The Naturalist's Daughter Page 2

  Tamsin pushed her empty cup away tapping her fingernail on the table. ‘The Hunter’s not too bad. I know the train goes to Maitland. I could do the trip in a couple of days.’

  ‘We might have to consider a travelling companion. Is there anyone you would like to invite?’

  Tamsin shook her head. It didn’t require much thinking, there was no one she could ask, except perhaps her housekeeper but the thought of any kind of close contact with Mrs Birkenhead didn’t fire her with enthusiasm. ‘I’m quite able to travel alone. It’s hardly very far.’

  ‘You really should pay more attention to these things. It’s hardly appropriate for a young lady to be seen travelling alone.’

  Tamsin lowered her lids mostly to cover the rolling of her eyes. ‘I think at the ripe old age of twenty-five I hardly classify as young. Besides this is the twentieth century, not Regency England.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sure you’re quite capable of managing. Please don’t start on the New Woman claptrap. I’m an advocate, remember?’

  ‘I won’t, I promise. Now what exactly is this donation?’ A library full of books she could understand but one book? It must be something quite special. She leant forward resting her elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her hands.

  ‘A sketchbook. Detailed anatomical line drawings and watercolours.’ Mrs Williams’s dramatic pause signalled something more. She lowered her voice and leant closer. ‘We think it belonged to Winton.’

  ‘Charles Winton?’ Winton the naturalist, one of the first to send Sir Joseph Banks detailed information about the platypus. One of the very men whose correspondence she’d requested from London. ‘How thrilling. Where did the sketchbook come from?’

  ‘The usual sort of thing. Been in Mrs Quinleaven’s possession for years and she’d never bothered to do anything about it.’ Mrs Williams gave a disdainful sniff as though incapable of believing anyone could be uninterested in such a legacy.

  ‘Winton’s family?’

  ‘No. No relation as far as we know. A promise she made apparently. I’ve no idea how it came into her possession.’

  ‘I can go and have a look. If it’s authentic it would be a wonderful addition to the letters. As you know I’ve requested Winton’s correspondence in particular. I think that’s what’s in the parcel.’

  ‘The sketchbook will have to be appraised to certify its authenticity; perhaps the people at the Mitchell, although they have their work cut out preparing for the opening. I’d like you to check for signatures and dates, take a look at the paper type and construction, the illustrations, any clues to previous ownership. You know the sort of thing. And while you’re there you might enjoy exploring the area. I believe there have been sightings of the platypus in the local waterways although the exact location might be a bit difficult. A personal view would give you some insight into Winton’s letters. Take a couple of extra days. It will make the display all the more relevant.’

  Tamsin pushed back her chair. ‘It would be an absolute pleasure, Mrs Williams.’ She almost bent down and kissed the woman’s peachy powdered cheek; instead she grasped her hand and squeezed it, inhaling her dusty scent of rosewater. ‘Thank you so much for thinking of me. When would you like me to leave?’

  ‘As soon as possible. Say tomorrow, and stay over the weekend, or longer if you need to. Make it a bit of a break. You could do with one. You’ve been looking a bit peaky lately. There’s a hotel in the nearby town, Wollombi—the Family Hotel, I think it’s called. They have rooms and it’s very respectable. I’ve looked up the train times. The Brisbane Express leaves from Central Station. You’ll be in Maitland in time for an early lunch then pick up the branch line to Cessnock. After that you’re on your own. It’s about eighteen miles to Wollombi. There’s a regular postal service every afternoon which takes passengers; if not there’s bound to be someone who can help if you ask at the station.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I understand it’s very short notice. I wanted to give you first refusal. If you don’t feel comfortable Ernest and Harry are willing to go.’

  Tamsin shot a look across the room at the two cataloguers trying to prove they weren’t hanging on Mrs Williams’s every word by pretending to be deep in conversation.

  And then she remembered and her shoulders slumped. ‘There’s just one tiny hitch; it can be resolved with a telephone call. May I use the office?’ Not waiting for an answer Tamsin headed for the door barely managing to control her desire to dance across the room. If Mrs Williams got wind of the fact she was supposed to be attending a function at the Missionary Society, Ernest and Harry would be off on the weekend of their dreams and she’d be sipping tea and making polite conversation to a group of starchy matrons who wanted to reminisce about Mother and Father.

  She closed the door of the office behind her and picked up the handpiece.

  ‘One-two-five please.’ She stared out of the window over the rooftops at the palm trees fringing the entrance to the Botanic Gardens.

  ‘This is Mrs Benson.’

  Tamsin stood tall. ‘Tamsin Alleyn, Mrs Benson. I’m afraid I will be unable to attend the function for Mother and Father. Please accept my apologies.’

  ‘Surely not. We have several people looking forward to meeting you. They feel they owe your parents so much.’

  Tamsin bit back a groan. ‘It’s inescapable. I’ve been asked to go and assess a new exhibit for the Library. It’s a great honour and if I refuse …’

  ‘Obviously far more important. You do realise this is a charity event.’

  Tamsin rolled her eyes; no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the society. Everyone presumed she’d follow in Mother and Father’s footsteps. She couldn’t do it. Their shoes were far too big and uncomfortable. ‘I’m terribly sorry. There really is nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘In that case I shall be forced to make your excuses.’

  ‘I’m sorry to let you down, perhaps we can organise another time.’ The receiver clattered into the cradle and she swallowed a whoop of excitement before belting back into the tearoom.

  ‘All sorted, Mrs Williams.’

  Chairs scraped as the cataloguers threw her looks that would have frozen the Hunter River and left the room.

  Mrs Williams rubbed her hands together and opened a file sitting on the table in front of her. ‘I know you are familiar with the story of Charles Winton.’

  ‘Absolutely. How does Mrs Quinleaven know the sketchbook belonged to him?’

  ‘Apparently, some of the works are signed and dated. It’s the dates we’re very much interested in. According to the very limited information Mrs Quinleaven provided, the drawings and notes predate the recognised timeline for the classification of the platypus. If that’s the case Winton should be credited for his discoveries.’

  ‘There’s so much conflicting evidence. It took scientists three attempts before they came up with the scientific name we use today. Although I have to admit I like “platypus”, from the original Platypus anatinus, even though they had to abandon it because it belonged to a beetle.’

  ‘That’s not like you. You’re usually a stickler for the correct terminology.’

  Tamsin didn’t understand either. Platypus just felt right. ‘I didn’t think any of Winton’s sketchbooks and papers had survived. Wasn’t there a fire or something?’

  ‘You’re thinking of the Garden Palace fire, well before you were born. It decimated our collection and the few copies of his notebooks and drawings we held were lost, hence our desire to get hold of his correspondence. You’ve done a remarkable job, I might add.’

  An undercurrent of anticipation swirled in the confined air of the tearoom, working its way into her blood, burning away the lethargy and inertia that had plagued her for so long. ‘I can’t wait.’ She wanted to go now. Now, this minute. ‘I’ll make sure the parcel contains the letters, and then collate them.’ What made her say that? Waiting until the morning would be hard enough never m
ind postponing the trip for another day.

  Mrs Williams’s lips twitched. ‘Have a quick look to make sure there’s nothing relevant before you go. I suggest first thing tomorrow morning. It’s a tedious journey. I’d value your opinion on the sketchbook’s authenticity. There’s no point in going through with this if it turns out to be some upper-class hobbyist’s doodles.’

  ‘Surely Mrs Quinleaven would have checked that out before she made her offer.’

  ‘Yes well, time will tell. If you think it is worthwhile bring it back and we’ll get hold of someone in the Mitchell wing and ask their opinion. Ask all the questions you can think of and remember the Royal Society motto—Nullius in Verba.’

  Take no one’s word for it.

  Tamsin entered the small town of Wollombi just in time for afternoon tea. She’d spent most of the journey trying to make sense of the notes she’d taken yesterday afternoon.

  As soon as she’d left Mrs Williams she’d raced back to the package on her desk and just as she’d expected it contained several of Charles Winton’s letters to Sir Joseph Banks.

  There were twelve letters which made twenty in all counting those they’d already received. Written every year on the same date, July 3rd.

  The pages were a mishmash of formality and afterthoughts. Notes crammed into the margins and small sketches littered between the words. They also made reference to the enclosed illustrations but either the Royal Society hadn’t seen fit to return those or they’d been mislaid.

  She’d discovered that in 1796 Winton had sent Sir Joseph Banks a platypus pelt. As a result he had seen fit to pay Winton a stipend, for which he was eternally grateful, and requested that he continue his research. But it was the last letter she found confusing. Dated July 3rd, 1818 it had gone into little detail, simply saying that with the aid of the natives he had unearthed a burrow and collected irrevocable evidence on dissection and that Ornithorhynchus anatinus were oviparous and possessed functioning mammae.

  Which was where Charles Winton had suddenly become more than just one of the early Australian naturalists, in her view.

  She’d had to double check her memory and search through several books before she was certain that it wasn’t until 1888 Caldwell had sent his famous telegram—‘Monotreme Oviparous: ovum meroblastic’—announcing to the world that the mystery of the platypus was finally resolved. The platypus laid an egg just like a bird.

  Winton had reported this in 1818. Seventy years earlier!

  Tamsin gazed out of the window at the passing countryside, no sign of platypus or even a billabong they might call home. How had Winton’s sketchbook ended up in the Hunter Valley? Why hadn’t he received credit for his discoveries? Why hadn’t his name appeared in any of the reports of the Royal Society?

  Eventually the postman deposited her outside the rather impressive Telegraph Office in Wollombi and pointed her in the direction of a two-storied stone building down the road sporting a faded sign telling her she’d arrived at the Family Hotel. An old man sat outside, pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth soaking up a dose of tobacco and afternoon sunshine. He lifted his head and studied her with a jaundiced eye.

  ‘I wonder if you could help me.’ She threw him her sweetest smile.

  The barrel-chested man lumbered to his feet and circled her then finally came to rest almost nose to nose.

  She took two steps back. Charming. If all the locals were this aggressive she’d be heading back to Sydney empty-handed. ‘I’m looking for a property called Will-O-Wyck.’

  ‘The Kelly place?’

  ‘No, well, maybe. I don’t know. I’m looking for a Mrs Quinleaven.’

  ‘Might be a bit late.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The sun was still high and she’d left Sydney early. It couldn’t be much past four. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’

  He frowned and shook his head from side to side sending a cloud of pipe smoke into her face before slumping back down on his chair.

  ‘Please.’ She added for good measure.

  ‘Five hundred yards down the road here, over the bridge and you’ll see a track on your right. Down there a piece. House is on your left. Can’t miss it. Three bloody great chimneys.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She picked up her bag leaving the belligerent beery-breathed old man wreathed in smoke.

  His directions were better than his reception and in no time she’d crossed the timber bridge and found a gate marked Will-O-Wyck and a gravel road lined with flowering acacias. She made her way through the dappled shadows, the air redolent with the almond scent of wattle, and came to a halt at the end of the avenue.

  As she rounded the bend she spotted a man leaning against the last tree looking somewhat bored. She dropped her bag at her feet and rubbed at her wrist trying to ignore her dusty buttoned boots and the chafing of her skin from the high neck of her blouse.

  He’d think she’d come to stay for the weekend. If it hadn’t been for the cantankerous old man outside the hotel she would have thought to leave her bag instead of lugging it all this way.

  He pushed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and pursed his lips. With his smart black suit, pristine white shirt and tie he looked as though he belonged in a bank. Not at all what she expected. Everything Mrs Williams said indicated that Mrs Quinleaven was an older woman. He was far too young to be her husband, unless of course he was her son, and if that was the case why couldn’t he have brought the sketchbook to Sydney?

  She pulled off her hat and wiped at her damp forehead. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Quinleaven.’

  A flicker of a frown crossed his face before he stepped forward and eased his hands out of his pockets. ‘I’m Shaw, Shaw Everdene. Mrs Quinleaven, ah …’ He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his high forehead. ‘She’s unavailable. Are you a friend of the family?’ Almost as an afterthought he stuck out his hand and raised his smoky-grey-green eyes to meet hers.

  She took his hand, feeling the strength in his fingers as he gave a brief squeeze. ‘I’m Tamsin Alleyn from the Public Library in Sydney. I’m here about a book. A sketchbook. I was hoping to speak with Mrs Quinleaven about her donation.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mrs Quinleaven was buried this morning.’

  Three

  Wollombi, New South Wales 1908

  Shaw grimaced. Too harsh. He’d made the poor girl flush the colour of a tomato. ‘The funeral party has just returned from the cemetery. Perhaps now might not be the best time. Can you come back tomorrow? Alternatively, I could pass on a message.’

  ‘Oh!’ She wiped her hand across her brow and sighed. ‘Do you mind if I rest here a while?’

  ‘Of course not. Have you motored up from Sydney?’

  ‘I took the train to Cessnock then a lift into Wollombi. I’m staying at the Family Hotel so I walked from there.’

  That sent her up a couple of notches in his estimation. It was a good hike especially carrying that heavy carpetbag. He shot a look down at her dusty booted feet; at least she had the sense to dress for a walk. He could just imagine his sister tiptoeing a few yards and collapsing in a frilly bundle, refusing to go a step further. ‘Why don’t I tell Mrs Quinleaven’s daughter you’re here and see what I can arrange?’

  ‘That would be perfect. Thank you.’ A pang of disappointment shot through him when she manhandled her unruly curls back under her straw hat and clamped it back down on her head. Her lack of pretence and enthusiasm was such a refreshing change.

  She didn’t look the slightest bit as though she belonged in the Public Library. The only librarians he’d ever met were male and as dusty as the vast collection of books and records they tended. How had they got wind of the sketchbook? Mrs Rushworth had only come across it when she’d arrived. She’d shown him the frontispiece, flicked through a few pages then snapped it shut before he could get a decent look. He needed to have a chat with Miss Alleyn—there might be more to this book than Mrs Rushworth had let on.

 
; He shot a look over at his motor car parked under the trees. Given the opportunity he would have liked to offer her a lift back to the Family Hotel and see if he could find out what she was up to but he was here to do a job, and that had to come first. Maybe he could do both. ‘If you don’t mind waiting I could give you a lift back. There’s a bench over there under the tree in the shade.’

  Her face broke into a delighted smile. ‘That would be perfect. I should have left my bag at the hotel. I was in such a rush to get here I didn’t stop to think.’

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He made his way over to the lawn where a small group of people were standing under the trees balancing teacups in one hand and a plate of rather uninspired sandwiches in the other. All talking in hushed tones and nodding sagely at each other. He hadn’t much time for religion of any flavour—it caused more problems than it solved—however it was good to see Mrs Quinleaven had sufficient friends to give her a decent send-off. She sounded like a charming old lady.

  Mrs Rushworth was standing to one side, her elegantly clad foot tapping as though she’d run out of patience and couldn’t wait for them all to leave. He needed to catch her before she vanished into the house. ‘Mrs Rushworth, could you spare a moment?’

  ‘Ah, Shaw yes, I really didn’t expect so many of the locals to be interested in giving my mother a send-off. I suppose I should thank the woman from the telegraph office for organising this. Let’s go into the house.’ She led him through the open front door and into the impressive library. It as good as made his mouth water. A few of the bookshelves were empty and the books were stacked in haphazard piles on the table or in wooden tea chests. On the top of the desk sat the old, leather-bound sketchbook. Watermarks stained the cover and the odd blob of ink, all very worn and used and, heaven forbid, authentic. His fingers itched to open it and have a look but once it had come to the crunch Mrs Rushworth had become somewhat reticent. ‘You had a visitor and I took it upon myself to tell her you weren’t available. I thought now might not be the moment.’