convulsive tremor through him.

  He couldn’t stay there. Not now the opposite seat was vacant. He threw himself across the coach as it lurched off sending him sprawling. ‘Bushrangers?’

  ‘Mostly convicts who’ve escaped from the work gangs or the properties where they have been assigned.’

  ‘Oh, now I understand. Highwaymen in England. They terrorise certain stretches of the roads. The shotgun protects the mail, and us.’

  ‘We also call them bolters. They prefer to take their chances in the wild than put up with the deprivation and brutality of convict life.’

  ‘A hard life.’

  ‘Not so much for the women. Mam was assigned to Richard Barrington as housekeeper.’

  Myriam widened her eyes, no doubt amazed that this well-dressed lady would freely admit to a mother who was a convicted felon. Rose didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned. He bit back a smile. Perhaps in the colony convict status didn’t carry such a stigma. ‘And what do you know about your mother’s life?’

  ‘That she was convicted of theft. She was sent to Australia aboard a ship called the Lady Juliana, the first ship to arrive after the First Fleet, in 1789. She never really served her sentence, just worked as a housekeeper.’

  ‘And when her sentence was up?’

  ‘She stayed with Pa and me.’ Her pretty brow creased in a frown as she studied the bag at her feet. He didn’t ask any more questions, just let her thoughts settle. What a shock it must have been to discover she had a brother and that the father she’d known all her life was not in fact her father. It was worse than his own circumstances.

  ‘Do you know how Julian came to live with the Methenwycks?’

  He did, but was it his place to tell?

  ‘You do. I can tell. You’re chewing your lip—that’s what you do when you’re trying to decide what to say.’

  And how did she know that? He’d wondered if she’d noticed him watching her every move; it hadn’t occurred to him she might be doing the same. Too many years observing, studying the behaviour of the mallangong—no different. The hallmark of a scientist: gathering data, observing, and applying the findings.

  ‘You may as well tell me because otherwise I will have to ask Julian and that will only make him angry.’

  And manipulative too, when it suited her. ‘Julian’s father, your father, died at the Battle of Trafalgar. He was a naval surgeon.’ And here was the rub. ‘When he brought Julian back to England he hoped his wife would accept him and bring him up as his heir.’

  The silence inside the carriage grew, expanded like a poisonous gas seeping into every crack and crevice.

  ‘Barrington had a wife?’ All colour drained from her face and her lips took on a bluish tinge. He had no idea she hadn’t known. He leant forward and picked up her cold hand and rubbed it between his, warming her.

  ‘Tell me the rest,’ she whispered.

  ‘Barrington’s wife refused to accept Julian and he s
ent him to live in Cornwall with his sister, Caroline Methenwyck.’

  She pulled back her hand and sat fingering the blue wool of Caroline’s riding habit. ‘And they took care of him?’

  ‘Caroline was unable to bear children. Methenwyck wanted sons; it seemed the perfect solution. Julian is at least partly related by blood. He hopes one day to inherit.’

  ‘And then they took you in as their ward as well.’

  ‘The best thing that ever happened to me.’

  She gave him a shy smile as though she knew what he was thinking: if the Methenwycks hadn’t taken him in he would never have met Rose.

  Her mind spiralled in ever decreasing circles as she tried to piece together the parts of the puzzle Finneas had presented. Tried to make some logical sense of the information and remember what Mam had told her. ‘Mam said she wanted to return to England because of her granfer. He was old and sick. Barrington said he could help her. I think he duped her. Poor Mam.’ A great big tear trickled down her cheek and Finneas pressed a soft white handkerchief into her hands. ‘In a way I’m happy Richard Barrington deserted Mam otherwise Charles Winton wouldn’t be my father.’

  ‘I think you should be. He sounds like a delightful man.’

  ‘I believed I lived in paradise. I had the most perfect childhood anyone could wish for.’

  What she wouldn’t give to see Pa smile again—that long slow smile that spoke of his love. To see his eyes light up with pleasure when the mallangong played at sunset.

  ‘I love him so much Finneas.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I can never love anyone else like that. When I was little I used to creep out of my bed and into his workroom, sleep under his desk like a puppy; then he’d scoop me in his big strong arms and carry me to bed. When we sat by the river watching the mallangong play, we’d talk. He taught me everything, showed me everything there was to see from the tiniest beetle to the softest flannel flower. He called me the daughter of his heart. When I found out I wasn’t his daughter I was so angry, angry with my mother because she had done that to me—taken my father from me. Taken the man I loved beyond all others and replaced him with a faceless man who didn’t even know I existed.

  ‘The day Pa was spurred I thought my life would end. The animal he loved above everything had taken him from me and I was jealous. I sat by his bed, nursed his horribly ravaged body and prayed, prayed like I’d never done before. When he asked me to come to England it was a way to get Pa back, and now I’ve failed him.’ Sighing she hunched into the corner, not crying; no tears left.

  ‘He’ll always be your father, Rose.’ He leant forward and linked his fingers with hers bringing her knuckles to his cheek. ‘And you have another opportunity to talk to Sir Joseph. I’m sure he will be responsive to your father’s discoveries. After all, he corresponded with him for many, many years.’

  Finneas was right. She drew back her shoulders, unravelled her fingers from his and stared out of the carriage window. ‘Mam’s family came from the West Country.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  No, she didn’t; just another part of Mam she knew nothing about. ‘I only know she boarded the ship in Plymouth.’ Why had she never thought to ask? She knew nothing, nothing at all. All about Pa and his work, all about his hopes and his dreams, nothing of Mam.

  By the time the coach bounced and jostled over the cobblestone courtyard of the New London Inn at Exeter the sun was low in the sky and Rose was beginning to believe every one of her bones had become totally disconnected. ‘I think my sinews may have become unattached.’

  Finneas laughed. ‘I doubt it. Fibrous tissues are very resilient. The worst is over now—the Turnpike Trust has significantly improved the moorland road. We’ll spend the night here and then it’s a mere fifty miles to Jamaica Inn.’

  ‘Jamaica Inn. That sounds very exotic.’

  ‘The name of the inn derives from the Trelawney family, local landowners. Two members of the family served as Governors of Jamaica fifty or sixty years back.’

  ‘And today they run an inn?’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ He laughed, making a flush rise to her face. He knew so much and she, what was she? A foolish girl who didn’t even know her own mother.

  ‘It’s run by a family by the name of Penhaligon and it’s not far from Wyck Hall. We’ll be there in time for a late lunch and then we’ll pick up two horses and be home before nightfall. Now let’s find ourselves something to eat and get a decent night’s sleep.’

  Seventeen

  Cornwall, England 1820

  ‘Mrs Pascoe!’ Finneas threw his arms around the rotund housekeeper. She’d been his lifesaver more times than he could remember with her secret jam drops and sympathy when he’d copped the raw side of Methenwyck’s belt. ‘How are you?’

  ‘And what are you doing here my favourite boy?’ She pushed him away from her and examined him from head to toe, patting and prodding, making sure he was all in one piece.

  No point in trying to hide; she could read him better than any recipe. ‘I’m very well. How is everyone?’

  ‘Not much has changed. It’s you I want to know about. Mr Julian comes down more often and the master enjoys his company even though he can’t get out. Why don’t I ever see you here?’ She waggled a fat finger at him. ‘I know. I know. Nothing you like too much.’

  Nothing he liked or wanted to be a part of. Gentlemen’s parties and the like.

  ‘Not near as much work as it used to be now there’s none of the hunting. But enough of my blather.’ Her gaze lit on Rose and her eyebrows danced. ‘And who’s this pretty young lass? She has the look of the West Country about her.’

  ‘This is Julian’s sister come to us from New South Wales.’ He brought Rose into the light.

  ‘Oh my!’ Mrs Pascoe’s face flushed bright red then paled and tears sprang to her eyes. Her hand clawed at her chest and a ragged wheeze passed her bloodless lips.

  Good God! The woman looked as if she might have an apoplexy. ‘Sit down Mrs Pascoe, come.’ He lowered her into the chair. ‘Rose would you be so kind as to fetch my bag.’ He tried to loosen her collar but she batted him away. ‘Mrs Pascoe, please. Rose open my bag and pass me the stethoscope.’

  ‘Stethoscope?’

  He was taking too much for granted, imagining her a colleague, schooled in scientific jargon. ‘That wooden tube there. It amplifies the chest sounds.’ He waved his hand in the direction of his bag and within moments she’d placed the brown timber cylinder into his hand. ‘Mrs Pascoe, I am going to put this to your chest and listen.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not, young man. There’s naught wrong with me chest. It’s me heart that’s twisted. Come here, lass.’

  She held out her quivering hand to Rose. ‘So you’d be young Jenifer’s daughter, would you?’ She smoothed her fingers over the back of Rose’s hand and the colour returned to her face.

  ‘My mother is Jenifer Trevan.’

  ‘Same as Master Julian. And your father? Mr Barrington?’

  Rose almost shook her head. A look of conflict glided across her face then she nodded. ‘Yes, however I never met him. A man named Charles Winton is father to me, and has been all my life.’

  ‘And young Jenifer, how’s she faring?’

  ‘Mam is well.’

  ‘You’re the right image of her.’

  Rose smiled, ‘That’s what Pa, Charles, always says; his two precious treasures brought to him by the piskies.’

  Finneas pressed a glass of water into Mrs Pascoe’s hand. She seemed none the worse for her momentary turn. ‘Drink this. Are you feeling more yourself now?’

  ‘Aye, that I am. Took me by surprise seeing young Rose here. Thought it was Jenifer back to work in me kitchen. Piskies indeed.’

  ‘Mam worked here?’

  ‘Best scullery maid I ever had. I’d have her back in the flick of a donkey’s tail. Never believed her guilty. Why would she do a thing like that? Her granfer brought her up proper. Real nice man he was. Broke his heart when
they sentenced her to death. We buried him out yonder in the walled garden. He loved that spot.’

  Rose swayed and grabbed at the back of the chair. From what she’d said on the trip down her mother’s conviction didn’t encompass a death sentence. If Mrs Pascoe spoke the truth it would account for the fact Rose’s mother hadn’t accompanied her—transported for the term of her natural life no doubt.

  Mrs Pascoe might have a heart of gold but her mouth was bigger than a cavern. ‘I’m going to show Rose to the guestroom and perhaps, if you’re feeling better you could arrange a little supper for us.’

  ‘Of course I can. Beggin’ your pardon Master Finneas. Such a shock, so like dear Jenifer.’ With a deferential bob Mrs Pascoe bumbled out of the hallway shaking her head and mumbling.

  ‘I’m sure there must be some mistake.’ Rose’s normal colour had seeped from her face leaving her skin more like chalk. ‘She must be wrong. Mam would have told me if she’d been sentenced to death. I suppose she forgot because it was such a shock to find out that Julian was alive and in London.’

  That he doubted very strongly. No one forgot a death sentence, even if it was rescinded, and Mrs Pascoe was rarely wrong.

  ‘Everything was in turmoil. Those few weeks before I left home are all a blur now. I wonder if Pa has recovered.’ She swayed again and he reached out a hand to steady her and picked up her carpetbag. With the other arm around her shoulder he led her up the stairs.

  Strange that her thoughts should go to her father not her mother. It was as though they had a greater bond and Rose seemed to know nothing of her mother’s earlier life. Perhaps Jenifer chose not to speak of it, knew she had no choice but to make a new life and put the past behind her. They said that many of the convicts who made good never thought to return.