The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘This is the guestroom.’ He led her into the sombre room furnished with heavy furniture, one of the rooms used by Julian’s cronies when they visited. He’d have a word with Caroline tomorrow and see if they could arrange something a little less austere and forbidding.

  ‘Thank you.’ She sank down on the side of the bed and sat staring at the huge dark timber wardrobe with a vacant look.

  ‘I’ll give you a proper tour of the house and garden tomorrow. Let’s see what Mrs Pascoe has scrounged up for us. We won’t disturb Caroline or Lord Methenwyck tonight. They both retire early and you must be tired. It’s been a long three days. Your trunk will arrive from the inn tomorrow. Where would you like me to put your carpetbag?’

  ‘Anywhere.’ She covered her mouth with her hand and yawned. ‘I am tired.’

  On second thoughts the last thing Rose needed was another dose of Mrs Pascoe’s reminiscences. ‘Then I’ll bring a tray up to you.’

  ‘Really I don’t want to cause any problems.’

  How could she do that? He wanted nothing more than to cocoon her in a warm eiderdown and attend to her every need.

  ‘How’s Methenwyck?’ Finneas loaded his plate with scrambled eggs and pork sausages. How he’d missed Mrs Pascoe’s breakfasts. With his mouth watering he sat down at the dining room table and tucked in.

  ‘Methenwyck becomes more intractable every day.’ Caroline let out a long sigh and broke off the corner of her toast. ‘No better.’

  ‘We knew that would be the case. He’s lucky to be alive after the massive apoplexy he suffered. The doctor comes regularly, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. But I never believe he’s talking sense. He recommends bleeding and brandy.’

  ‘You are simply going to have to accept the fact that he’ll never regain the use of his left side, and his speech will be permanently impaired. I told you that last year. Harsh words I know but there’s nothing anyone can do but keep him comfortable. He’s an old man now, well past his allotted three score and ten.’

  Caroline’s eyes hardened. ‘Sometimes I think it would be better if someone put him out of his misery. If he were a horse he’d have been shot long ago.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know you don’t mean that.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, her mouth set in a petulant pout. ‘He misses Julian dreadfully.’

  ‘He’ll be here in a couple of days.’

  ‘Midsummer.’ Her face blanched. ‘Where’s Mrs Pascoe, I haven’t seen her this morning? This toast is burned.’

  She was around somewhere—the piskies hadn’t brought this delightful breakfast. ‘So you haven’t heard about our guest?’

  Caroline lifted her head. She’d aged since the last time he’d visited. Sharp lines bracketed her mouth and her eyes had faded to a dull blue-grey.

  ‘She had a terrible time in London. It seemed like the right thing to do. She’s delightful.’ Mrs Pascoe’s sausages were possibly the best he’d ever tasted.

  ‘Who is she?’

  Before he had the chance to reply the door opened and Rose appeared in the doorway looking refreshed and very fetching in a butter-coloured dress. He leapt to his feet. ‘Caroline, may I present your niece, Rose Winton.’

  Caroline’s eyes bulged in a most alarming manner.

  ‘Rose, your aunt, Lady Caroline Methenwyck.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rose offered some sort of bob and stood with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes downcast.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Finneas held out a chair. ‘There’s hot chocolate, your favourite, and various other bits and pieces. You must be famished.’

  She sat down with no sign of her usual vivacity. When he placed a cup of chocolate in front of her, she offered a tentative smile, more a grimace really. The cup rattled in the saucer as she lifted it to her mouth.

  He shot a glance at Caroline; the look on her face stopped him in his tracks. A look of softness, almost love. It was as though she couldn’t pull her gaze from Rose, as though she was drinking in every contour of her face, the tilt of her heavy eyebrows, the polished walnut colour of her eyes, her untamed curls caught loosely at the nape of her neck. The tip of Rose’s tongue traced her pink lips as she removed the final traces of chocolate, then with a flush she picked up her napkin and dabbed her mouth. God she was lovely.

  ‘Lady Caroline.’ Rose gave a shy smile, surely that would break the ice. She had such an engaging smile. ‘Mrs Pascoe said my mother worked here as a scullery maid before she was transported.’

  A pulse pounded beneath the transparent skin of Caroline’s temple.

  ‘She never speaks of her life in Cornwall. Do you know what crime she was accused of?’

  With a strangled gasp Caroline pushed to her feet, her fingers tugging the tablecloth, spilling her tea.

  ‘Caroline?’

  ‘Excuse me. I have an appalling headache.’ And with that she left the room.

  What in God’s name was going on? First Mrs Pascoe and now Caroline. ‘Take no notice. Caroline’s upset with me because there is nothing I can do for Lord Methenwyck.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is there something wrong?’

  He gestured to the large painted portrait hanging above the fireplace: the man’s head cocked at an arrogant angle, a long pointed nose and thin lips tilted in the semblance of a smile—more a sneer—that still had the ability to make his skin prickle. ‘Lord Methenwyck, as a young man. Today you wouldn’t recognise him. He’s confined to his bed. As good as blind and totally debilitated by the apoplexy he suffered over twelve months ago.’

  ‘How dreadful. I spent sufficient time with Pa to understand just how frustrated he must be. Is there nothing you can do?’

  ‘As I told Caroline, sadly nothing. Now how are you feeling today? Recovered from our journey?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Though I have to admit I was ridiculously nervous meeting Lady Caroline.’

  ‘Lady Methenwyck,’ he corrected gently. No point in giving Caroline anything else to get upset about. Hopefully he’d get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later, meanwhile he had more pressing matters at hand. ‘I thought that I’d show you around today. Nothing too strenuous and then tomorrow we’ll take a ride out towards the coast and come back across the moors. They deserve a better look than we gave them yesterday.’

  ‘Should you not stay and attend to Lady Caro—Methenwyck? I don’t want to take up all your time nor add to your responsibilities. I am quite capable of entertaining myself.’

  ‘No, no. Caroline suffers from a recurrent throbbing headache, brought on by anxiety. She has never truly recovered from the difficulties she had in childbirth.’ He shouldn’t be having this discussion with Rose; he kept forgetting that she wasn’t one of his medical colleagues. ‘Are you certain you don’t want anything further to eat? Perhaps you’d like just a gentle walk today after the rigours of the journey?’

  ‘No, not at all. I enjoyed every moment of it. After the time in London it was lovely to see something of the countryside. In fact …’ She looked up at him, her eyes dancing. ‘I’d love to ride on the moors again today, and perhaps I could take my sketchbook, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘An excellent idea, and I’ll call into the inn and collect some pasties and cider, make something of a picnic. How does that sound?’

  As they crested the hill Rose pulled to a halt, her eyes shining, and threw her arms wide. ‘Have you ever seen anything so beautiful in all your life?’

  ‘A beauty that hides many a dark secret when the moon is high.’

  She blinked her big brown eyes and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Smugglers!’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Or free traders, whichever you prefer.’

  ‘What do they smuggle?’

  ‘Brandy. French brandy. They bring it ashore at some of the smaller coves on the coastline and it’s hauled by donkey cart up the winding paths.’

  ‘Don’t they get caught? Isn’t it illegal?’r />
  ‘Oh yes. The law of the land strictly forbids smuggling but everyone turns a blind eye not wanting to feed the pocket of the assessors. They know the duty will never make it into the government coffers, just line the pockets of the local constabulary.’

  ‘At home it is the rum trade. It’s as good as money—often better.’

  ‘I think I’d rather settle for French brandy.’

  ‘Look at that!’ Rose raised her hand to her forehead, gazing intently into the distance. ‘The colour of the water. It’s almost silver.’ She slithered from her horse and rummaged in the saddlebag. ‘We have to stop.’

  ‘That is Dozmary Pool. The home of the Lady of the Lake. According to the legend, it is here that King Arthur received the sword Excalibur.’

  ‘I have to record this. To show Pa, to remind Mam. Tell her I’ve seen and experienced the country she knew. Bring back the past she’s buried for so long. She’ll like that.’

  He wasn’t too certain. It seemed Jenifer Trevan had kept much of her past life close to her chest. ‘There’s also another tale, but then there always is in Cornwall.’

  She cocked her head to one side, the wind whipping her hair out of its pins.

  ‘It’s not so pretty.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There was a local magistrate with a particularly nasty record for brutality. His deeds caught up with him and he was damned to the bottomless Dozmary Pool, where he is tormented to this day; it is said his ghost can still be heard howling across the moor.’ He’d swear he saw a shiver cross her shoulders. ‘Scared?’

  ‘No, I don’t scare easily. I love stories. I grew up with the blackfellas’ tales.’ She sank down onto a rock, nestled like a bird amongst the rough granite and heather, her hair streaming behind her as she stared out over the moors. Her eyes scanning, taking in every little bit of detail. He liked that, liked the way she noticed even the smallest detail. Years and years of working with her father. Trained from an early age.

  ‘What’s that mound over there?’

  ‘One of the barrows—the moors are littered with them—Druid burial chambers. Some say there is hidden treasure beneath but none has been found.’

  This time she did shiver and he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘It may be summer but the wind can be bitter.’ He was a man of science, a man of rationality but still his blood chilled up there where the ancients had buried their dead.

  ‘I forgot—at home it’s never this cold. Either clear and sunny or torrential rain. Nothing in between. None of these scudding clouds. Look at the sky up there.’ Her pencil skimmed the page and the scene appeared before his eyes.

  ‘And it can change in the blink of an eye. I shall await your pleasure and take in the view.’ He sat down and rested back on his arms taking in the view of her not the moor he knew so well, the little frown of concentration, the way she licked the stub of her pencil, the sweep of her arm as she sketched the line of the horizon. He could think of no better way to spend a morning.

  ‘What do you think?’ Rose held the sketchbook aloft for his approval.

  It was as though some magic eye had blinked and taken in the entire panorama, accurately representing it in only a matter of moments. No colour, just pencil strokes, some crosshatched, others smudged with the ball of her thumb where the lead had left a grey stain. ‘It’s wonderful. You must show it to Caroline when we return.’

  ‘I’m not sure how interested Lady Methenwyck would be. I think perhaps she dislikes me.’

  ‘No, no she doesn’t. As I said she suffers from severe headaches, they come upon her without warning.’ Caroline had no reason to dislike Rose. ‘It’s only an hour or so back to the house. Would you prefer to return for lunch or shall I go to Jamaica Inn and procure a couple of their fine pasties and some cider as I promised?’

  ‘Oh yes, please. I can’t believe I’m so hungry.’ Her eyes strayed back to her sketchbook. ‘I’d like to draw a little more.’

  ‘You stay here. I shall return with food fit for a princess.’

  ‘A Cornish piskie more like.’ Her laughter drifted away on the breeze and he dragged himself to his feet loathe to leave her but happy to prolong the time away from the stifling confines of Wyck Hall.

  The dour atmosphere only served to remind him the reasons he stayed in London. Julian had always been the one for Wyck Hall with his regular trips.

  ‘I’ll be back before you know it. Wait right here. I don’t want to lose you on the moors.’

  Eighteen

  Cornwall, England 1820

  Finneas didn’t look or act a lot like a physician, except perhaps for his bag, which was always with him. Dressed in a buff-coloured pair of breeches and rough woollen waistcoat he seemed more like a profitable squatter as he galloped away.

  By the time Rose lifted her hand to wave he was no more than a dark shadow framed by the moor. In the distance she could see the chimneys of the inn standing against the blustery clouds. How much she’d missed the wide-open spaces, solitude and the sky. In London the very air itself cowed her and made her shoulders hunch, never mind the marauding crowds. She turned back to her drawing and sketched in the billowing clouds, colouring them with Pa’s favoured smudged shading to give the impression of their burgeoning weight.

  She had no idea how long she’d sat sketching the wind-bent trees, the stone walls and the view to the steely grey water of Dozmary Pool but when an attack of pins and needles threatened she tucked her pencil behind her ear and stood, stretching her legs and turning around and around letting the rising wind whip her skirts.

  Replacing her sketchbook and pencils in her saddlebag she scanned the path towards the Inn, pulling Finneas’s cloak tight around her shoulders. She was cold, hadn’t imagined the granite rock would be so chill in summer. It was more like an Australian winter.

  There was no sign of Finneas and to her right lay the soft mound of grass on the dome of the hill—one of the barrows Finneas had spoken of. Following her nose she picked her way across a small stream, her hair dancing around her face in the wind.

  A meandering path led between two high stones and into a small chamber. Casting a quick look over her shoulder she ducked inside. The wind dropped and a solid silence wrapped around her, similar to the churchlike stillness of the caves she’d explored with Yindi and Bunji. Did the ancients decorate their caves as the blackfellas did? Perhaps there were drawings like the ones at home, pointing the way to good tucker—the kangaroo one way and the fish towards the river. This place had the same brooding weight as though the past guardians watched and waited.

  The old stones were rough under her palms as she felt her way inside, beneath a heavy rock lintel balanced on two eroded pillars, and into a small chamber. The air was stale and sweet as though some animal had crawled inside and died. With her hands pressed against the wall she stood stock-still while her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness.

  She ran her fingers over the indentations in the rock wishing she had a lantern. At that moment the sun chose to appear from behind the clouds and a shaft of light spilt into the small cavern. She followed the beam to the wall, a flat smooth rock with ingrained marks. She stepped closer, her mind refusing to believe what her eyes beheld.

  Here lies Jenifer Trevan, loving granddaughter of Granfer Tomas Trevan, May 24th, 1772—February 2nd, 1788

  Rose traced her fingers over the etched words, the lump in her throat growing bigger by the moment, tightening until she could hear her throat rasp as she tried to suck air into her starved lungs.

  Jenifer Trevan.

  She traced her fingers over each roughly hewn letter. Granfer Tomas Trevan. Granfer. The word Mam used. He died after she left for New South Wales. She’d overheard Mam and Pa by the fire while she lay in her trundle bed. Mam sobbing her very heart out because she’d had to leave Granfer, but never talking about Wyck Hall. She’d never mentioned the place yet Mrs Pascoe had said Mam was a scullery maid and Granfer was buried in the walled garden. />
  And the dates? Her heart twisted like a wrung-out rag. February 1788. Mam was no more dead than she was. Was there something else she hadn’t told her? First Pa was not Pa and now—was Mam who she said she was? The sun slipped away again and she stumbled out into the light, sweat coating her forehead and her pulse pounding. A hard hand came down on her arm, spun her around and a shriek of pure terror escaped her lips.

  ‘What are you doing here? There’s a storm coming.’ Finneas’s thunderous face glared down at her. Gone were the soft brown eyes, the welcoming smile. In its place anger so fierce and so intense it stole her breath.

  He clamped his arms tight around her and dragged her between the entrance stones, onto the rough path, away from the knoll.

  ‘Let me go. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I told you to wait for me there, until I got back.’ He pointed to the horses grazing the tufts of heather next to the stone where she’d sat and sketched.

  ‘I finished my drawing.’ She sounded like a child, explaining how the time had got away and she’d forgotten her chores.

  ‘I thought you’d roamed, got lost. The weather on the moors can change in a moment.’ His voice still held a panicked edge but his breathing had slowed. Why was he so angry?

  ‘I found something in the barrow. I want to show you. I think Mam has been here. Her name was on the wall.’

  His eyes flashed again and his face turned to a grim mask, at one with the granite beneath their feet. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, your imagination is running away from you. I played here as a child, I know every inch of the place. It’s the moors, they have that effect on people. Make them imagine strange happenings. It’s time we got back. Caroline will be worried that we’re not home.’

  Caroline would be worried? Unlikely. Not half as worried as she was. When she got back she intended to ask some questions. Find out what exactly they knew about the scratchings in the barrow. Finneas, well Finneas could go to hell if he was going to behave like some enraged bull because she’d chosen to take a walk.