by Téa Cooper
She’d hated it. Couldn’t summon the courage to stick it out. The moment she reached twenty-one and came into her inheritance she’d left, employed Mrs Birkenhead and moved into the family home in Miller Street, but the place held nothing but faded memories. She felt like an interloper too scared to face the past, too pathetic to fulfil her destiny. She couldn’t walk into the surgery where Father had run his practice, couldn’t look at his desk and shelves of medical books, all a constant reminder of her failure. Heavens, she hadn’t even found the courage to stick to university.
It wasn’t until she’d been summoned by the bank that she’d realised she hadn’t a bottomless purse—just the house and a parcel of worthless shares. It was time she put her foot down and called the tune. The prospect of nursing or missionary school didn’t appeal. She’d rather be a nun. Mrs Williams had saved her life when she’d championed her employment. And here she was, totally immersed in the most fascinating adventure. Perhaps she did have something to thank her parents for.
She stopped, looked up and discovered she was standing outside a tiny little workman’s cottage, the gate hanging off one hinge and the paint peeling from the door.
Her hands grew clammy. What was she doing?
Should she knock?
Who lived in a place like this, a workman’s cottage, yet had the money to drive a motor car? What she wouldn’t give to be able to see inside. She lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles on the door. After an eternity it swung open a crack and there he was.
Same old Shaw. Same corduroy trousers and shirt he’d had on last time she’d seen him, the sleeves rolled up revealing his brown forearms.
‘Hello Tamsin, what are you doing here?’ He forced the door further open with his hip.
She heard him swallow, then he pulled the door wide and ushered her into the narrow hallway crammed with boxes. Trapped in the small space her heartbeat raced. Ridiculous, this was Shaw. They had a common goal. She’d travelled with him from Wollombi to Sydney. Spent hours in his company. She squeezed her way along turning sideways to edge past the rows and rows of tea chests stacked one on top of the other.
‘I wasn’t expecting company.’ That was more than obvious. His face looked drawn and haggard as though he needed a decent night’s sleep. ‘Come and have a cup of tea.’
‘I won’t stay. I was on my way home. I can’t find my tin. I wondered if you’d picked it up at the café last night.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ He scratched his head and gave a distracted glance at the table. ‘Yes, I did. It’s in here somewhere.’ He slid a pile of old ledgers across the tabletop releasing a plume of dust and a scurry of silverfish and cockroaches. ‘It’s in my jacket pocket.’
‘I was talking to someone at the Library about the daguerreotype. They seem to think there might be records in George Goodman’s studio. It’s still in George Street. Have you got it?’
‘It’s here somewhere, I know it is.’ He tossed aside an interesting pile of yellowing pamphlets then turned them over and slapped one of the books down on top. ‘Load of old rubbish. Here it is.’
Her hand reached for the tin but he held it close to his chest and pulled off the lid. ‘Let’s take another look at the daguerreotype.’
The paper crackled as he unwrapped it and tipped it from the red cardboard frame into his hand then held it up to the lamp sitting on the table. ‘Who do you think they are?’
‘I don’t know. I like to think it’s Charles Winton and maybe Rose and her children.’
‘Winton would be too old. He was born in 1764. He’d be over eighty if Goodman took it. She’s pretty, like you.’
She flashed him a look from under her lashes and her face reddened. How she wished he’d stop making comments like that. She didn’t know how to react, whether he was serious or just sweet-talking her the way he did Mrs Williams.
Impossible to tell. Tamsin let her hair fall across her face to hide the blush in her cheeks.
He shook his head and took back the daguerreotype. ‘It’s badly scratched. Maybe it’s Mrs Quinleaven? I’ll put it back.’
His long fingers carefully refitted the frame and folded the tissue paper and tucked the little parcel into the tin.
She turned to face him every muscle in her body tight and held out her hand. ‘May I have it?’
After a long pause he sighed, ‘Tamsin, I need to talk to you. Let’s go and sit down.’
She followed him back down the hallway and into the front room dominated by a sagging leather armchair and books. Nothing but books. No shelves. Just piles and piles of books against every wall, three and four deep.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I didn’t know you collected books.’
‘I don’t. That is, I want to. These are my grandfather’s. I hope to go into business one day.’
‘Into business? Doing what?’
‘Antiquarian books. Buying and selling.’
A wave of nausea washed over her and she plonked down onto the edge of the chair.
‘You look pale. Let me get you a glass of water.’
Tamsin sank back into the collapsing chair. Her mind wouldn’t stop swirling. If it wasn’t for the fact he had her tin she’d be out of the door so fast. Buying and selling old books? Did he intend to sell the sketchbook? She tried to backtrack through the conversations they’d had. It seemed like hundreds of hours. Surely she was jumping to conclusions. And then the odd phrase or two popped into her head. His fascination with the sketchbook, asking how much it would be worth. What did he want it for? For his own collection or to sell to someone who’d keep it hidden away in their private collection behind some locked gate and high fence so no one else could see it. Winton’s sketchbook belonged in the public domain for everyone to enjoy.
After an eternity Shaw returned. He’d put on his jacket and had a glass of water in his hands. God she was a fool.
Relying on too many years in the posh school with the Misses Green, she rose to her feet and smoothed her jacket. ‘My tin, please?’ She raised one eyebrow wishing she looked less windblown, more businesslike.
Shaw exhaled and sank down into the chair she had just vacated, the tin still in his hand. Maybe there was something in all those assertive women articles she’d been reading because now he had to look up at her. Resisting the temptation to place her hands on her hips and demand to know his intentions she waited, sipping the water as it brought her internal and external temperature into some sort of harmony.
‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’ A grim smile ghosted across his face.
Too right he hadn’t. She pressed her lips together refusing to offer him any solace. Wanting to see him smooth talk his way out of this.
‘This collection,’ he waved his hand around the room, ‘and all the others outside in the boxes arrived from England. They belonged to my grandfather.’
He’d have to try a little harder than that. He’d told her that already.
She swallowed the and hovering on her lips and took another sip of water, the water warming in her mouth as she held it there.
‘Mrs Rushworth intends to sell the sketchbook.’
And then it hit her. ‘She asked you to sell the sketchbook, when we were in Wollombi.’ She dumped the glass down on the side table and stared at him. Right from the very beginning she’d known, known there was something not quite right. Too convenient, and she’d chosen to ignore her suspicions. ‘And you thought if the Library authenticated the sketchbook it would increase its value.’ Too taken with the man. Blindsided by his charm.
Two spots of red flared on his cheeks.
And that made her temper snap. Guilty as charged. It was his duplicity that disgusted her. He’d intended right from that very first day to sell the sketchbook. He’d used her, used her contacts to find out the provenance and she’d gone along with it like a lamb to the slaughter. ‘It is a national treasure and belongs to the Library.’ She couldn’t sacrifice the sketchbook or her principles to satisfy his dema
nds. It meant even more to her now they had discovered Rose Winton.
The thought that Mrs Rushworth might have already claimed the sketchbook—worse still, Shaw had found a buyer—tiptoed down her back. And no matter what Shaw said she couldn’t get past the fact that he’d used her. Courted her—funny how these old-fashioned words kept slipping into her mind—not because he liked her but because he wanted information from her. It was mortifying. How could she have been so naive?
‘Tamsin, please. Let me explain. I have something more to tell you.’
‘You have nothing to say that I want to hear. Give me my tin. The contents belong with the sketchbook. In the Library.’ She held out her hand, palm open. ‘Give it to me!’
‘I told Mrs Rushworth that I didn’t condone selling the sketchbook until the solicitors had verified her claim to ownership.’
‘You shouldn’t even have considered selling the sketchbook. Mrs Quinleaven wanted to donate it. You lied. Lied to me and used me. Give me the tin.’
‘Technically, it doesn’t belong to you.’
‘Mrs Rushworth gave it to me.’ She snatched the tin from his hands and rammed it into her satchel.
Cursing men, money and greed she stormed down the hallway slamming the door behind her, hoping against hope that the stacks of books would topple and bury him.
Now Tamsin had gone thundering off in high dudgeon without giving him the opportunity to show her the article about the fire and tell her about the land deeds, he couldn’t concentrate. He’d had every intention of telling her his plans for approaching the Mitchell people. There was little or no point in going after her until she had calmed down and he had something more concrete to offer. The sketchbook was locked out of harm’s way in the safe at the Library. There was nothing Mrs Rushworth could do to get her hands on it and anyway, a buyer wouldn’t appear overnight.
He turned away and stared at the filthy window into the darkened street, trying to block the picture of Tamsin’s face when she’d accused him of acting behind her back. He owed it to her to unravel the story, then at least the Library would have the opportunity to present a decent case, though he didn’t like their chances if Father had his way.
West Wycombe. Medmenham Abbey, Methenwyck, Wyck Hall, Cornwall.
Was there a link? How many Methenwycks were there in the world? And what was Rose Winton doing down in Cornwall? The report of the fire placed her there and so did the drawing of Dozmary Pool. Had she taken the sketchbook to England? How on earth had it fallen into Mrs Quinleaven’s possession?
He grabbed the pile of ledgers across the table and opened them. Grandfather had obviously had some interest in Cornwall and Medmenham Abbey. He returned to the tea chest and pulled all of the books out and piled them onto the table. The only way this could be sorted out was systematically. His mind was in such a muddle, full of names and places, like a spider web. What he needed was a piece of paper and a pencil.
With the yellow solicitor’s pad in front of him and a freshly sharpened pencil he wrote Rose Winton’s name in the middle of the first sheet, drew a circle around it and a line to Charles Winton. Then on the right-hand side of the paper he wrote Finneas, Julian and Methenwyck, and then he paused and his heartbeat raced as he added Charles Winton and his housekeeper, Jenifer Trevan.
Now what? He swiped the pad aside. One step at a time. Perhaps Mrs Rushworth’s claim was valid. Maybe Mrs Quinleaven had inherited the book; maybe she was related to Rose Winton. He scrawled her name on the pad. No matter what the solicitors in Cessnock came up with in regard to Kelly’s estate Mrs Rushworth would be entitled to her mother’s possessions.
He had to make some basic assumptions. The first that Rose Winton was at some time in possession of Winton’s sketchbook and had visited Cornwall. How did lead back to a land grant in the Hunter?
Twenty-one
Cornwall, England 1820
No matter what Caroline said Finneas had no intention of searching for Julian. Rose was his only concern. Julian could go to hell in a rowboat for all he cared. Only Rose mattered and something told him she would have returned to the barrow.
She was enough like him, determined to accurately record what she’d seen. He groaned aloud. He was as bad as the jackasses at the Royal Society. He’d failed to listen.
He urged the poor horse onwards not allowing for even more than a walk over the rough terrain. He could have travelled as fast on foot however if he found Rose, no—when he found Rose she’d be thankful of a ride. It was a long walk for anyone, even a girl who’d spent half her life roaming the countryside with her father and the natives she spoke of.
A break in the clouds showed the barrow looming ahead. A sense of dread weighted his chest, along with it the memories of the rumours. Even as a child he’d shunned the stories, wanted proof. Always proof. There’d never been any. If he hadn’t dismissed Rose’s discovery would she be back at the house, warm and tucked up in front of the fire, her dark curls bouncing when she laughed?
Sod it! He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and urged it around the last bend before the barrow. With his hands cupped he called her name, ‘Rose! Rose!’
An owl hooted its reply.
He slid from the horse wishing he’d thought to bring a lantern as he stumbled over the loose shale on the entry path, between the two standing stones where the last vestiges of light disappeared.
The darkness was so black. He closed his eyes and opened them again hoping some pinprick of light might lead the way. With the palm of his hand flat against the wall he edged further inside then stopped, inhaling the air. He recognised the smell, no different from the cadavers he dissected; the coppery tang of blood. ‘Rose!’
Nothing but silence.
He strained his ears trying to pick up the faintest sound.
His foot caught and he stumbled. Face first, hands outstretched. He clenched his fists, felt metal cut into his skin. Pulling himself up into a sitting position he lifted it into his lap feeling its shape. A lantern. Dear God, let him never lose his sight. A pang of remorse shot through him as he imagined Methenwyck’s plight, lying day after day unable to see even the sunrise. Forcing his heart rate to settle he sat, fingers reaching into his inside pocket for his small tinderbox. With it safely balanced on the dirt floor he struck the flint and held the spill to the wick. The sulphur flared and the candle ignited.
Cupping his hand around the frail flicker of light he waited for it to build then eased to his feet, the lantern held aloft. The air was tinged with the smell of fish oil, the scent of blood—his own or Rose’s? Good God, where was she? He eased his way further into the barrow, the lantern held high.
The sight of the large stone still standing in the centre of the cavern brought back his morbid childhood fears. He held the lantern high and counted his strides. Five, four, three, two—
Light spilt across the stone.
The stain of blood. He ran his index finger through it. Still damp.
‘Rose!’
He searched wildly. Tripped in the darkness. Stumbled to his knees, hands groping. A bundle of black cloth. A hand, palm up, fingers open. Working his way under the cloak he encountered a warm, soft body. ‘Rose!’
With a rush of relief he turned her slowly, checking for injuries. Her back, her head. His fingers raced across her face. Alive. The flutter of a pulse in her neck. Slipping his arm under her shoulders he raised her, pulled her to his chest, cradling her against his body. In the half-light his eyes raced across the shadowy outline of her face, his fingers searching through her hair feeling for lacerations. Nothing.
Easing to his feet he carried her to the stone, almost lowered her down then his vision clouded. Not on the sacrificial stone. Not where blood lay. Reaching out he grasped the lantern in one hand and edged out into the night.
A blast of wet cold air hit him as he stepped out of the barrow. Rose stirred, groaned and opened her eyes. Even in the frail light the flash of terror in her eyes hit him. She struggled against
him.
‘Rose, it’s me. Finneas.’
Still she struggled, threatening to topple them both. He lowered her to her feet keeping one arm tight around her body. She shrugged him free. And stood, arms clasped tight around her body, rocking. ‘Finneas?’ Frowning, she wiped her hand over her face, pushing back her damp hair.
‘Come let me get you home.’
‘Home?’ Her eyes grew even larger and she shook her head. ‘Not Wyck Hall. No.’ Fear scored her face and the shivering began in earnest.
Shock. He must keep her warm; get her out of the weather. ‘It won’t take long. I have a horse. We can be back in no time and Mrs Pascoe will have a warm drink. You need rest.’
Whatever had happened? He wanted to shake her, punch questions at her. The air smelt fresh now, none of the macabre taint of the barrow. He’d smelt blood, more than his own, seen the stain across the altar stone but she hadn’t a mark on her.
‘Not Wyck Hall.’ She grabbed her skirt and took off down the path. He belted after her. Even though his strides were longer it took him moments to reach her, grab her around the waist, lift her to prevent her running. She squirmed and squealed like a stuck pig until he as good as dropped her onto her feet. The air escaped from her mouth in a rush. He lifted his hands to her shoulders. ‘You’re safe. It’s over.’ Whatever it was. ‘If not Wyck Hall then the inn. It’s closer.’
She nodded her head. ‘The inn.’
‘Come then.’ He held out his hand, palm up, like a man approaching a terrified animal, waiting for it to take the scent, know there was no danger. After an eternity she took his outstretched hand. ‘Take my cloak. You’re cold.’ She did as he bade and allowed him to lead her down the path towards the horse. The rain had stopped and a pale moon hung in the sky; at least now there was some light. His horse stood patiently waiting and he picked up the reins. ‘Let me help you up.’