by Kayte Nunn
She knew exactly where she had planted it, at the rear of the park, in a spot that got the morning sun, with dappled shade in the afternoon. She caught her breath as she came upon it now: acacia spectabilis, or Mudgee wattle as it was more commonly known. Although it was early for it to be flowering, its massed yellow blooms glowed golden, lighting up the sombre landscape. Far from foundering as she had feared, the tiny seedling had thrived in the years since she’d planted it. She sniffed its dusty perfume, noting the flower’s colour: it was what she imagined bittersweet would look like, if indeed an emotion could have a colour. Simon would surely have appreciated its beauty, she thought wistfully.
Eventually she turned back, retracing her steps, and her thoughts slowly shifted from Simon to Marguerite. She imagined a line of women, stretching back in time, beginning with the mysterious Marguerite arriving from who knew where on a pitching ship on the wild southern ocean, through to Anna’s grandmother and finishing with Anna. Was it possible that this diary too might be a connection to her past, that it was a voice that also had a message for her, albeit at a far greater distance than that of her grandmother’s garden notebook? In that moment, she was decided. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter Twenty-three
VALPARAISO, 1887
One morning a week later, as Elizabeth was finishing her breakfast at a small table in the courtyard, Tomas called on her.
Before departing from their picnic, and while they found themselves alone at the riverbank, he had suggested this day to begin their plant identification. Elizabeth had spent the intervening time in a state of growing anticipation. Even Daisy had noticed her distracted demeanour, giving her a curious look as she went about her duties, helping her to dress and brushing out her long, fair hair before winding and pinning it at the nape of her neck. Elizabeth had struggled to stay still under Daisy’s ministrations that morning, fidgety with the knowledge that she was to see Tomas within the hour. He had haunted her thoughts since the excursion, and she had found herself remembering the way he had held her gaze, the deepness of his blue eyes and the gentle way he spoke to her.
‘Ah, Miss Bligh!’ he called out. ‘No, do not rise. Please, finish your breakfast. Mercedes is bringing some coffee, and so I would join you, if you permit?’
She found herself to be uncharacteristically tongue-tied, and was forced to remark on the weather, which had, according to Mrs Campbell, been unseasonably warm.
‘It will mean that we may find more plants in flower than is usual at this time of year,’ Tomas said. He too, seemed rather quieter than at their last meeting.
‘Why yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘That had not occurred to me. Where is it that you suggest we go? The same direction as last week’s picnic?’
‘No, I think we should head east, towards the sierra, by the Santiago road. There is a valley not far from there, the Caxon de Las Palmas, the “Valley of the Palms”, that I think you would very much like to see.’
They rode for several hours, chaperoned by Daisy, though she rode a discreet distance from them, allowing them to speak privately. Society’s rules might be more relaxed on this side of the globe, but Elizabeth had her reputation to consider and would never have dreamed of taking off into the wilderness with a strange gentleman, no matter how charming his manners.
They followed a stream through the thick grassland, before arriving at a narrow mountain pass that was completely shaded from the sun. As the horses picked their way along, Elizabeth shivered at the delicious, crisp coolness of the air and marvelled to see that the shrubs along the way were still wet with dew.
Elizabeth looked up above them, to the mountain peaks gleaming with snow that clung to their steep, rocky sides. There, in the Andean mountains or in the valleys below, her father had said, was her best chance of discovering the Devil’s Trumpet. But how was she to undertake a journey to such a forbidding place? ‘It is an elusive plant,’ Papa had whispered on his deathbed. ‘Some mistake it for the more common Angel’s Trumpet. They do so at their peril.’ She shivered, remembering his words.
‘Everything all right?’ said Tomas, watching her closely. ‘Would you like to rest?’
‘No, no I am fine, just remembering something,’ she replied.
Tomas continued to look quizzically at her.
‘My father. I was thinking about what he said to me before he … before he died.’
‘I am sorry. Mrs Campbell mentioned that you had suffered the loss of both your parents. I think you are extremely brave to undertake such a journey on your own. Was your father also a lover of plants?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘He was concerned with less ephemeral matters. I do miss him terribly, but then he was often away, so I suppose I am used to that. And as for being brave; I wonder sometimes if I am more foolish than brave.’
They rode on, passing through a gully between two steep hillsides and into a valley of exceptional beauty. Bees flitted between the flowers of myriad colours that bloomed amid the thick grass on the valley floor. Tall, spiky-leaved palm trees lined the edges of the valley, which was at least half a mile across by Elizabeth’s reckoning. The only sounds were the thud of the horses’ hooves on the narrow trail, the occasional swish of their tails as they swiped at a fly, the rustle of the wind in the trees and the drone of the bees. Though they had passed peons working in the fields as they began their journey, here there was not another soul to be seen.
After a while Tomas pulled up his horse and dismounted, his silver spurs gleaming in the sun that now reached the valley floor. ‘The Caxon de Las Palmas. As promised, señorita,’ he said with a flourish. ‘We should stop awhile, let the horses rest.’
‘What a beautiful place you have brought us to, señor,’ Elizabeth said.
The valley lay before them, lush with thick green grass, and bisected by a lazily meandering stream. ‘Why, it is as I would imagine the Garden of Eden!’ she exclaimed.
‘I am glad you think so,’ he said. ‘It is one of my favourite places. I am happy to share it with you.’
‘Have you shared this with Mr Chegwidden also?’ Elizabeth could not help herself asking.
‘Why would you mention his name?’ Tomas asked.
‘Oh, I had heard he was keen to explore the area,’ she said airily.
‘It is true, he has engaged me in the past to guide him on his explorations.’
Elizabeth’s heart sank.
‘But not here, no,’ he added.
‘So, you are friends?’ she enquired.
‘We were introduced by Mrs Gordon, and have spent several days together, but he has not been in Valparaiso long enough for me to call him my friend, though he seems a pleasant enough gentleman.’
‘I see,’ replied Elizabeth.
‘Like you, he is a lover of plants. But he tells me that he intends to collect a number of species and take them back to England. There is quite a demand; more and more plant-hunters arrive on every ship it seems.’
‘Indeed, I have heard of this practice,’ she said. ‘And your countrymen do not mind this?’
‘Look around,’ he laughed, spreading his arms wide. ‘A few cuttings will not make any difference.’
‘I suppose not.’ She smiled. ‘Well, I am anxious to paint,’ she said, dismounting and handing her reins to him.
‘But of course,’ he replied. ‘There is much here for you to discover.’
She made her way towards the palms, leaving Daisy to rest not far from the horses. The trees towered over her, their brown trunks ridged in a circular pattern, atop which grew a spray of dark-green spiky leaves. Bunches of large, round, green pods hung below the fronds of leaves. ‘Now this certainly does not look like Cornwall,’ she murmured to herself.
She sat in a patch of sunlight, arranging her skirts around her until she was comfortable, and opened her sketchbook. Once again she lost herself in her work, barely noticing the sweat that had begun to trickle between her shoulder blades and make a
sticky path down her back. She had brought with her several light cotton day dresses, but even the fine weave of the fabric felt like an overcoat now she was no longer cooled by the breeze.
‘We take the older palm trees and burn them. The juice that comes out is a delicacy among the native chilenos,’ said Tomas, who had joined her, offering a flask of water. ‘Sweeter than any honey.’
Elizabeth drank thirstily, grateful for his thoughtfulness.
‘Are there any other plants here that I should learn of? Any with any special qualities?’ she asked.
‘Oh, but there are many. There is culen.’ He pointed to a yellow-flowered plant not unlike a buttercup, which grew nearby. ‘My mother used the fresh leaves mashed into a poultice with lard to heal wounds, or dried and brewed them in a tea to calm a fever. The stalks give off a gum that can be used by our shoemakers … If you know where to look, there is medicine and more all around,’ he said, indicating the valley.
‘I see,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And what of plants that harm?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of those too,’ he replied. ‘Of course there are some that look like healing plants but would fool the uninitiated, and those that if prepared incorrectly are deadly poisonous.’
Elizabeth shuddered theatrically. ‘Oh, do tell me more of those,’ she entreated, pretending naivety. ‘I should hate to make a mistake.’
‘Never fear. I have appointed myself your personal guardian when it comes to plant identification.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘And what did I do to deserve such attention?’
‘Señorita Bligh, your beauty is my reward,’ he said as he reached out and lightly touched her golden hair with his fingertips.
Elizabeth blushed and looked away. She was not used to the advances of a man and was suddenly lost for words.
‘You flatter me, Señor Flores. There is surely no shortage of beauty in Valparaiso. I have seen it for my own eyes. Miss Gordon, for example.’
‘Yes, but none so intriguing as you,’ he said. ‘I’d wager there is more to you than meets the eye. I sense you are holding much back. And that, of course, makes you quite fascinating.’ His tone was playful but his eyes were serious.
‘Well, fascinating or not, the only thing I am holding back right now is a fearsome hunger. Shall we?’ she asked, holding out her hand to be helped to her feet.
Tomas laughed, throwing his head back and showing his white teeth. ‘But of course, señorita. I would not wish to come between you and your repast!’
After lunch Elizabeth returned to her art as Daisy cleared away their leftovers. Tomas, completely unselfconscious, stretched out under a palm tree, tipped his hat over his head and proceeded to sleep. Elizabeth looked enviously at him. She was tired from their ride and would have liked to have copied him, but she wanted to finish her palm study and then spend some time exploring.
‘Atención!’
The voice was far away but Elizabeth recognised it immediately.
‘Over here!’ she called back. She paused from her study of a tiny plant with white star-shaped, five-pointed flowers to wave at Tomas. She had nearly finished; a few more brush strokes were needed and she would have recorded it, but he was beckoning to her.
‘You should not have wandered so far away,’ he said, reaching her at last, an edge of annoyance in his voice.
‘Now, really,’ Elizabeth rebuffed him. ‘I was in plain sight. Perhaps you might tell me of this plant?’ She indicated the subject of her sketching.
‘Oh that, that is a kind of potato. The tubers are quite delicious.’
Laughter bubbled up inside of her. ‘I see I shall certainly never starve with you on hand!’
‘Of that you may be certain,’ he said, smiling at her, his annoyance evaporated.
‘And these?’ She pointed to a bush with intensely purple bell-shaped flowers that were nodding their heads in the breeze.
‘Ah-ha, that is the Palo de Bruja. It cures many aches and pains, but it can also make you mad. It was one of my mother’s favourite plants.’ He paused and plucked some of the flowers and leaves, carefully avoiding the thorns that studded its stems. ‘It is rare to see this,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘My sister will be glad of it. Now come,’ he said brusque once more. ‘I am afraid we must depart. I should not want us to get caught out in the darkness.’
As he said the words, Elizabeth couldn’t help but remember the occasion of their first meeting. Really, she did not know what to make of Señor Tomas Flores. One minute he was utterly charming and delightful and she could imagine herself as a special friend of his, the next he was abrupt almost to the point of rudeness, treating her like a naive schoolgirl.
It was as they were loading up the saddlebags that she noticed it. Actually, she didn’t see it at first; what caught her eye was the brilliant aquamarine flash of a hummingbird’s wing as it glinted in the sunlight. She moved towards it, captivated by its iridescent beauty, and stumbled in her haste, the toe of her boot catching a raised root in the grass.
And there it was.
Low to the ground, with rounded forest-green leaves that appeared thick and juicy. The plant bore pendulous white flowers that were closed up tight like a pelican’s beak. Tell-tale black–purple stripes marked the outside of the creamy petals. Had those not been there, she could have been sure that it was the more common, and perfectly harmless, Angel’s Trumpet.
Her heart stopped and then began to beat almost out of her chest, and her mind raced to keep up. Could it be? Really? Could she simply have stumbled over it? Was it going to be that easy? It looked exactly as her father had described. He had told her that it was most likely to be found in the mountains, but she was almost certain this was it. She had no time to gather a specimen, nor anywhere to conceal it. And in any case, her father had warned her to exercise the utmost care in handling it, lest she get any of the highly toxic pollen or sap on her skin.
Not wanting to draw the attention of Tomas or Daisy, she righted herself and returned to them. They had both been on the other side of the horses, occupied in readying them and so had not seen her stumble, nor the excitement that must have surely shown on her face at her discovery.
Frustrated, Elizabeth knew her only hope of collecting the samples she required was to return to the valley at another time. Was that really possible? She looked carefully about her, memorising the landscape, noticing two sentinel palm trees, much taller than the others, to the west of their position. To the south was a large boulder that looked like the hooked beak of an eagle. She moved a few steps away and opened her book, quickly sketching the view of the valley with these two landmarks. This rough map would be her best hope of finding the plant again.
‘Still drawing?’ asked Tomas, his voice breaking her concentration. ‘Elizabeth, I am afraid that we must be off.’ He sounded stern once again.
‘It is so beautiful a place that I had to make a quick likeness of it, to remember it by,’ she said, her words tumbling over themselves.
‘You know, we can return any time you desire,’ Tomas promised her.
Yes, she smiled at him, she would return, and next time she would be prepared to retrieve the Devil’s Trumpet.
Chapter Twenty-four
SYDNEY, AUTUMN 2017
Anna scuffed through the thick carpet of leaves on the lawn as she approached the restaurant, enjoying the sound they made as they crunched and crackled under the soles of her boots, resisting the childish temptation to kick them high in the air.
Darkness had fallen as she walked the short distance from her flat in Queens Park, and by the time she arrived the air was chilly. She’d let her hair down from its usual messy topknot and even applied the tiniest amount of make-up for the occasion, though her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her skin, which tanned easily, was tawny from days spent working outdoors. She’d dug out a pair of slim trousers and a silk shirt from the depths of her wardrobe and slipped on tall, flat leather boots and a dark navy overcoat. It made a change from je
ans and a muddy sweatshirt and she felt different from her workaday self.
Opening the door of the restaurant, she was assailed by a hum of conversation and the tantalising aroma of dinner being prepared. She took a deep breath as the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted towards her. The effect, amplified by the heaters that were blasting warm air onto the glass-paned room, was one of enveloping welcome.
Noah was waiting for her, at a table at the front of the glasshouse that looked out onto the garden, and he stood up as she arrived, kissing her cheek. ‘Hello Anna,’ he said. ‘You look lovely.’
She smiled at him, suddenly shy, very aware that this was the first date she had been on in more than five years. How was one supposed to behave? She had no clue. ‘Thanks, Noah. Not so shabby yourself,’ she replied, faking an ease she didn’t feel as she noticed his crisply ironed shirt and irrepressibly curly hair.
No sooner had Anna taken the seat opposite him than the waiter kept them busy, unfurling napkins and proffering a menu, pouring water. ‘Jane tells me you have your own garden business,’ Noah began.
‘It’s pretty low-key. Mainly maintenance, weeding and mowing, that sort of thing. Occasionally I get let loose on a bit of garden design. That’s the fun part.’
Noah nodded seriously. ‘It must be so nice to be outdoors all day, though not perhaps so much in winter,’ he raised his glass to the night outside the windows.
‘It is,’ said Anna, casting around for something more to add. God, she really had no idea how to make the kind of small talk she supposed was called for on such an occasion. As she was grasping for a subject suitable for conversation, the waiter came to take their order.
‘So,’ she began once they were alone again, inspiration having struck, ‘how did you come to be so interested in botanical illustration?’