The Botanist’s Daughter

by Kayte Nunn

  ‘Jenkins!’ Ed bounded across the gardens to where Anna stood at the Victoria Gate, its imposing, curlicued wrought iron bearing a royal emblem in gold leaf of a lion and unicorn. Anna felt a thrill of recognition at the sight of his loping stride, the broad shoulders and, as he got closer, the endearing scattering of freckles across his face.

  ‘Jenkins!’ he said again, his pleasure at seeing her as evident as her own. He enveloped her in a hug, lifting her clear off her feet. Anna returned his embrace, and for a moment neither of them spoke, each sinking into the other, savouring the closeness.

  Then, both at once, they began to talk.

  ‘How are you, Ed?’

  ‘You made it back safely?’

  Having reassured each other of their mutual wellbeing, Ed took hold of Anna’s hand and they walked towards the main road.

  ‘Do you know, I think they are growing on me,’ he remarked, taking in her peacock leggings.

  Anna whacked him gently with the bag she was carrying.

  ‘Oof!’ he cried, doubling over theatrically. ‘I suppose I deserved that.’

  As they walked towards the park, Anna told Ed about the rest of her stay in Cornwall. ‘So, it turns out Elizabeth was my great-great grandmother,’ said Anna. ‘If you can believe that.’

  ‘I can,’ he said solemnly. ‘There had to be a reason for the box being in your grandmother’s house.’

  They eventually came to a small wooden shed outside which stood a rack of bicycles.

  ‘I … er … it’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a bike,’ Anna said. ‘Possibly not since I was a kid.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll come back to you,’ Ed said confidently. ‘You’ll find that it’s like riding a bike.’

  Anna groaned.

  After a wobbly start, she soon found her balance and was flying down the path ahead of Ed. It was a million times more fun than being in a dark, sweaty cycle studio. Anna shook her hair loose, loving the feeling of the wind across her body and the scent of cut grass in the air.

  ‘Steady on, Jenkins, it’s not the Tour de France!’ Ed yelled after her.

  Anna slowed slightly, letting him catch her and then grinned like a loon at him as he came alongside.

  ‘I didn’t know you were such a speed demon,’ he gasped, pedalling hard to keep up with her.

  She laughed with glee. ‘I’d forgotten. It feels almost like flying.’

  Later, Anna having finally slowed down, they meandered back in the direction of the bike rack.

  ‘You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen you so exhilarated,’ said Ed. ‘I like it.’

  ‘I guess it made me happy,’ she said with surprise. It had been a long time since she’d felt she had a right to such a feeling.

  They handed back their bikes and walked back towards the park entrance. ‘Is it because of Simon?’ he asked gently. ‘Because I’ve a feeling there’s more to that than you’ve told me so far.’

  Anna’s elation vanished, as if the sun had suddenly slipped behind a cloud. But she took a deep breath and began.

  It was a relief to finally tell someone.

  It all came flooding out. Everything she’d kept hidden, even from her family, from Simon’s family.

  ‘I didn’t want to go to Europe with him. I said we should take a break from each other, that I was fed up with his irrational behaviour – one minute he was sky high, the next in the depths of despair. That I couldn’t put up with his moodiness any more. No matter what I tried to do I couldn’t make him happy. I told him we would be better off apart. Two days after that conversation, I found him in the flat, in our bed.’

  ‘Oh Anna, sweetheart.’ Ed put an arm around her shoulders as they walked. ‘You must stop punishing yourself.’

  ‘But, don’t you see? It’s all my fault. I told him we were over.’

  ‘That may be, but it doesn’t mean you were responsible for his actions.’

  ‘But if I had been more patient, less selfish—’

  He stopped her, pulling her to face him. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Anna.’

  ‘But it was.’

  ‘No, Anna,’ he said gently. ‘Get this straight: it wasn’t. From everything you’ve said, it certainly wasn’t. Anyway, what good has come of blaming yourself? You’ve got to forgive yourself, as hard as that is. For your own sake.’

  She was undone, broken open with the telling of a story she’d kept to herself for so long. She wrung her hands together but she couldn’t stop them from trembling. ‘I don’t know how to.’

  ‘Come here, Jenkins,’ he said gently. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf on the last day of autumn.’ Anna fell into his arms, burying her head in his shoulder.

  ‘It’s okay; it’s okay,’ he murmured into her hair. Ed began to tell her the story of manzanita. ‘One of the prettiest shrubs I’ve ever seen. It grows in the desert chaparral of the American southwest and its bark is so shiny, it looks as if it’s been polished with beeswax. Some people know it as “mountain driftwood” because its branches dry out to a beautiful grey, smoothness.’

  Anna wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, but she was intrigued nevertheless. His story had begun to calm her.

  ‘It has some of the hardest seeds of any plant. They can stay dormant for several years, just sitting on the bush, doing nothing. Do you know what it takes to make them germinate?’

  Anna shook her head.

  ‘Fire.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Only after the intense heat of a bushfire will their tough outer covering disintegrate and allow the seed within to grow.’

  Finally, after her shakes had subsided to the occasional tremor, he released her, cupping her face in his hands like a flower. ‘You’ll get there.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You will, I know it. You just have to keep walking through the fire. And then you’ll bloom.’

  His certainty acted like a ballast. Steadied her. Helped her believe she might.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  SANTIAGO, 1887

  Daisy travelled all the next day, growing increasingly weak as her meagre food supplies ran out. She gave all of the milk she had brought to the baby, but it was barely enough, and Violeta grew listless and lethargic, spending many hours asleep. Daisy worried for her, but their only hope was to keep going. The snow had ceased, and the weather during the day became warmer, but she did not dare to remove her cloak for fear of discovery. The road zigzagged through the hills like a staircase and it was all she could do to stay upright. She was thankful for having spent so many hours riding horses along the steep Cornish cliffsides as a girl, for the rough going would have terrified someone with lesser experience.

  Wrapped in Elizabeth’s cloak, with Violeta strapped beneath, her flame-red hair caught up beneath its hood and a scarf obscuring much of her face, Daisy was, nevertheless, the subject of some curious glances by the few people she passed. Despite her churning nerves, she managed calm nods, occasionally exchanging a few words of Spanish, but never giving a hint of her purpose. She hid her shaking hands in her reins and recited in her head the words, ‘Nearly there, nearly there …’ even though she still had far to go and wasn’t at all certain what she would find when she reached her destination.

  It was late in the afternoon when the buildings of Santiago eventually came into view. The city appeared before her like a mirage in the desert – steeples and the roofs of houses poked through the dark foliage of fig and olive trees. She crossed a stone bridge over a river – the Maipo River, she remembered Mr Williamson telling her.

  She felt her resolve falter. How was she going to find the place she sought? The city looked enormous and overwhelming, but she knew she had to get the baby and the box safely away from Mr Chegwidden, for him never to know of their existence, and she prayed that Mr Williamson would come to her aid. She went over in her head the words she had heard him say when they had celebrated together at Elizabeth’s wedding. ‘I have found a very agreeable lodging indeed. At the base of San Cristobal, one of th
e highest hills in the city … a large ochre-coloured house with white shutters. It is quite perfect.’

  ‘Donde esta San Cristobal?’ she asked a passing chilena.

  The woman appeared to understand. ‘Por ahi,’ she said, pointing northwards.

  Sometime later, and almost as soon as she turned into the quiet, tree-lined street that circled the base of the hill, Daisy saw the house, a square, dun-coloured building and the only one that she could see with white shutters. Her heart beat faster and Violeta stirred, as if she could feel its thudding.

  Pulling up her horse as quietly as she could, Daisy clumsily dismounted. She rapped on a pair of wide doors and then waited, lurching from foot to foot with nervousness and fatigue. There was a movement at an upstairs window. She knocked again, and after what seemed like an eternity but must have only been a minute or so, the doors opened.

  For a moment there was silence. Daisy pulled her hood from her head, allowing her curls to escape.

  ‘Mr Williamson?’ she asked the maid. ‘Is he here?’

  There was a call from the shadows of the house. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mr Williamson!’ She cried louder.

  ‘Miss Helyer!’ Mr Williamson was now at the door. ‘What on earth?’

  Daisy was nearly delirious with tiredness and only kept herself upright by sheer force of will. She found that she no longer had the ability to take another step and swayed, collapsing forward and falling into his arms.

  When she came to, she found herself lying on a chaise in a light, attractive drawing room, a wall of which was entirely taken up with books, their spines stamped with gold lettering. There was the softness of velvet under her sore palms, and she felt as if she were lying on goose down, which she may well in fact have been, for there were several large pillows under her head. Suddenly she groped about her body, missing the weight of Violeta against her. She began to rise, panic blooming in her chest.

  ‘There, there …’

  She looked up to see Mr Williamson leaning over her, concern furrowing his brow. ‘The infant is well. My maidservant is caring for her. I took the liberty of finding a wet nurse. Rest assured she will be most discreet.’

  Daisy felt relief shoot through her. ‘Oh, the baby is not mine,’ she reassured him. ‘But your discretion is very much required.’

  ‘As you wish, my dear. So, tell me, what brings you to my door? I never have been so surprised as to see you here.’

  Slowly, haltingly, Daisy began her story. When she got to the part about finding her mistress and her husband drenched in their own blood, she stuttered, barely able to put into words her horror at finding them thus.

  ‘We must inform the police. At once!’

  Daisy shook her head vehemently. ‘Let me finish. For I have an idea who was behind this, though I doubt it will ever be proven.’ She explained about finding the lilies on the bedcovers, about overhearing Mr Chegwidden and Señor Flores arguing. About the search for the Devil’s Trumpet.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ he said, looking at once concerned and outraged. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘I sincerely hope you will help me,’ Daisy pleaded. ‘Hide me for a while, for Mr Chegwidden believes that everyone at Estancia Copihue was murdered that night. And then I must escape. I must leave the country.’ She didn’t mention that she also had the Devil’s Trumpet with her. She couldn’t trust anyone, not even him.

  ‘Oh my dear. What a dreadful, dreadful time you have had of it. And to travel all this way on horseback. I can scarcely credit it.’

  Daisy barely registered his concern. ‘I had no choice,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘Your bravery is astounding. I know of not a handful of men who would have made that journey in this weather. Let alone with a baby to tend to.’

  Daisy didn’t feel terribly brave. She felt scared and tired and very, very hungry. A sudden knock on the door startled her.

  ‘It is fine, my dear,’ he said, noticing her concern. ‘I asked my cook to make you some food. You look like you have not eaten for days.’

  She salivated as the smell of soup wafted towards her. ‘Thank you, Mr Williamson, you are most generous.’

  ‘Come now,’ he said kindly, ‘eat. Regain your strength.’

  The maid set a large covered pot on the table and another moved noiselessly about the room, retrieving a plate, spoon and a loaf of bread from a sideboard.

  When she had eaten her fill, almost emptying the tureen that sat in front of her, Daisy leant back in her chair. Mr Williamson, who had remained silent but not taken his eyes off her the entire time she had been eating, began to speak.

  ‘It is plain that you must leave here, my dear. I must also inform the authorities.’

  Daisy looked up, her eyes wide in alarm.

  ‘As you have said, for the safety of yourself and the baby, you must go.’

  ‘But how? And where? I have but only a little money.’ She thought of the small purse of coins and notes that she had brought with her.

  ‘I can arrange it; do not worry. There is a ship leaving for Australia in a month’s time; I have some cargo due to be loaded aboard it. I will make it my business to arrange a berth for you.’

  ‘But they cannot find out about me, or Violeta.’ Her voice rose in consternation.

  ‘Hush now, my dear. I shall send word to them via my man. Your presence here will remain secret, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you. I do not wish to appear ungrateful, but is there not a ship bound for England?’ She had been holding onto the thought of one day returning home to Trebithick like a rope thrown to a drowning sailor.

  He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not for some months, and I cannot keep you here for that long, for word would surely get out.’

  She steeled herself, accepting her fate. It would only be for a few years, she promised herself. Until she could be sure that there was no longer a threat from that madman. Then she would bring Lily home.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  LONDON, SUMMER 2017

  Hal Graham looked even more rumpled than the first time Anna had met him, if that were possible. He rose from behind his desk and came around it to shake her hand. ‘Anna. Good to see you again.’

  ‘You too, Dr Graham. I’m sorry it is a little later than planned, but I stayed longer in Cornwall than I’d anticipated.’

  ‘Oh yes, well, I’m not surprised. Lovely county.’ He returned to his seat and motioned for her to sit on the other side of the desk.

  Anna looked at him expectantly, eyeing off Elizabeth’s sketchbook on a shelf behind him, wanting the small talk to be over.

  He noticed her eyes flick towards the shelf, and turned to retrieve the sketchbook.

  ‘Now, it would appear that you have quite a find on your hands. I can confirm that it is the work of Elizabeth Trebithick.’

  Anna nodded.

  ‘But you probably already know that. Edwin mentioned that you had both visited Trebithick Hall.’ He shook his head. ‘But what is puzzling is, as we suspected, the last watercolour. It is subtly different, but nevertheless significantly, from other examples we have of Datura, to safely assume that it is a subspecies. Most excitingly, it is one that we know very little about. There is only one other drawing in existence. If you come with me to the library, I can show you. I took the liberty of arranging its retrieval from our archives especially for your visit.’

  When they reached the library and Hal had located the drawing Anna blinked with astonishment. It was exactly as he had said: the two drawings were of an identical plant, from the sepals to the snowy petals with their stripes of velvety black, to the stamen and the stalk.

  ‘Datura niger,’ Hal whispered in the library hush. ‘One and the same. Native to a once-remote valley in central Chile. It’s believed to have been extinct for nearly a hundred years. Once upon a time one of the most powerful plants known to humankind. Misused, it causes hallucinations and death, but in the right hands, it has unparalleled healing properties. There are
even stories of it being used to treat confusion and memory loss – what we now know as dementia.’

  ‘Alzheimer’s?’ she said quickly, thinking of Granny Gus.

  Hal nodded. ‘Not only that, but in certain concentrations it was also a painkiller, similar to laudanum, but non-addictive, according to reports from those times. It was truly a remarkable plant – it had the potential to ease the suffering, perhaps even extend the useful lives of millions, even billions of people. It’s no secret that Alzheimer’s is one of the biggest concerns of our times.’

  Anna knew all too well.

  ‘It’s a tragedy that it became extinct. Who knows, it could have led to the development of some of the world’s most valuable medicines. This drawing –’ he indicated the artwork before them, ‘was made by the botanist Alexander Grantham at the beginning of the twentieth century. Unfortunately, the ship that he was travelling back to England on in 1901 sank. All of his samples were lost. He had sent on his drawings ahead of him, and this is why we have this today. In later years, botanists made further expeditions to try to locate the plant but it was never found again.’

  They contemplated the drawings as a realisation hit Anna with the force of a lightning strike, illuminating everything.

  ‘It wouldn’t still be that powerful if it were around today, would it? Surely developments of other drugs have superseded its potential?’

  Hal shook his head. ‘We’ll never know and that’s the tragedy. And although there are promising developments for some drug treatments for the early stages of Alzheimer’s, there’s still no cure.’

  Anna thought of the tragedy of Elizabeth and her husband being murdered for possession of the plant, for the lives that had been affected, and the course of her family forever altered. It made her head spin to think of it, for, had Elizabeth never made the perilous journey, and then Daisy after her, then Anna, her sister, her mother, her grandmother would never have existed. If Elizabeth had succeeded in her quest, then the world would be a different place again. So much was dependent on a twist of fate.