The Botanist’s Daughter

by Kayte Nunn

  Elizabeth looked up at him, fear in her heart.

  ‘I shall be fine,’ she said, brushing a hand across her eyes. ‘You and Mr Chegwidden seemed to have plenty to talk about,’ she said.

  ‘We were merely discussing some business.’

  ‘How is that, my darling?’

  Tomas sighed. ‘Mr Chegwidden seeks a particular plant and I have been helping him with the search. We disagreed over a trifling matter; it is nothing, mi corazon. I will resolve things to everyone’s satisfaction.’

  Elizabeth’s blood turned to ice in her veins but she kept silent as Sofia joined them.

  ‘You speak of Señor Chegwidden?’ her sister-in-law said. ‘I do not trust that man. He thinks in lies. He converses in lies. El es un loco. A madman.’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ her brother scoffed. ‘Do not worry yourselves, either of you. Elizabeth, you need to look after the baby and recover your strength; and Sofia, this is not of your concern.’

  Elizabeth felt a small burst of displeasure at being dismissed in this way, and imagined Sofia must too, though her sister-inlaw had bowed her head meekly at Tomas’s words.

  Immediately after the christening, the weather worsened. One particular day, all of the servants had been given leave to attend a wedding some several hours’ ride away. Daisy had also been invited but chose at the last moment to stay behind and help with Violeta. She, together with Tomas’s father, Sofia, Elizabeth, Tomas and the baby remained at the estancia.

  As Elizabeth retired for the evening, she was surprised to see that snow had begun to cover the ground. Though a cold wind had been blowing, she had not anticipated snow would fall so late in the season.

  ‘I fear we may be forced to remain here for several days if this continues,’ said Tomas as he stood behind her and slid the strap of her chemise from her shoulder. Goosebumps rose on her skin, despite the warmth coming from a fire burning in the grate.

  ‘Will that be so bad?’ she asked.

  ‘I had planned for us to return to Valparaiso in the coming days. I have a number of pressing matters to see to.’ He shrugged. ‘But it can’t be helped. We shall see what it looks like in the morning. I hope the servants make it back tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomas …’ She paused, turning to face him. ‘There is something I must speak to you about.’ Elizabeth’s voice shook. She had rehearsed this speech over and over in her mind, resolved to tell Tomas everything – including that she had found the Devil’s Trumpet and planned to send it to England with Daisy – to lay herself bare and suffer the consequences. She wanted no more secrets from him, nothing that would eat away at her until she could find neither rest nor refuge.

  ‘Can it wait until morning?’ he said quietly. ‘It is late for conversation, but not too late for love.’ He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling in the light from the candle flame.

  Elizabeth’s resolve faltered and she melted into his arms. Her last conscious thought was that she would speak to her husband of the matter that troubled her, just as soon as they woke.

  The arrival of snow made it possible for the four montoneros to creep across the paddocks of the estancia without making a sound. They had left their horses some miles back, to not alert any other animals, and had continued their journey on foot. They had their orders. Normally they answered to no one; plundered what they needed and moved on, living roughly, moving constantly, sleeping high in the mountain passes. But the gentleman had offered them a sum of gold far greater than any they had ever seen. Greed overcame any good sense, and they shook on the deal.

  It was done, and done quickly. One man for each victim. They had been told where to find them, and they each opened a bedchamber door as if choreographed in a deadly dance. The glint of a too-sharp blade in the moonlight was all that could be seen.

  Señor Flores, Señorita Flores, Tomas and Elizabeth – all took their last breath before a slit to the throat silenced them forever.

  The job done, the men wiped their bloodied knives on the bed sheets. One of them left, as instructed, several lilies on the covers. Then they began to search.

  Chapter Forty-two

  CORNWALL, SUMMER 2017

  ‘It was quite a scandal at the time. According to family history, not long after the death of her father, John, Elizabeth travelled by ship – well, of course it was by ship; that was the only way to get there in those days – to Chile. To the port of Valparaiso.’ Florence looked at Anna as if making sure she was paying attention. Satisfied, she continued. ‘This was in the late 1800s, I believe. My grandmother told me the story only once. I must have been about ten. I remember it as if it were yesterday … we were sitting in the yellow drawing room and I had come to see her about some slight or other; I think I was missing my mother, who was confined to bed upstairs … anyway, whatever it was I remember asking about the painting of great-grandmother Augusta, the one in the hallway of the house.’

  Anna suddenly remembered noticing Augusta’s dimples, it was what she’d seen just before she’d fainted. She’d completely forgotten it until then. Florence appeared not to notice Anna’s sharp intake of breath, and carried on. ‘She said that her mother had died when she had given birth to her younger sister, Elizabeth. I remember being astonished. This was the first I had ever heard of my grandmother having a sister. To begin with, I didn’t believe her. I distinctly remember asking, “Well, why doesn’t she live here too?” Grandmother Georgiana looked at me sadly. “Oh sweet Florence, I wish that she did. I miss my dear sister terribly, and she is in my prayers every single day. Several months before your father was born, and not long after my father’s death, Elizabeth – she was always so headstrong – grew determined to go to South America, to continue the work of our father, discovering and collecting rare plants to bring back and grow here. Elizabeth was a fine artist, with a particular eye for flowers and plants and suchlike.”’

  Anna held her breath and barely dared blink; she did not want to distract Florence from her story.

  ‘I remember Grandmother Georgiana letting me snuggle next to her – which was a rare treat, let me tell you, she was usually far too busy to spend much time with me – and regaling me with stories about my adventurous and headstrong great-aunt. I was thrilled to hear of her voyage on the high seas. “Of course, letters were few and far between in those days,” my grandmother said. “They had to wait for a ship returning to Southampton or Liverpool, and often only found their way to us months later. But we eventually had word that she had met a young man, the son of a local landowner, and that she had fallen in love. I was worried for her being so far away, and him not being an Englishman – imagine! I begged her to return home, but her next letter told of her marriage and then another of a baby. I became taken up with my own family – your father George had been born by then – and her letters sounded happy and were full of stories of an exotic life. I doubted there was anything I could have done to persuade her to return home in any case.” I have those letters,’ Florence said, coming abruptly back to the present. ‘I can look for them, if you like. Though it might take me a day or so to dig them out.’ She indicated the general clutter of the living room. ‘I know they’re here somewhere. I saved them and a few other things when we had to leave Trebithick Hall.’ She made as if to look for them there and then.

  ‘Do go on,’ Anna urged, wanting to hear more of the story. ‘What else did your grandmother tell you about Elizabeth?’

  ‘Well, she said that it was some time before she heard from her sister again, but that it didn’t concern her greatly. However, when almost a year went by after her last letter, she was seized with dread. “I suppose you are old enough to know the truth,” she told me. “Your grandfather, Robert, engaged a private detective, who travelled to Chile to investigate. He returned with the most catastrophic tale. Elizabeth, her husband, sister-inlaw and father-in-law had been violently murdered while they slept in their beds at their farm in the mountains. According to the investigator, bandits were to blame, although the local auth
orities had had no success in tracking them down. It seems they had simply vanished into the hills.” Well, of course I was shocked, but also a tiny bit thrilled by this story. Nothing nearly as exciting ever happened in Cornwall. I have to forgive my ten-year-old self, but I couldn’t help but relish the grisly details, and I begged my grandmother to tell me more.’ Florence looked apologetically at Anna.

  ‘She was murdered?’ repeated Ed, aghast.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Florence. ‘The story made the London papers – most likely because of my great-grandfather, John Trebithick, who had been a well-known plant collector. Grandma showed me the cutting. It’s in a scrapbook somewhere here, I believe.’

  ‘But what about her baby? You said she had a baby?’ asked Anna.

  ‘Yes, she did.’ Florence’s mouth set in a grim line. She faltered, closed her eyes briefly, and then as she opened them she said, ‘You will have to excuse me. I am suddenly very tired.’

  The sun was streaming in through the bay window, overheating the crowded room. The old lady did look weary, as if the remembering and the telling had taken it out of her. Her face was pale and her hand shook slightly as she lifted her cup to her lips. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, realising it was empty.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, ‘we’ve worn you out.’

  ‘Unfortunately we have to return to London this afternoon,’ said Ed.

  ‘Actually,’ Anna began, surprising herself by making a snap decision, ‘I think I might stay on for a few more days. I’d love to spend some more time talking to you, if I may, Miss Deverell.’

  ‘Of course, that would be lovely.’ The old lady brightened at the prospect. ‘But I could manage a little lie-down now, I think. Stamina isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid.’

  Ed looked at Anna questioningly. ‘How will you get around?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Where are you staying, my dear?’

  ‘In the pub in the next village, the Smugglers Arms.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, then,’ said Florence decisively. ‘I can pick you up tomorrow morning and we can talk some more.’

  ‘You still drive?’ asked Ed incredulously.

  ‘I’m not in my grave yet, young man,’ she scolded him. ‘Though I only potter about the place – just far enough to get my groceries.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘I really would appreciate talking to you further.’

  ‘And I shall enjoy the company,’ declared Florence. ‘Now, if you will excuse me …’

  ‘Well, that was all very interesting, wasn’t it?’ said Ed as they walked to the car.

  Anna had paused to admire the frilly purple–blue petals of a bearded iris in the front garden. She looked up at Ed, her eyes shining. ‘I know. I can’t quite believe it.’ She paused. ‘Um … Do you think we could go back to Trebithick Hall before you go? And you don’t mind me staying on a few more days, do you? I mean, I’m really grateful to you for coming here with me, but I don’t feel I can leave just yet.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Ed. ‘You’ve only just begun to unravel this mystery.’ He winked at her. ‘I will expect regular updates, though.’

  ‘Thanks. I mean it. For everything. You’ve really gone above and beyond, especially for a virtual stranger.’

  He looked hurt. ‘I wouldn’t have said we are exactly strangers any more, Jenkins.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Of course we’re not.’ She grasped his arm. ‘I really, truly am very grateful.’

  He looked mollified. ‘Come on, then, we’ve got an hour or so before lunch and then I really will have to get on the road. The traffic back isn’t going to be pretty if I leave it too late.’

  They drove the few miles to Trebithick Hall, which was packed with Sunday morning visitors enjoying the bright, sunny day. ‘I’m going to have a wander round the gardens,’ said Ed. ‘There are some particularly fine camellia sinensis that I’d like to take another look at.’

  Anna nodded, smiling. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, loving that his passion for plants matched her own. ‘I’d like to see some more of the house. How about we meet back at the entrance in an hour?’

  Anna stepped into the cool, dark hallway again. She stopped at the portrait of Augusta again, feeling another thrill of familiarity. She’d missed the guided tour, but she was happy to wander the rooms, transported into a late-Victorian well-to-do household. It was a beautiful home; unlike any she had seen in Australia. The scale of the rooms was what surprised her most: their soaring ceilings – but as Florence Deverell had stated, they must have been the very devil to heat in winter, especially when one didn’t have a full staff to keep the fires blazing in every room.

  There was even a nursery, decked out with a doll’s house, a rocking horse and a train set. Had they belonged to Elizabeth and Georgiana, she wondered, or were they brought in to add period flavour to the place? It was most likely the latter, but Anna allowed herself to imagine the possibility nonetheless. It was strange to think that these rooms had once echoed to their girlish laughter and quick footsteps.

  Having toured the bedrooms, she returned down the grand main staircase and found herself in the library. Hundreds of worn leather-bound tomes lined two of the walls. The third had windows that looked out onto the garden, and the final wall was hung with framed watercolours. She recognised the style immediately, though some were less detailed than the ones in the sketchbook. There was a particularly beautiful study of a scarlet rhododendron flower, the detail of the petals and the stalk finely drawn. In that moment, the reality of what had befallen Elizabeth hit home. How bold and brave she must have been to venture so far from home, and what a tragedy that her life – and her obvious talent – had been so savagely cut short.

  ‘There you are,’ said Ed, coming up behind her and putting his hand on her shoulder, making Anna jump at his touch.

  ‘Look at these, Ed.’ She pointed to the wall of watercolours.

  His eyes followed the direction she indicated. ‘Yes, they’re definitely the same artist, aren’t they?’ he said.’ Although somewhat earlier works, by the looks of things. You can really see how her skill developed in the later watercolours in your sketchbook. They’re still quite stunning, though.’

  Anna smiled sadly. ‘What a shame she never reached her potential.’

  Chapter Forty-three

  CHILE, 1887

  The montoneros searched. Quietly but frantically. Moving through the bedrooms, pulling down blankets, rifling through chests of clothes in the darkness.

  They searched in vain, then regrouped and were about to move to the empty servants’ quarters when they heard a noise. A baby’s cry. Without a word they stopped in their tracks. The leader signalled the others with his eyes. The gentleman had paid them half of the enormous sum when they accepted the commission; it was more money than they would see in a year. The remaining amount was due when they brought him the prize. The leader held up his hand and then pointed to the door. The message was clear. They would not stay to complete the task; they had been unable to find what the gentleman had described and they would not have the blood of an innocent child on their hands. Silently, the men followed their leader down the stairs and out of the house the way they had come, through a window in one of the living areas.

  It had all happened within the space of an hour. The montoneros galloped away, their foot and hoof prints slowly covered over by the gathering snow, eventually to leave no sign of where they had come from or where they were going.

  Daisy, who had risen to bring Violeta to Elizabeth, found the bodies. She didn’t notice anything awry at first, for her lamp let out barely a flicker of light. She put her arm out to rouse her mistress and was surprised when her fingers encountered a warm wetness. Looking at her hand, she could not believe her eyes. Blood? So much blood! She lifted the lamp higher and saw Elizabeth, her skin ghostly against the dark blood. Strangely, her face looked peaceful, as if she were merely asleep. And there was Señ
or Flores, blood blooming like a flower against the white of his nightshirt. She let out an unearthly scream, the noise rising unbidden from her throat at the horrible, horrible sight. Violeta, cradled in her arms, began to howl as well, and Daisy pulled her closer, turning to shield the baby’s eyes from her parents’ bodies. As she did so, she caught sight of flowers, scattered at the end of the bed, glowing in the darkness. Pure white, trumpet-shaped lilies. A chill came over her, and her screams died in her throat. She knew what they meant. She knew who was responsible for this. She ran from room to room, already knowing what she would find. Señor Flores. And then Sofia – beautiful Sofia. They too lay lifeless, their throats slit, blood pooling and darkening beneath their still-warm bodies. They were beyond saving, all of them.

  Still clutching Violeta to her bosom, she heaved the contents of her stomach into a bowl that sat on a chest in Sofia’s room. Then she wiped her mouth with a shaking hand, gathering her thoughts. ‘Shush now … shush,’ she rocked the baby, who was wailing from hunger.

  She thought hard. She had to get out of there, had to keep Violeta safe. And Elizabeth’s precious plant – the cause of this nightmare. She fled back along the corridor to the baby’s room and put her down in her sheepskin hammock. ‘Hush now, little one, it’s just while I prepare,’ she whispered. Miraculously the baby ceased her wailing. Daisy gathered an armful of gowns and underthings and threw them into an old flour sack before returning for Elizabeth’s box and the sketchbook. Whoever had murdered her and Señor Flores and his family had not found what they sought. It was up to her to make sure that they never did.

  She crept along the corridor and as she came down the stairs she felt an icy draught. She nearly jumped out of her skin as the front door creaked on its hinges. She waited several seconds, scarcely daring to breathe. It was only the wind.