The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘And sentenced her to a life of shame and lies.’

  She dropped her head, the tears streaming down her face. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘But I will, and so will Rose. Come with me. I’ll take you to her.’

  ‘I can’t, I can’t leave here. I haven’t, not since I was sure. Not since I knew what he’d done. What will happen to Methenwyck? He’s an old man, sick. Surely you as a physician should show some compassion.’

  Compassion! He had no compassion for Methenwyck. Owed him nothing, Caroline perhaps, not Methenwyck. That slate wiped clean. And as for Julian … he would get nowhere near Rose again. He should never have brought Rose here. Never subjected her to the horrors she’d endured. He should have stayed with her in London, helped her achieve her aim. He slammed his palm against his forehead. ‘Methenwyck will come to no harm, Julian will see to that.’

  ‘It’s late, dark, well past midnight. I am too frail.’

  Anything less frail he’d yet to see. Too disturbed perhaps. ‘In that case we will wait until first light. I shall fetch you a blanket.’ He didn’t trust her. Didn’t trust her not to put Methenwyck and Julian first as she had always done and he had no intention of confronting them until Rose was out of harm’s way and back in London.

  He returned with a blanket and draped it over Caroline’s legs, locked the door then stoked the fire and settled down to wait.

  Much to his surprise Mrs Pascoe woke him stirring the fire and settling a pot of tea at his right hand. ‘No idea why you saw fit to lock the door. Had to use the servants’ entry.’ She cocked her head to the small door behind the heavy curtains framing the portrait of Methenwyck.

  So much for his precautions last night. Caroline might well have sneaked out and spoken with Methenwyck or Julian but somehow he doubted it. She still lay on the sofa, her head back against the cushions and her eyes closed. Whether she’d slept he had no idea but she appeared drained. Perhaps he’d been a little less than kind when he’d dismissed her remarks about frailty. She was, after all, approaching old age. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pascoe. I’ll take care of the tea. Would you be kind enough to ask one of the stable hands to harness the buggy, please.’

  ‘And where would you be going? ’Tis barely light.’

  ‘Just do as I ask.’

  The poor woman stood dumbfounded for a moment, then turned tail and scuttled back through the door behind the curtain.

  He poured a cup of tea, added several teaspoons of sugar and took it to Caroline. Her eyes flashed open immediately. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see Rose.’

  ‘What time is it?’ She struggled into a sitting position and took the tea.

  ‘Early. I promised Rose I wouldn’t leave and I intend to be back before she wakes.’

  ‘In that case perhaps …’ She sipped at the tea and grimaced.

  ‘No, Caroline. You are coming with me. Drink up and we’ll be off.’

  Twenty-three

  Sydney, Australia 1908

  No matter which way Tamsin considered the situation she could see no way out. Mrs Rushworth would sell the sketchbook. No one could prove it didn’t belong to Mrs Quinleaven. If only she’d had the opportunity to speak to her before she’d died. And more to the point, while she was in Wollombi why hadn’t she taken the time to ask more questions? Mrs Adcock would surely have had something to offer. She had on every other topic.

  She crossed the foyer and pushed open the door to the tearoom. ‘Mrs Williams? There you are. We’ve got to return the sketchbook on Monday morning.’

  Mrs Williams looked up. ‘Can’t you talk her into donating it? After all it was her mother’s dying wish. Surely it wouldn’t raise sufficient money to make a difference to her lifestyle. I would have thought the social prestige would be worth more.’

  ‘I’m almost a hundred per cent certain I’d have no hope of convincing her. Especially now I know about Mr Everdene’s little game.’

  ‘Shaw?’ Mrs Williams’s piercing currant eyes pinpointed her.

  Damn, how had she managed to let that slip? She had intended to keep it to herself. Her face flushed the colour of a beet every time she thought about the way he’d manipulated her.

  ‘Shaw?’ Mrs Williams repeated leaning across the table.

  ‘Mr Shaw Everdene is not only a solicitor, he’s an antiquarian book collector. He has a house bursting at the seams with old tomes. And he intends to go into business. And Mrs Rushworth wants him to sell the sketchbook.’

  ‘A bibliophile. Fascinating.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Someone who loves books. Every one of us at the Library could be called bibliophiles. Mitchell certainly was.’

  ‘I know what a bibliophile is. I don’t understand how a love of books can translate into a way to make money. Mitchell donated his collection.’

  ‘Tamsin there are times when you can be thoroughly naive. You know very well people value books for many reasons, because of their contents or their physical characteristics, therefore there’s bound to be a market for them.’

  ‘But he lied to me.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the case? He seems like such a nice man.’

  ‘Why else would he keep harping on about the book’s value? It was his intention all along and he simply used me, us, the Library, as a way to guarantee the authenticity.’

  ‘We can compare the paper and the ink to other manuscripts of a similar date, match the handwriting with Winton’s letters … Other than that unless they’ve discovered some new-fangled method to scientifically test and date the paper and paint there’s not much more we can do, simply make an educated guess and pass it over to the people at the Mitchell for their opinion. Personally I have no doubt. There’ll always be a market for unusual and unique books—even in medieval times it was a lucrative business. It’s becoming quite the thing with so many of the larger estates being sold off and the upswing in interest in Australian history.’

  In that case the only thing she could do was to have one more stab at finding the owner. Prove without a doubt it couldn’t belong to Mrs Rushworth. ‘That’s it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going back to Wollombi. I should have done it before. Ask around and see if I can find out any more about Mrs Quinleaven. How she came by the book. You’ve still got her letter, haven’t you? If I can prove the sketchbook belonged to Mr Kelly and that his intention was to donate it perhaps the solicitors will support the case.’ Solicitors! Ha! Not if they were as crooked as Shaw Everdene. But it was worth a try. ‘There was something Mrs Rushworth said that’s been ringing bells in my head.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Actually it was more what she didn’t say. She didn’t want to talk about her mother, said they were estranged. I think that’s one of the reasons I want to make sure the sketchbook goes where it belongs. I feel in some peculiar way Mrs Rushworth doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t love it—why would she if it reminds her of a mother she didn’t like.’ Her chest seemed hollow—she knew how easy it was to hold a grudge against a mother, even a father, especially if you felt deserted.

  ‘I’ll leave this morning if you can do without me; I can be there before dark. The Family Hotel is very comfortable. Do you mind giving me Mrs Quinleaven’s letter?’

  Two hours later Tamsin was weaving her way, with a change of clothes in her satchel and the letter from Mrs Quinleaven tucked inside her notebook, through the crowds at St Leonard’s station to pick up the Northern-line train. It wouldn’t be as fast as the Brisbane Express but she’d make it well before nightfall and it would give her time to think everything through, although it would be nowhere near as much fun as driving with Shaw. Damn him. She’d die rather than admit it but she’d fallen for him hook line and sinker with his attentiveness and their common interests.

  Blah! She kicked out with her booted foot against the seat opposite and glared out of the window at the mighty Hawkesbury wishing she could throw all the questions and inconsistencies into the deep water
and start afresh.

  By the time the shadows lengthened she was back in Wollombi again. Arriving in the town sent a surge of delight through her. Just climbing out of the mail coach and seeing the familiar buildings made her feel more at home than anywhere she’d lived before.

  She crossed the road and walked down to the Family Hotel at a brisk pace.

  ‘Well, fancy seeing you again.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Adcock. I was wondering if you had a room for the night.’

  ‘That we do. Been mighty quiet around here. Good to see your smiling face again.’

  ‘Take your bag up to your room. I’ll be in the front parlour. Would you be wanting something to eat?’

  ‘I’d love something. I missed out on lunch because I was on the train.’

  ‘Got a nice piece of pork pie. How does that sound?’

  Tamsin’s stomach rumbled in response as she trundled up the stairs to her room. She took the daguerreotype from the tin and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt and by the time she was downstairs Mrs Adcock had the table set and a mouth-watering slice of pork pie and chutney waiting. There was a lot to be said for country living.

  ‘Sit yourself down and if you don’t mind I’ll be joining you. Due for a break before the locals arrive.’

  Tamsin slipped onto the bench seat and thanked her lucky stars. Just what she wanted and without having to ask. Mrs Adcock would have to know something more.

  ‘Hot and strong with one sugar if I remember right.’

  Hopefully there’d be a lot more she could remember. ‘Thank you. Yes.’

  ‘Now where’s that nice young man of yours? Thought you two seemed like a match made in heaven racing off in that lovely motor car.’

  Thankful for the excuse the mouthful of pork pie offered Tamsin didn’t respond. Shaw Everdene could be in Timbuktu for all she cared—as far away from her and Winton’s sketchbook as she could keep him. He wasn’t getting his money-grubbing little hands on it. Over her dead body.

  ‘And what brings you back here? Not that we’re unhappy to see you. Did you find out all about the drawing book then? My Bert carried on like you two had some sort of pact with the devil and now he can’t stop talking about them T Fords. Reckons there’s a chap in Maitland who puts them together, just up the road apiece and he didn’t even know. Got some lunatic idea about buying a delivery van.’

  Tamsin licked the crumbs of pastry from the corners of her mouth and picked up her cup and inhaled. Somewhere along the line she’d come to prefer this strong sweet tea to the more perfumed blend Mrs Williams offered. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about Mrs Quinleaven and have a look at this.’ She pulled the daguerreotype out of her pocket and laid it on the table.

  Mrs Adcock cast her eye over the small parcel then fussed around with her pinny, picked up her cup and took another sip before giving a loud sigh. ‘I’m not one to gossip, as you very well know, so it’d have to be between you and me like.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Tamsin fired back. ‘You’d be helping the country, you know. It’s really important that early Australian works are recognised, especially since Federation.’

  That made Mrs Adcock sit up straighter. Tamsin schooled the smile tweaking the corner of her lips.

  ‘I wondered if you’d take a look at this and see if you recognise anyone.’ Tamsin unwrapped the tiny daguerreotype.

  Mrs Adcock watched her every move, her head tipped to one side like an inquisitive magpie. ‘Oh, it’s one of them old pictures.’ Mrs Adcock held out her hand.

  With a strange reluctance Tamsin handed it across the table. ‘Try not to touch the glass because it’s quite damaged. Just hold it on the frame.’

  Mrs Adcock tipped it from side to side, trying to get the light in the right place. A few silent seconds ticked past.

  ‘Look at them dresses—I’m glad we aren’t expected to get around in stuff like that, and the whalebone corsets we used to wear. Had one meself when I married Mr Adcock, sucked me in a right treat.’ She put the daguerreotype down on the table with a bang and Tamsin snatched it back while Mrs Adcock spread her hands on her ample hips. ‘Believe it or not in those days I was a sylph-like thing. Me waist was just nineteen inches once they pulled those stays tight—mind you I couldn’t breathe, not even enough puff to do me wedding dance. Just as well because Mr Adcock, he’s no dancer, two left feet, and my shoes they were like slippers, not like those boots of yours.’

  Tamsin tucked her feet under her chair. ‘Do you think this might be Mrs Quinleaven?’ She held the daguerreotype up to the light from the window in an attempt to guide the conversation away from Mrs Adcock’s nuptial reminiscences.

  ‘Can’t really tell. That’s a long time ago mind you she’d have been pushing seventy when she died. That’s what I meant about my wedding dress. We all change, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do.’ Now what? She’d harboured some vain hope that Mrs Adcock would say Oh yes, that’s Mrs Quinleaven’s mother with her two daughters and her husband … Chance would be a fine thing.

  ‘And it’s pretty scratched, too. Wouldn’t even know that those two were girls but for their clothes; faces are as good as gone.’ Mrs Adcock screwed up her nose, took back the daguerreotype and twisted it to the light. ‘Looks as though it could be round here. Same trees. The weeping trees down by the brook just this side of Cuneen’s Bridge. There’s that nice cleared spot people like to use for picnics, where the old church used to be. Why don’t you ask Gayadin?’

  ‘The old lady in the cemetery?’

  ‘She’s lived round here all her life, still got the old cottage on the brook—down the road and take the path just before the bridge. Everyone tried to get her to move because of the floods but she won’t have a bar of it. Just hoicks everything out and lets it dry, sweeps out the mud and starts again.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea.’ Out of the window the sun was disappearing behind the hills. ‘It’s probably getting a bit late now.’

  ‘You’ll be right so long as you don’t hang around. And Gayadin’s often up at the cemetery this time of an evening.’ Mrs Adcock held out the daguerreotype. ‘Not sure how good her eyesight is these days but you never know.’

  Tamsin slipped the picture into her skirt pocket and bolted for the door. The light was fading and she didn’t fancy the cemetery after dark. Throwing a thank you over her shoulder she ran up the road.

  Nothing had changed since her last visit; in fact she doubted much had changed since the cemetery had opened its gates except for an increase in the number of headstones. She slipped inside and turned to her left making straight for Mrs Quinleaven’s grave. Already someone—she doubted it would have been Mrs Rushworth—had erected a simple headstone, to match Kelly’s. Just her name, Emily Quinleaven, and her dates. A bunch of flowers lay across the grave; not today’s, maybe yesterday’s. It would depend how often Gayadin visited.

  With a sigh she scanned the rest of the cemetery looking for Gayadin’s stooped figure and when a hand touched her arm the blood rushed from her head and her feet almost went from under her.

  ‘You back.’

  Tamsin rested the palm of her hand flat against her chest hoping to slow the thunderous thumping of her heart. Mrs Adcock’s warnings had got to her more than she imagined. ‘Hello, Gayadin. Shall I put the flowers down for you?’ She took the posy and knelt down, picking up the dead flowers and laying the fresh ones neatly across the dry earth then she straightened up. ‘I wondered if I could show you something. Maybe you can tell me about it.’ She pulled the daguerreotype from her pocket and unwrapped it.

  Gayadin’s arthritic fingers closed compulsively around the two-inch square of glass and Tamsin wanted to tug it away, frightened it might shatter. She took a very brief look at it, then smoothed the pad of her thumb over the glass, tears pooling in her eyes. ‘We blackfellas don’t hold with pictures of people past. We remember our story. Don’t need pictures. Don’t need writing it down.’ She handed the
daguerreotype back. ‘This here—this my story.’ She tapped her finger against her forehead.

  Tamsin’s hopes plummeted. Gayadin hadn’t even bothered to study the image.

  ‘That’s me there with Jane and Mam and Pa.’

  Who was Jane? Not Mrs Quinleaven. She was Emily. It hadn’t crossed her mind that the old Aboriginal woman might be related to the Kelly household. It would account for why she tended the graves.

  Tamsin racked her brain. ‘So is this Mrs Quinleaven?’ It couldn’t be—the clothes alone pegged the era, never mind the style and date of the daguerreotype. It had to have been taken in the late 1840s.

  ‘Nah! That’s not her—that’s Jane and Mam and Pa. I told you. Not Mrs Quinleaven. This here’s her.’ She sank down onto the grass and patted the dirt that had already begun to settle.

  ‘That’s why I stay down by the brook, with the mallangong girl. I can’t leave. Don’t know what’ll happen after me. No one left after me.’ She sniffed and handed back the daguerreotype before wiping her nose on the sleeve of her tattered jacket.

  ‘My Yukri. She there when the English Rose came. We blackfellas, we called her the mallangong girl. Her story is mine—her mam a beautiful young duck tricked by the water rat and the mallangong girl was born. That there the mallangong girl.’ She pointed at the picture in Tamsin’s hand. ‘Long time ago now. Flood water took my Jane just like it takes the mallangong.’ Gayadin sniffed and shook her head.

  Tamsin’s brain whirled as she tried to make sense of the old woman’s words. She looked again at the daguerreotype but the light had faded and only ghostly shadows glowed beneath the scratched glass.

  ‘Tomorrow I show you mallangong girl. Come my place.’

  Tomorrow.

  Tamsin hardly slept a wink; she tossed and turned as the moon rose and sank and then finally when the first grey streaks of dawn lit the sky she slipped from her bed and got dressed, pulling her jacket tight and buttoning it against the early morning chill. As a last minute thought she opened the tin and pulled out the daguerreotype. She’d take it with her. If Gayadin forgot what she’d told her last night it might help her remember, though the old woman seemed to have a tight grasp on the story. Her story. She tucked it into her pocket then tiptoed down the stairs and let herself out of the parlour door.