by Kayte Nunn
Anna woke the following day with the feeling of hope rising within her once more. As she lay pondering this unusual emotion, another thought suddenly interrupted the others, and she sprang out of bed, flicked the kettle on and then opened up her laptop.
Two new messages. Another from Noah and – there it was – one from Dr Hammett-Jones. She imagined a stooped old man with half-moon glasses – short-sighted from peering at old watercolours – and thinning hair, sitting in dusty archives somewhere halfway across the world.
She clicked on the email from Noah first. ‘Sorry,’ it said. ‘I hope you don’t think I was being forward. Er, that is, asking you out. For all I know, you might be married, or engaged or with someone. Apologies if you are. But the offer’s still there if you’re interested.’
Anna certainly wasn’t any of the above – married, engaged or with anyone, but was she interested? She didn’t know. A voice inside her head warned of getting involved with anyone, but another voice, one that was growing stronger by the day, urged her to lighten up, live a little. It’s only a movie or a meal, for God’s sake, she scolded herself. Still undecided, she left the email open on her desktop and switched to the one from Dr Hammett-Jones.
‘Dear Miss Jenkins. I am in receipt of your material. I have an idea as to its provenance, but I would, however, require the original artwork to be fully apprised of its authorship. I should be most pleased to receive you and conduct a proper assessment at your earliest convenience. Sincerely, E Hammett-Jones.’
Well, thought Anna with disappointment, thanks for nothing. He sounded as pompous as his name, and not in the least bit helpful. Did he really think she would just pop over to England?
Later, however, when she mentioned it to her sister, Vanessa persuaded her that he hadn’t dismissed her email completely out of hand. ‘He said he would be pleased to receive you,’ she said, ‘and would conduct a proper assessment. That’s not exactly negative.’
‘Yes, but I’ve got to go all the way to England for it,’ replied Anna. ‘And who’s got time for that?’
‘Is there no one else here, in Sydney, who can help?’
‘No, according to Noah, the Pom is it when it comes to late nineteenth-century botanical watercolours.’
‘Noah?’
‘He works with my friend Jane, at the Botanic Gardens. He knows a bit about botanical illustration, but mainly Australian artists. He’s the one who referred me to Dr Hammett-Jones. He’s been really helpful.’
‘Oh yes?’ Vanessa looked at her speculatively.
‘Not like that,’ she said, exasperated, though she did avoid Vanessa’s eyes. How did her sister manage to have a sixth sense about these things?
‘Come on, sis, don’t be like Mum,’ she said gently.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She never got back out there, not after Dad …’
‘That’s not exactly fair. She had us to look after.’
‘And your excuse is? Anna, sweetheart, you’ve got to let someone else in, give them a chance. You can’t cut yourself off forever or you’ll forget how to live.’
Anna didn’t reply.
That morning she had also drained the seeds, wrapped them in kitchen paper dampened with water and put them in a ziplock bag, placing it on the kitchen windowsill to catch the autumn sun. She checked the soaked seeds every day that week, but each inspection revealed no change. She’d known it was a long shot, but had nevertheless allowed herself to hope.
On the fifth morning, however, when she removed the damp wrapping, there was a tiny nub of green poking out from one of the seeds. ‘Unbelievable!’ she called out loudly, dancing around her flat. ‘Un-freaking-believable!’
She carefully removed all of the seeds and discovered that three showed definite signs of germination. She went out onto her balcony and retrieved a large terracotta pot. Shaking in some of the horse-manure compost and mixing it with a bag of potting soil she kept out there, she filled the pot almost to the brim. Then, using the end of a pencil to make shallow divots, she carefully placed a seed in each one until she’d planted half a dozen, covering them up with more soil. She sprinkled water over the whole pot, watering her other plants as well, and then placed it where it would catch the sun. Only time would tell if those tiny germinating seeds would flourish or founder.
A week or so after receiving the email from Dr Hammett-Jones, Anna had spent a chilly but sunny Sunday weeding the tiny pocket square of her grandmother’s back garden, hard pruning the apple tree, cutting back the shrubs and generally creating order from the overgrown chaos. It was a bit of a busman’s holiday, but she loved watching the garden re-emerge, to see it as she remembered when Gus was well enough to tend to it.
In the far corner of the garden was a tiny shed, little more than a cupboard really, that had once been the old dunny but was now fitted with shelves for storing old pots and gardening tools. Anna had cleared the overgrown passionfruit vine that had curled its way around the door, lifted the latch and peered inside. A pair of gloves, still moulded into the shape of Gussie’s gnarled arthritic fingers, caused tears to prick at the back of her eyes. She moved them out of the way, spotting some old seed catalogues and a notebook at the back of a shelf. Gus had been an inveterate note-taker of all the goings-on and growings in her garden from season to season, and Anna felt a professional and a personal curiosity about what she might have recorded, so she stuck the notebook under her arm.
She was heading back to the house when her mobile rang. Fishing it out of her pocket, she glanced at the unfamiliar caller ID.
‘Hello?’
‘Anna? It’s Noah.’
Anna stopped in her tracks, suddenly unable to summon a single sensible reply.
‘Look, I’m sorry to bother you …’
‘That’s okay, you’re not bothering me at all,’ she finally managed, surprised that her voice sounded almost normal and inwardly cursing herself for not getting back to him.
‘Well, er … I just wanted to know how you got on with my contact at Kew – Edwin. Was he able to shed any light on who the artist might be?’
‘Not really, unfortunately,’ Anna sighed. ‘He said there wasn’t much he could do unless he saw them himself.’
‘Oh,’ said Noah. ‘What a shame. Sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. But I’m not about to parcel them up and send them off to the other side of the world. Who knows what could happen to them? I’d never forgive myself if they got lost or damaged.’
‘No, quite. I see your point.’ Noah agreed.
‘Look, thanks for trying. I appreciate it. Really. Perhaps we’ll never find out who they once belonged to.’
‘Oh come on, you can’t give up that easily,’ he said. ‘This could be the key that unlocks a fascinating story. I don’t know about you, but I’m certainly intrigued.’
Anna could hear the curator in him speaking and knew he was right.
‘Look, it’s your choice, obviously, but now that you’ve discovered it, don’t you want to find out more?’ he continued. ‘Perhaps I can buy you dinner and we can brainstorm what to do next?’
Anna froze. Seconds passed.
‘Anna. Are you still there?’ he asked. ‘It’s only dinner,’ he said gently.
‘All right,’ she said quickly. ‘How about next Saturday?’
‘Uh, sure,’ he said sounding surprised but pleased. ‘Okay. I mean, er … good. Chiswick – the restaurant not the suburb – seven-thirty? A mate of mine’s the maitre’d. He should be able to swing us a decent table.’
‘That’d be nice. See you then.’ Anna rang off before she could change her mind.
Chapter Twenty-one
VALPARAISO, 1887
On their return from church, Mrs Campbell proposed an outing, having invited several of her acquaintances to join them. ‘You do ride, don’t you, my dear?’ she asked Elizabeth.
‘Of course,’ she replied, ‘and Daisy too. You could not have made a more welcome suggestion.’
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The party – made up of Elizabeth, Daisy, Mrs Campbell (Mr Campbell was busy with his accounts and had waved away any suggestion that he might join them) and a Mr and Mrs Gordon and their daughter, Sibyl – set off in the late morning. The Gordons were fine company, and Elizabeth chatted easily with them. The trio – ‘Our people are the Wiltshire Gordons,’ Mrs Gordon said, ‘from Salisbury. You have doubtless heard of them.’ Elizabeth had not, but refrained from saying so – had lived in Valparaiso for some years, with business interests in the region, according to Mrs Campbell. Sibyl, who Elizabeth judged to be of a similar age to herself, was a dainty young woman, almost childlike with small hands and a tiny waist laced so tightly that Elizabeth wondered how she might breathe. Elizabeth felt almost gargantuan beside her, though she noticed that Sibyl handled her horse, an excitable chestnut mare, as well as someone twice her strength and size.
They were on their way to Lagunilla, a freshwater lake not far from the ocean. The going was steep at first, and once or twice Elizabeth’s horse stumbled on the uneven ground. It was quite a challenge to stay in the saddle, but her mount appeared to be placid and Elizabeth was happy not to have been assigned one with a trickier nature. She thought fleetingly of Achilles and who at home might be riding him. Georgiana wouldn’t be, of that she was certain, but Robert was a competent horseman and might have been inclined to keep him exercised. She sighed. England, and Cornwall and Trebithick Hall seemed like another lifetime ago. It was hard to believe that her sister would likely be great with child now.
Before long they reached the plateau and rode on companionably in the warm sunshine. Elizabeth was struck once again by the beauty of the landscape, with the coast and harbour on one side of them, and the distant snow-capped peaks of the Andes on the other. ‘What a beautiful country this is,’ she exclaimed to Sibyl. ‘So wild and green.’
‘Oh, but this is the growing season. It is not always so verdant. The end of summer can see it all quite bleached and dry,’ Sibyl replied. ‘Then, in winter, it is even more barren.’
They came upon a small stream, which pooled in between the thick grasses in places, and at others leapt along a stony riverbed. The horses forded the stream at a low point and continued on, traversing laurel and myrtle shrubs that gave off a sweet, pungent scent in the afternoon sun.
Elizabeth was surprised when, upon arriving at their picnic spot, she spied a smouldering fire set among several large granite rocks. A blanket had been laid on the ground not far from the fire, under the shade of a few spindly fruit trees.
Before they had a chance to dismount, three men, wearing wide-brimmed flat straw hats and tall leather boots emerged over the hill in front of them. Carrying shotguns. She gasped.
‘I sent Jose on ahead,’ Mrs Campbell explained. ‘Señor Flores, too, offered to accompany him,’ she added, explaining the presence of the second man and the cause of Elizabeth’s gasp of surprise. The third man was unknown to her.
As they came closer, Elizabeth could see that Tomas also looked to be carrying a brace of birds. Partridges, if she wasn’t mistaken. He waved to the party, raising the birds in a triumphant gesture.
‘Hola! We will have quite a feast!’ he called, his teeth flashing white in the sunlight.
Elizabeth, whose horse walked next to Sibyl’s, could not help but sense the young woman’s intense interest, and she glanced quickly at her. Yes, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and it wasn’t just from the warmth of the day or the dust of the trail. Sibyl Gordon was interested in Señor Tomas Flores. True, he was a disturbingly attractive man, if you cared to notice that sort of thing – but Elizabeth firmly directed her thoughts away from such frivolity.
She wanted to speak more with him, but not for the obvious reasons of his exotic good looks. She had been intrigued by Mrs Campbell’s stories of his mother, and it had occurred to her that he might be able to help her in her search for the Devil’s Trumpet, but she knew she must tread carefully.
The party dismounted and tied up their horses a short distance from the picnic spot as Jose brought buckets of water, drawn from the lake, for their mounts. Daisy went to see if any help was required to ready the picnic fare and the others found comfortable places to sit on the lush grass.
Tomas had retreated to a flat-topped boulder a short distance from the picnic, and Elizabeth watched as he expertly plucked the game birds and then retrieved a sharp-bladed knife from his pack. As he slit them down the middle the guts spilled out onto the rock, steaming and bloody, and Elizabeth turned away. She wasn’t particularly squeamish, having grown up watching exactly this kind of activity, but she didn’t care to see the livid blood on Tomas’s smooth brown hands.
The third man was as fair as Tomas was dark, with almost white-blond hair. Elizabeth didn’t have to wonder for long who he might be, for as Mrs Campbell bustled around making sure the picnic was organised to her satisfaction, she suddenly stopped and hurried towards the women. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. Miss Elizabeth Bligh, Miss Sibyl Gordon, may I introduce you to Mr Damien Chegwidden. Arrived from England these few months past. Mr Chegwidden has an interest in plants, not unlike yourself, Elizabeth.’
As Elizabeth looked into a pair of coal-dark eyes, she did her best to keep her face immobile even as she swallowed a lump that rose in her throat. He appeared to be much removed from the monster she had conjured in her mind, being far younger than she had imagined and quite striking with his fair hair and lightly tanned skin. He was dressed most fashionably, with a scarlet ascot fastened by an amber pin and a suit of cream linen, but his eyes pierced her like two pieces of polished obsidian.
So, it was true – the man her father had so strongly warned her about was here. She found herself completely unprepared to meet him so soon, and she silently cursed Mrs Campbell for her loose words about their mutual interest.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded painfully in her chest, but she masked her dismay with a laugh, pretending a gaiety that was far from her true feelings. ‘Oh, really, I merely like to draw plants and flowers. Ephemera,’ she said, ‘that is all.’
Mr Chegwidden bowed low to the women. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies,’ he said. ‘I sketch a little myself, as it happens.’
He seemed completely innocuous, a gentleman even, but Elizabeth knew better. Her father had warned her of the underhand methods he employed to get what he wanted. Her heart continued to pound and her hands grew clammy: if everything Papa had told her was correct then she would be in mortal danger were he to guess her true identity. Could Mrs Campbell be trusted to keep her promise?
With shaking hands, Elizabeth retrieved her sketchbook and watercolours from the saddlebag she had brought with her. She remembered seeing a particularly unusual shrub as they dismounted and decided that this might be an opportune time not only to record it but to remove herself from the presence of Damien Chegwidden and marshal her thoughts. Her father had told her that she might make his acquaintance at some point, but to be caught unawares was most unnerving. Balancing on a rock close to the plant, she set up her easel and picked up her brush. The hum of conversation from the others soon faded into the background as she became absorbed in her painting. Her fingers ceased their trembling as she began to paint, even though her mind was still swirling.
‘You are very good, no?’
His voice was as warm and silky as honey, in her ear. He had crept up on her so silently that she had been caught completely unawares. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and she shivered involuntarily at his nearness.
‘Mrs Campbell told me that you are an illustrator, of plants.’
She nodded. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what this one is,’ she indicated the shrub that had been the subject of her work.
‘Ah, yes, now that is quillaja.’ Tomas reached to the plant and broke off a small section of the bark. ‘It is our soap – for washing, you know?’
Elizabeth looked at him, disbelieving. She couldn’t see how some dried-up piece of bark
would clean anything, but clearly he had far greater knowledge than she did.
A light sparkled in his bright blue eyes. ‘I can see you do not have faith in me!’ he laughed. He strode away, and Elizabeth just had time to feel briefly bereft at his absence before he returned with a leather pail filled with water from the lake. Tomas broke off some more of the bark and plunged his hands into the water. He brought them up and rubbed them together, the bark caught between his palms. Sure enough, before long, small suds began to bubble up between his fingers.
‘You would like to try?’ he asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘My hands are perfectly clean and I do not wish to dampen my sketchbook, but thank you for the demonstration,’ she said primly, hoping the smile on her face took the sting out of her words. ‘But can you tell me how to spell qui … ? What did you say it was called?’
‘Quillaja,’ he repeated, before spelling it out to her letter by letter.
‘You seem to know a good deal about the flora of this region?’
He inclined his head. ‘A little,’ he said modestly. ‘We are fortunate to have a number of plants of great interest to collectors such as Mr Chegwidden, though I confess I admire them for their beauty –’ he paused to pluck a deep-blue flower from a clump at arm’s length from where they sat – ‘as much as their rarity.’ He presented her with it. ‘A blue crocus.’
Elizabeth inclined her head, accepting the bloom and raising it to her face. He reminded her of her father in his enthusiasm for growing things, and she felt a bittersweet pang at the memory. ‘It is indeed astonishingly beautiful,’ she admitted. ‘I have found that it is not until you properly look at things with the care of a botanist, or an artist, that you really see their true nature.’
‘Indeed,’ said Tomas, keeping his gaze on her.
Elizabeth felt as if she were a specimen under a microscope, so closely did he examine her. As she raised her eyes to meet his, time seemed to stand still. She was wondering how best to frame a question about his mother when they were disturbed.