The Botanist’s Daughter

by Kayte Nunn

  ‘Thanks for organising all this,’ Anna said.

  ‘Stop thanking me. You’ve done me a favour too – I don’t get out of London often enough. I’d almost forgotten how lovely it is down here. And I’m as intrigued as you to find out more about the photo and its connection to the sketchbook. Let’s finish these and then we’ll go.’

  Less than an hour later they were standing outside the imposing façade of Trebithick Hall. ‘It’s just like in the photograph,’ Anna said, fumbling in her bag for the picture.

  ‘Absolutely!’ he said as she handed it to him. ‘Only the rhododendron is much larger. Quite a remarkable specimen.’

  It was – towering over them at the front of the drive and wreathed in vibrant scarlet blossom. The house was high on a hill overlooking the fishing port of Padstow, which they’d driven through on their way to the house. Even from this distance Anna could hear the screech of seagulls as they wheeled over the stone harbour front, scavenging for scraps.

  ‘Well, it’s open to the public, so let’s go and have a look then.’

  As Anna and Ed joined several people wandering along the drive they heard an announcement that a tour would start in a few minutes’ time.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ said a portly man who appeared from the gloom of the house. ‘Today you are visiting one of the finest houses in Cornwall. Dating back to the 1750s, Trebithick Hall was home for many years to the Trebithick family, landowners of these parts. The estate originally spread over several hundred acres, stretching right down to the sea. Today a mere seventy-five acres make up the Trust’s holdings,’ he continued, in a sing-song rustic burr. ‘Though the house dates back to Georgian times, the stables were constructed much later, in the nineteenth century.’

  There was a murmur from the crowd standing around him.

  ‘One of its most famous occupants was Sir John Trebithick, a Victorian plantsman who made many dangerous expeditions across the globe to collect the hundreds of specimens you see thriving here today in the gardens.’

  Anna looked at Ed with wide eyes. It really was all true. She could scarcely believe it.

  ‘The gardens are particularly fascinating, and a program to restore them to their original splendour is almost completed. Later, you can visit the formal garden, where there is a particularly fine example of a late-Victorian sundial in cast bronze.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I’m also very pleased to be able to tell you that the replanted woodland walk is now open to the public for the first time in fifty years.’

  He ushered them inside. The air was several degrees colder than outside and Anna shivered. She found herself in a grand entrance hall, its oak-panelled walls hung with dark oil paintings.

  ‘In the hallway you will see portraits of Sir John and his wife, Augusta, who, sadly, died shortly after childbirth. But we will not linger, for there is much to discover. Come with me and we will continue to the green sitting room …’ Anna couldn’t hide a gasp as she heard the name Augusta – the same as Granny Gus … Her mind began to spin. It was no coincidence, of that she was certain.

  She looked closely at the portrait of Sir John. He was painted with a plant in his hand, a globe behind him and a gun dog, its ears pricked with alertness, at his feet. He looked like a formidable man. She then turned towards the portrait of Lady Augusta. A young woman gazed steadily back at her, blonde hair piled high and wearing a blue silk dress that dipped low over her shoulders before tapering to a tightly laced bodice. Apart from the costume, it was like looking into a mirror. Anna’s heart thumped in her chest and she heard a roar in her ears. The painting began to swim before her eyes.

  ‘Jenkins? Anna! Are you okay?’

  She heard Ed’s voice as if through a tunnel, and her knees buckled beneath her.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  VALPARAISO, 1887

  The wedding was a small one. Elizabeth had no family, and only a few friends in Valparaiso. Daisy, Mr and Mrs Campbell and Sibyl and Mrs Gordon were among the handful of guests from her side.

  Before her nuptials, Elizabeth had written to Georgiana with her news. ‘I know you will be most surprised, but I pray you will be happy for me, dear sister. I for my part pray that you are also well and happy.’ She received a letter that must have crossed paths with her own, with Georgiana’s news of a son, George John Trebithick Deverell, born healthy and named, in part, after their father. She was happy to hear of his safe arrival, and her sister’s good health following the birth.

  Mr Chegwidden had left for Santiago shortly after the fiesta and had not been seen since. Elizabeth was relieved that he was not to be on the list of attendees, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he had yet discovered the Devil’s Trumpet. It was surely only a matter of time before he did.

  Tomas, too, had wanted little fuss, and managed to overcome the objections of his father, who had wished to invite all of his friends, acquaintances and business partners. Tomas agreed, however, to a party a week or so later at his father’s home. By a stroke of good fortune, Mr Williamson and Mr Windsor had returned to Valparaiso from Santiago and were also invited to the short service in the Iglesia de San Francisco and the dinner, which was to be held afterwards.

  Mrs Campbell had helped Elizabeth consult a dressmaker, who had been able to procure a bolt of white silk and had worked day and night to finish the gown, which had a boned bodice, puffed sleeves and a short train at the back. Sofia had lent her a lace mantilla.

  Tomas favoured traditional dress, and as she entered the church on Mr Campbell’s arm, with Daisy ahead of her as a bridesmaid, Elizabeth saw him, resplendent in tight-fitting black trousers and a short black jacket with a white silk shirt underneath. A brightly coloured poncho embroidered with scarlet roses sat across his shoulders. Atop his head was a broad-brimmed black hat with a bright-coloured trim. She had never seen him look so handsome and he fairly took her breath away as she walked towards the altar. She felt a brief pang of sadness that her sister could not be there to see her, but she was sure that her dear papa was looking down from heaven, smiling. Even as she planned to make vows to another man, she would not forget her promise to her father.

  The service was in Spanish, but she had picked up enough since her arrival to understand most of what was being said, and knew when to say ‘Si’ at the appropriate, important moments. It was also necessary for their union to be formally recognised by a judge, which they had done the previous day (she had signed her assumed surname with scarcely a pang of conscience), but for Elizabeth, it was only after the church ceremony that she felt truly married.

  The service took place in the late afternoon and the sun was casting shadows across the plaza as they emerged. Elizabeth stood, arm in arm with Tomas. Her husband. Tomas’s eyes searched hers as if to reassure himself of her happiness and she grinned broadly back at him. She could barely believe it; she was married. To a man she loved with all of her heart.

  Her father-in-law was to host a dinner for the newlyweds and so the small party climbed aboard coaches for the short ride to his Valparaiso residence.

  Later, as she and Tomas sat at the long dining table, the room lit by candles, Elizabeth looked around, seeing everyone laughing and talking, eating and drinking. She noticed Daisy, looking quite striking in a midnight-blue silk gown that Elizabeth had lent her, smiling at something Mr Williamson had said, and wondered if perhaps a romance might now augment their friendship. Though she cared for Daisy’s happiness, she was not certain how she felt about such a prospect. Selfishly, she did not wish to lose her maid and companion, and certainly not before she had entrusted her to undertake her vital mission.

  In between fittings for her gown and the almost continuous round of luncheons and dinners, Elizabeth had immersed herself in her sketching and painting. She barely had a moment to consider the consequences of committing to live in Chile for the rest of her days. Now, sudden homesickness curdled in her stomach and she put down the glass she had been holding, no longer carin
g for the sweet wine. It was unlikely that Tomas could be persuaded to make the voyage to England and she had little desire to make the long, awful journey again herself, certainly not for several years at least.

  ‘Everything all right, mi corazon?’ Tomas asked, noticing her falter and taking her hand.

  ‘Si,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am feeling a little overawed. My life has changed forever.’

  ‘You have second thoughts?’ he asked.

  Elizabeth looked into his eyes and her doubts disappeared. ‘No, no, not at all,’ she said smiling at her new husband.

  Elizabeth had moved from the Campbells’ lodgings to a home provided by Tomas’s father in the town. Daisy, of course, came with her and Tomas engaged a cook and a housekeeper. When knowledge of her betrothal became known, Elizabeth had taken Daisy aside and asked her to stay, at least for a few months. ‘I do not expect you to stay forever,’ Elizabeth told her, ‘but I would be so glad of your company a while longer, while I adjust to life as a married woman’. To Elizabeth’s relief, Daisy had agreed.

  The heat of summer abated and autumn came to the city, bringing cool mornings heavy with mist and shorter days. Elizabeth was free to wander and sketch to her heart’s content. She kept close to home, not wanting to venture too far on her own, but she had not forgotten her sighting of the Devil’s Trumpet and she plotted a way to return to the Valley of the Palms before winter took hold, when the route would become impassable.

  One evening, barely three months after the wedding, Elizabeth winced as Daisy laced her into a gown for dinner.

  ‘Careful, Daisy, I’ll not be able to breathe,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot get the fabric to meet,’ replied Daisy, who was hauling on her mistress’s corset with both hands.

  Elizabeth put her hands around her waist, not believing her maid. But the evidence was unmistakable … her waist, normally barely a handspan across, now bulged outwards. She also realised with a shock that it had been weeks, no probably months, since her last bleed. ‘Oh Daisy,’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you think …’

  Daisy looked at Elizabeth’s flushed face and rounded breasts. ‘Almost certainly,’ she replied.

  Elizabeth hugged the knowledge to herself all throughout dinner, waiting to tell Tomas when they were alone. When she broke the news in their bedchamber as they retired for the night, he was delighted, both with her and the fact that he was to become a father. ‘Mi corazon,’ he said, caressing her belly under her chemise. ‘I could not be a prouder man. Now you must make sure you rest. You have my son there.’

  ‘Of course, Tomas. But I am not a china doll – women have babies all the time.’ However, Elizabeth could not help but think of her mother, dying so soon after childbirth, and sent a swift prayer that it would not be her fate.

  Elizabeth enjoyed an easy pregnancy, feeling the return of her energy after the early months, and she continued to ride, though never at more than a walking pace. She had not forgotten about the Devil’s Trumpet, and made several visits to the Valley of the Palms, but failed to find the plant again. She hid her frustration from Tomas, but, as Damien Chegwidden had not been sighted for some time, with rumours that he had perhaps even left Chile altogether, the immediate threat caused by his presence seemed to have abated.

  She was also able to continue her sketching, arranging for a portfolio of her drawings to be sent back to Trebithick on a mail ship that was due to dock at the port in late autumn.

  However, her peaceful existence was shattered when, one afternoon, as Tomas joined her for a siesta he mentioned that he had run into Mr Chegwidden. ‘He is recently returned from high in the Andes. Said he nearly froze to death; that the snows came much earlier this year.’

  Elizabeth was immediately alert. ‘Did he mention anything else? Did he discover any of the plants he sought?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Any new plants?’ Elizabeth repeated, careful not to let Tomas hear a note of alarm in her voice.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘Though I am not certain which they might be.’

  Elizabeth lay silently next to him, grinding her teeth in frustration. She had to get the Devil’s Trumpet back to England before Mr Chegwidden. She owed it to her father. The following Sunday after church she persuaded Tomas to join her on one final ride to the Valley of the Palms.

  ‘You are very fond of that place aren’t you?’ he said, an amused smile on his face. ‘You know there are other valleys, equally as beautiful.’

  ‘Oh please,’ she entreated. ‘I do so love it there. It would make me so happy to return before I am great with this child.’

  Tomas, who rarely denied her anything, smiled. ‘Of course, my darling, if you think you are able. But you are to take the gentlest mount in the stables. And no galloping for you.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.’

  The day of the ride was a sunny one, but a breeze blew down from the mountains, keeping them cool in the saddle.

  After a couple of hours’ slow riding they reached the valley, where Tomas kindled a small fire before boiling water to make matté. Elizabeth found that it revived her when she was weary and gladly accepted the cup when he passed it to her.

  While Tomas was busy, she consulted her sketchbook, looking once more for the rough drawing she had made on their first visit; comparing her sketch with the valley before her she calculated that they were only about half a mile from where she had seen the Devil’s Trumpet. Now all she needed was the opportunity to slip away from Tomas for a short while. She thrilled with excitement at how close they were, and tamped down feelings of guilt at her deception.

  She got her chance when, after they had eaten a snack of empanadas and green plums, Tomas lay back on a tuft of thick grass, his arms crossed underneath his head and his hat tipped over his eyes. ‘Join me, corazon, for you must surely be tired.’

  ‘I am fine,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘I wish to sketch a while. The plants here are quite different from the ones in town.’

  Tomas grumbled. ‘Always drawing, always painting …’ Though his tone was indulgent.

  Elizabeth picked up her pencil and pretended to study a small plant that grew on a rocky outcrop nearby. After waiting several minutes, she judged he was asleep and began a casual stroll in the direction of a large palm tree, the same palm tree that featured in her rough map. If Tomas were to awaken it would be a simple matter of explaining that she was searching for new plants to catalogue.

  Hurrying towards the site, her father’s vasculum over her shoulder, she almost tripped over a tree root, her large belly sending her off-balance. Her heart pounded and she was breathing heavily from the exertion and the subterfuge. Even though she was married, and carrying Tomas’s child, she had kept the promise she had made to her father more than a year before, and had told no one, not even her husband, of her mission. The burden of the secret had begun to weigh on her mind and in quieter moments she wondered whether it might be wise to inform Tomas. This was not the time for hesitation, however, and she stopped and looked carefully about her, consulting her sketch once again. The placement of trees was exactly as she had drawn it, so she walked outward in a circle from where she thought she had first seen the plant.

  No luck. Again. Nothing that even looked like the white trumpet-shaped flowers.

  She glanced back to see if Tomas had stirred and then, thankful that he was a heavy sleeper, she kept searching.

  As the minutes ticked by her heart grew heavy. She turned, about to give up and wake Tomas, for the sun was low in the sky and it was long past time for them to return. It was then that a divine scent reached her nostrils. It was the most alluring fragrance she had ever smelled: sweet but not cloying, with a fresh undertone and a lingering spiciness. Like vanilla and jasmine and sweetbriar and sandalwood, but somehow more than all of those. She inhaled deeply, looking for the source of the intoxicating aroma. Two steps further on and then there it was, partly hidden behind an aca
cia bush. The most beautiful white flowers, petals striped with purple, bloomed along thick green stems. Drawing closer, she saw that the deep purple–black stamens were topped with orange pollen so vibrant it appeared to almost glow in the fading light.

  Her hand shook as she donned her riding gloves – she had no desire to risk any harm to herself or her unborn child by allowing her skin to come in contact with any part of the noxious plant. Taking a quick glance to make certain that Tomas was still asleep, she bent down and snapped off one of the flowers, then placed it carefully in the vasculum.

  Further along the plant, she saw a number of seed pods. They were just as her father had described: round and prickly, and one of them had split to reveal several small, kidney-shaped seeds. She plucked those too and placed them in a small drawstring bag that she tucked into a pocket of her dress.

  Almost swooning from the heady scent, she was startled as she heard Tomas’s call. Straightening up, she waved, gathering up her things and hastening towards him.

  ‘Querida,’ he said, as she reached him, out of breath. ‘I was worried. I woke and couldn’t see any sign of you. It is nearly dark.’

  ‘My darling, I was not so far away, but yes, it is late and we should make haste.’ Elizabeth quickly stowed her sketchbook and gloves in a leather satchel attached to her horse’s saddle and then looked to Tomas to help her up. Her growing belly meant that it was harder for her to keep her balance as Tomas boosted her into the saddle, but once she was astride she was quite comfortable. She checked the strap on the vasculum, making sure it was secure across her shoulder.