by Kayte Nunn
Chapter Thirteen
AT SEA, 1886
Calmer waters did not alleviate Elizabeth’s seasickness. The ship called at Bordeaux and then, later, at Tenerife, where she roused herself to view the island’s spectacular peak. No one was allowed ashore.
‘It is not safe,’ warned the captain. ‘I have word of Spanish hostilities.’
Daisy reported two stowaways who were found in the ship’s hold. ‘They were quickly put to work in the stokehouse, so I am told.’ Several weeks later she came to Elizabeth with stories of vast pods of whales spouting to the starboard side of the ship, her eyes round with the excitement of it. The following morning, she said she had been out on deck at night, ‘with the stars in the sky brighter than I could scarce believe’.
Elizabeth barely raised her head from the bunk. She was indisposed almost the whole way to Rio de Janiero, a journey of nearly a month, and survived only by nibbling thick, dry bread and taking mere sips of water. The drinking water became so slimy that they were forced to strain it through their teeth, and Elizabeth shuddered at the cockroaches that skittered over her bunk in the night. She constantly scratched at the louse bites that peppered her arms and legs. She felt as weak as a kitten. In fine weather, she was able to lounge outside on a deckchair, her knees covered by a warm woollen rug as if she were an invalid, but the feeling of wellbeing she had known all her young life was as elusive as the scent of spring bluebells in the woods behind Trebithick Hall. She was unable to leave her cabin at all on the last day of October, even though it was her birthday. She felt utterly wretched and began to wonder if she would even survive the journey to see out her twenty-sixth year.
Daisy, by contrast, thrived on the bracing sea air, and Elizabeth noticed that she became more confident and independent almost by the day. Their roles might as well have been reversed, she thought listlessly, noticing that Daisy had struck up a particular friendship with the younger of the two gentlemen on board. She had quizzed her maid, and it seemed that, without either of them formally declaring it, Daisy and Mr Williamson contrived to find themselves walking the length of the ship’s deck every morning after breakfast. Daisy reported her conversations excitedly to Elizabeth, perhaps hoping to stir her interest in something, anything other than the terrible tedium of the voyage. ‘He exports cocoa from Brazil and Peru all the way to the docks of England!’ Daisy said. ‘He says that there is a fortune to be made and that he and Mr Windsor stand to profit handsomely from their endeavours. At least those were the words I think he used. What does “endeavour” mean?’
‘In this instance, work,’ said Elizabeth. A sour note had crept into her voice after weeks of hearing Daisy’s stories. ‘It is clear that this impresses you, Daisy.’
‘Why would a person not be impressed by such a thing?’ replied Daisy, hurt.
Elizabeth was immediately contrite. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweet Daisy. I am merely so sick of feeling sick, it makes everything most disagreeable.’
‘And I am trying my best to take your mind off it,’ said Daisy calmly. ‘That is all.’
Thus Elizabeth was not the only one who was relieved when, a day’s sail on from Montevideo, she awoke one morning feeling somewhat recovered. If Daisy was surprised to see her already out of bed when she came to help her dress, she said nothing.
‘I think I shall take some breakfast this morning Daisy,’ Elizabeth told her. On all previous mornings, she had waved away the offer of food, refusing to set foot in the dining saloon for fear of nausea overtaking her again.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Daisy. ‘You will be in luck. The ship’s cook took on supplies. We have fresh fruit the likes of which I’ve never seen. Persimmons – they look like a tomato but taste more like an orange. And blueberries, oh, the blueberries, you must try them!’ exclaimed Daisy. ‘They are so sweet and flavoursome, like nothing I have ever encountered.’
Elizabeth’s shrunken stomach, instead of flip-flopping as it had done at the thought of food all of the previous days at sea, gave a loud rumble. ‘Come on then, Daisy, let me try these strange fruits. I do declare I am starving!’ she cried in surprise.
The air was warm and soft, the sunlight hazy, and Elizabeth was glad of the parasol that Georgiana had insisted she bring with her. After breakfast Daisy had also fetched Elizabeth’s sketchbook and pencils. Though everything else was damp and sticky with salt, her box, with its watertight seal, had kept them mercifully dry.
‘I’m not sure there is much point in those,’ Elizabeth said as she saw what Daisy had also brought with her. She looked out to the horizon; the sea was as still as molten glass. ‘For there is precious little to see.’
She was surprised to notice Daisy looking anxiously at her, biting her lip as if she had something that she wanted to say but was afraid to.
‘What is it, Daisy?’
‘Well, Miss … er … Elizabeth.’ The maid twisted the cotton fabric of her skirt. ‘I was wondering if you might help me with my writing. I can read a bit – my dad taught my brothers and me when we were little. But I never learned to form my letters properly, and I should like to. That is, if you could spare the time?’
Elizabeth could not hide her astonishment. ‘But you speak most eloquently. I had no idea you could not write nor read.’
‘I confess I have made careful study of the way in which you converse, Miss Elizabeth, but the writing is a different thing. As for reading …’
‘Well, Daisy. Time is one thing we both have plenty of at the moment, wouldn’t you say? I should very much like to be your teacher, if only to thank you for looking after me so well the past several weeks.’
‘T’was no more than my duty,’ Daisy replied.
They smiled at each other almost as they had done when they were girls, and Elizabeth took up a diary that Daisy had also brought out. ‘Here,’ she said, carefully forming the letters of the alphabet. ‘I’ll write them out and then you can copy them underneath. If there was one thing Mam’zelle Violette insisted on, it was elegant penmanship, and so I shall teach you as she taught me.’
The warm air, diligent study and the fact that for the first time in weeks she had nourishing food in her belly brought colour back to Elizabeth’s cheeks. She and Daisy were laughing together over Daisy’s shaky script when the two gentlemen interrupted them.
‘You appear to be in much improved spirits, Miss Bligh,’ said Mr Williamson, inclining his head towards her. ‘Allow us to introduce ourselves, since we have not yet had the pleasure. My esteemed companion, Mr Arnold Windsor, and myself, Daniel Williamson.’
Elizabeth could see why Daisy might be impressed by him, for he spoke well and had a kindly expression. His features were pleasing and his hair of a ruddy colour similar to her maid’s. ‘I am indeed, Mr Williamson, thank you,’ Elizabeth replied after a pause. It had been her father’s suggestion that Elizabeth travel under her mother’s maiden name, to avoid anyone connecting her with Trebithick, and she hadn’t yet become accustomed to the new moniker. ‘It is a relief to be well again. It would seem that, at long last, I have the “sea legs” that Daisy has been telling me about.’
‘And not before time,’ he said. ‘For we feared you might not survive the journey.’
Elizabeth saw him and Daisy exchange a look and Daisy’s cheeks redden at his interest. Exactly how close had they become while she had been laid low?
‘Oh, I am sure I am not the delicate flower you imagine me to be,’ Elizabeth insisted.
‘Just not a sailor perhaps, then?’
‘Indeed,’ Elizabeth admitted, picking up her travel guide, which Georgiana had pressed into her hands as they left. ‘What say you to this, Mr Williamson? “The best travellers are those who can eat cats in China, frogs in France and macaroni in Italy; who can smoke meerschaum in Germany, ride an elephant in India, shoot partridges in England and wear a turban in Turkey …”?’
‘I would have to agree, ma’am. ’Tis often a wise notion to adapt to the culture you find yourself in.�
� As if to prove his point, he indicated his linen shirt, which was unencumbered by an ascot or tie.
‘Up to a point, though,’ argued Elizabeth. ‘For I cannot imagine losing all sense of England, no matter the circumstances.’
He tipped his hat to her, a smile playing about his lips. ‘I would say you are in no danger of that, Miss Bligh.’
Elizabeth staved off ennui with her lessons for Daisy and the companionship of the other passengers. The journey was long, tedious and uncomfortable and, perhaps because of their mutually endured hardships – the rats, as they scrabbled unseen in her cabin at night, were the worst by Elizabeth’s reckoning – they had become a close-knit band of travellers, forced together by the confines of the ship and finding camaraderie therein. Elizabeth became quite fond of the three children, especially the littlest, and engaged them in games of chasey, hopscotch and deck quoits when their parents tired of their company.
Christmas Day was celebrated on board, though the fare was not what any of the passengers would have recognised as a festive repast.
‘There is a particular shortage of turkey in this part of the world,’ Mr Windsor had joked.
‘Nevertheless, we have a fine pudding, do we not?’ Elizabeth remarked, spooning up the fruit-and-brandy concoction. She had begun to enjoy the avuncular company of Mr Windsor – he reminded her a little of Papa in his interest in all of the goings-on in the world, but she kept a careful eye on the blossoming friendship between Daisy and Mr Williamson. Despite the relaxed boundaries that shipboard life had necessitated, she had no wish for her maid to lose her head and her heart, nor abandon her as soon as they reached land. The journey had changed Daisy, Elizabeth reflected. She had proved a keen scholar and their daily lessons meant that her reading and writing were much improved. But it was more than that. Daisy was no longer the shy Cornish country girl, but a capable and steadfast young woman who seemed afraid of very little.
From being struck low by the fierce heat of the Equator, Elizabeth was then once again confined to her cabin as the ship rounded Cape Horn in heavy seas, pitching and shuddering until she was afraid it would be rent in two. She was unable to find comfort even in the onion-skin pages of her bible. Shivering under a pile of blankets, she was barely able to stop her hands shaking enough to make out the words. The damp, icy chill had soaked through to her bones. If she were ever forced to sail through the Drake Passage again, it would be too soon, she decided. She could not wait to reach dry land.
Chapter Fourteen
SYDNEY, AUTUMN 2017
When Anna stepped from the Botanic Gardens into Flourish cafe, she was surprised to see not one but two people waiting at a table. Jane had hardly changed in the years since Anna had last seen her, but the other person was a complete stranger and Anna couldn’t help but feel a little disconcerted by his presence. It was going to be hard enough seeing Jane again after so many years, and face her questions, let alone deal with an inquisitive onlooker.
‘Anna! Hi! You look great,’ Jane called out, standing up to envelop her in a hug. ‘It’s been too long, hey? I have to admit, I was surprised to get your message. I thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth, or at least ended up on the other side of it. That was your plan, wasn’t it? After university?’
Anna dismissed her question with a tiny wave. ‘No, still here.’
Jane looked at her in surprise and then seemed to suddenly remember that there was another person with them, someone who was contemplating Anna with amused interest. ‘Anna, Noah. Noah, Anna,’ she said.
Noah’s handshake was solid, and Anna briefly noticed the pleasing dry warmth of his fingers and the calloused skin of his hand before he withdrew it and they all sat down.
‘So, Anna, Jane tells me you’ve got some botanical art you’d like assessed,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m not sure about assessed really. But I thought Jane might be able to shed some light on it.’
‘Noah’s really the expert on this kind of thing,’ Jane explained. ‘That’s why I asked him along. He’s recently helped to curate an exhibition. Did you see it? The one at the Lion Gate Lodge a couple of months ago?’
Anna shook her head and Noah looked momentarily disappointed.
Their conversation was interrupted as they ordered sandwiches and drinks, but then Noah began to talk about the exhibition, the work involved in collating it. ‘It showcased some of Australia’s and New Zealand’s finest botanical artists. They’re under-appreciated really. I suppose because it’s such a specialist area. The painstaking detail they achieve is quite extraordinary, better than a photograph in some instances.’
Anna nodded. She too appreciated the intricacy and scholarship of botanical art, and that included the examples in the sketchbook she had placed in the calico bag next to her chair. She was waiting to get it out, though – the last thing she wanted was for a careless hand to spill coffee on something that had survived so long in such fine condition.
‘So, where did you come across your drawings?’ Jane asked.
‘My grandmother’s house. In Paddington. The builders found an old box when they were taking apart some bookcases.’
Noah’s eyes widened. ‘Cool. Any idea how long they’d been there?’
‘Well, Granny Gus was born in the house, in the early 1900s, but that doesn’t really help, because she died recently, so I can’t ask her. The bookcases have been up for as long as my mother can remember – she grew up there. But the drawings are dated.’
Noah and Jane looked at her expectantly.
‘1887.’
Noah whistled and Jane looked impressed, but Anna didn’t have the chance to elaborate any further as a waitress delivered their orders.
Noah and Jane fell upon their lunch, though Anna noticed him glance up at her from time to time. ‘Being outdoors really stokes your appetite,’ Jane mumbled through her food. ‘Especially at this time of year – it’s been bloody cold in the mornings. I’m gonna need gloves soon.’
‘I thought you’d be sitting inside a cosy lab somewhere,’ said Anna, swallowing a mouthful of her sandwich.
‘Not a chance. We’re propagating a range of heirloom seedlings, looking at how temperature affects germination and growth. They need more TLC than a newborn,’ Jane joked. ‘Though you’re right, I’m here on a secondment for a few months. I’m usually over at the Australian PlantBank. We’re doing a massive classification of native plants and their seeds. Plants are being placed on the endangered list almost every day – people would be astonished if they knew the extent of it. We’re also discovering new plants – last year alone there were more than a thousand new strains discovered across the globe, including coffee, parsnips and roses, if you can believe that.’
Anna nodded.
‘And then we’re looking at ways of preserving seeds with cryogenics.’
‘What, like they freeze embryos?’
‘Exactly. Except a lot of our rainforest species don’t appreciate being dried out and deep-frozen, so we’ve got to come up with some other way to preserve them.’
Anna’s thoughts flickered to the small bag of seeds that she and Vanessa had found in the box, but caution held her back from bringing it up; she didn’t want the whole thing taken out of her hands. She wanted to see what the drawings were first, she told herself, and decipher the rest of the diary before worrying about a small bag of desiccated seeds and a pressed flower.
As Jane talked more about her work at the seed bank, Anna finished her sandwich and sipped the scalding coffee. When they were all done and the table was cleared, Anna reached down for the bag containing the book of illustrations. Jane and Noah fell silent as she opened it to the first page, a vibrant watercolour of a forest-green shrub laden with dark purple fruits, with the fruits shown in detail in a separate drawing. ‘Aristotelia chilensis – maqui berries,’ said Jane. ‘Full of antioxidants and touted as a “superfood” now.’
There was a note in pencil at the bottom of the page. ‘Leaves used for
brewing chicha,’ Noah read. ‘Whatever that is. “Sore throats, heals wounds, painkiller”,’ he continued. ‘Extraordinary. I can’t believe the condition it’s in. It’s scarcely aged at all.’
He turned the page to find a painting of a tall, oak-like tree with dark brown bark, oval-shaped green leaves and dense white flowers. ‘Quillaja saponaria – soapbark,’ he read. ‘Native soap, for the lungs and good health.’
They continued to leaf through the sketchbook, which contained more than a hundred drawings, each of a different plant.
‘Hey, you know these are all native to southern Chile, right?’ said Jane. ‘And most of them are medicinal plants, by the looks of things.’
‘Hm …’ Noah mused. ‘It’s odd.’ He came to the end of the book and carefully closed it, handing it back to Anna, who returned it to the calico bag. ‘It doesn’t look like the work of any of the Australian artists from around that time, or I’m sure I would have recognised it. I suspect it might be English. It’s certainly a remarkable find. The artistry and the condition it’s in are astonishing.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’ asked Jane.
‘I have no idea,’ Anna admitted.
‘The style isn’t anything like I’ve seen before,’ said Noah. ‘And, as accurate as they are, botanical artists do tend to have a signature style, if you know what to look for, almost like a fingerprint.’ As he said this he placed a finger on his lips thoughtfully. ‘I do know someone who might be able to help.’
‘Did you find anything else with it?’ asked Jane. ‘You said it was in a box.’
‘Well, there was a photograph,’ Anna admitted. ‘It seems to have been taken earlier in the same year. It shows two people standing in front of an old house. There’s what looks like a rhododendron in the foreground.’
‘So, you’ve got an antique sketchbook full of extraordinary watercolours apparently done in Chile and an old photograph,’ mused Jane. ‘Hidden in the back of a bookcase. Curious indeed.’