The Naturalist's Daughter Read online

  ‘You’d better come in, Miss Alleyn.’ She swept down the hallway and took a sharp turn into the library where she’d caught Tamsin yesterday.

  The stack of tea chests had multiplied overnight and most of the shelves were empty. Her stomach took a dive along with last night’s dream about stumbling on some hidden treasure, which would explain how the sketchbook arrived in Wollombi and solve the whole conundrum of Winton’s life.

  Shaw must have had a similar thought because he smoothed his hands over the bare surface of the desk until his eyes lit up at the sight of a pile of leather-bound volumes. He picked one up and turned it over, running his long fingers over the embossed leather cover. The man seemed to have an insatiable curiosity where old books were concerned.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you would have a closer look at those Shaw and see if they are of any interest. They seem to be in very good condition.’

  The external condition of the books came a very poor second to the contents—surely Mrs Rushworth was aware of that. ‘Can you spare me a moment to discuss the sketchbook?’

  Mrs Rushworth jumped and turned almost as though she had forgotten she was in the room. ‘Such a fuss about an old book. I could understand if it belonged to da Vinci or someone renowned but the jottings of some unknown convict … it should remain in the family.’

  ‘Winton was not a convict; he was a freeman and quite well known in his field. He was one of the colony’s early naturalists. And Mrs Quinleaven obviously thought the sketchbook of some value and that it should be donated.’

  ‘For whatever strange reason she omitted to disclose.’

  Tamsin clamped her lips tight capturing her irrational spark of temper. The woman infuriated her. She seemed to show no sadness for the loss of her mother or any interest in fulfilling her wishes; she wasn’t remotely interested in the national significance of such a work. If she could just get her to agree to her taking the sketchbook to Sydney she might change her mind. ‘I’d like your permission to take the sketchbook to Sydney to have it assessed.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The air sucked from Tamsin’s lungs. That was too easy, far too easy.

  ‘I have absolutely no problem with that. I’d like to know what it is worth.’

  Only yesterday she’d refused to discuss the matter.

  ‘Providing Mr Everdene agrees to take responsibility.’

  The woman had changed her mind overnight.

  Shaw’s face broke into a grin highlighting a dimple in his cheek she hadn’t noticed before, and an inkling of a smile creased Mrs Rushworth’s pampered skin, obviously satisfied she could trust Shaw to follow her instructions. ‘Is there any possibility we might have a last look at the books?’ Shaw’s voice wavered, his fingers compulsively stroking the leather coverings. Her comments last night must have sparked some idea in his head. If the sketchbook had been amongst these books then there was the chance that others might have been missed.

  ‘It is highly unlikely anything has been overlooked. They will be packed by tomorrow morning for removal. Anything you unpack must be replaced.’

  ‘Can you tell us how your mother came by the sketchbook, Mrs Rushworth?’

  ‘How should I know? She had the reputation of being a recluse.’ Her face coloured a little and she turned to the window. ‘After my father died my mother and I lost touch …’ She shook her head. ‘To be honest I don’t think she set foot outside the property for nigh on twenty years. Testy might be a better word to describe her.’

  Charming. Another wave of melancholy swept over her. Poor Mrs Quinleaven. Her estranged daughter, someone who couldn’t give two hoots about her or her possessions, stood to inherit everything. There was something intrinsically sad about the entire situation. ‘Did you grow up here?’

  ‘No, I did not. My mother took it into her head to up sticks and move here without a moment’s consideration for my situation.’ She gave a disdainful sniff. ‘My husband holds a very important position in the city, sits on a number of boards and is very involved in the demand for new housing. Our lives revolve around Sydney. This little backwater is of no concern to us. I simply want the property sold. Now is that all? I think I’ve been more than forthcoming with my time.’

  What a repulsive money-grabbing woman. No wonder Mrs Quinleaven had attempted to make arrangements for the sketchbook before she died.

  ‘Tell me when you’re leaving. The sketchbook is in the dining room.’ She left, leaving a cloying scent of jasmine behind, and Shaw moved to the window and drew back the thick velvet curtains letting the morning sun flood in. The light revealed a pile of magazines and pamphlets in a corner behind the door and two half-packed tea chests.

  ‘If Mrs Quinleaven lived by herself, as a recluse, she certainly hadn’t lost contact with the world.’

  ‘I don’t think she was the kind of recluse Mrs Rushworth portrays—more to do with her own guilty conscience inheriting a tidy sum from an estranged parent. The old man at the hotel reckons Mrs Quinleaven volunteered in the court house once a fortnight. She catalogued all the old newspapers and frequently wrote articles for The Maitland Mercury. She was keen on family history.’

  ‘She sounds like a fascinating woman. This must have been a beautiful house once.’

  ‘I expect Mrs Rushworth will be able to sell the property without too much of a problem.’

  People could be funny about the past, frightened to take on buildings with a history. Perhaps that was the reason Mrs Rushworth wanted to sell—she simply didn’t want to be reminded of the past. That she could understand. It had been one of her reasons for selling her parents’ house and not taking up medicine as Mother and Father had always intended she should. ‘Hopefully the money from the house will satisfy her.’

  The library was the most beautiful room with its floor to ceiling shelving and soft filtered light; she could imagine sitting in the soft leather chair reading or perhaps simply daydreaming an afternoon away. She turned to take in the view from the window and caught sight of some old newspapers and magazines tucked against the skirting board.

  ‘Right, is that it then?’

  She bent down and collected the newspapers up in her arms. ‘How are we going for time?’

  ‘What’s this lot?’

  ‘They were on the floor.’ She heaved them up onto the table and started flicking through them. A collection of copies of The Maitland Mercury and Bell’s Life in Sydney and Sporting Chronicle and some copies of The Penny Magazine of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge from England, one featuring a front page article on ‘The Ornithorhynchus Paradoxus or Water-Mole’ dated June 1835. ‘I’d love the opportunity to read this.’

  ‘Stick it inside one of those books.’ Shaw gestured to the heavy leather-bound volumes Mrs Rushworth had asked him to look at and winked at her.

  She tucked the pamphlet inside the cover and returned to the pile. There was a huge collection of The Dawn. ‘I think our Mrs Quinleaven might have been something of a suffragette.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘These.’ She flicked the pile of magazines. ‘Louisa Lawson’s publication. If it hadn’t been for her I doubt women would have the vote in New South Wales. They ought to be kept, too.’ She stacked them neatly. ‘Perhaps Mrs Rushworth would let these go.’

  ‘We’ll have to ask her.’

  Tamsin reached down for the remains of the papers. ‘Oh!’ A pain shot up her leg as her ankle twisted and she bent down to rub it and spotted the culprit. A tin.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Shaw was at her side, hands on her arms helping her to her feet.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’ She shrugged him off and stood up. ‘This must have been underneath.’ Tamsin shook the tin and it rattled. She latched her fingers around the lid and tugged. The rust caught in her fingernails but it held tight. ‘Any idea what might be in here?’ She held up the rectangular tin.

  ‘Peek Frean biscuits. Reckon they’d be well and truly stale
by now.’

  ‘I can’t get the lid off.’

  ‘Give it to me. I’ll have a go.’ Shaw rummaged in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a handful of coins then selected a shiny new sixpence and pushed the rest back. He lodged the tin against the table and wedged the coin between the lid and the base and twisted. ‘It’s stuck fast.’ He shook the tin. ‘It’s got something in it, not sure what. Doesn’t sound like biscuits.’

  ‘Have you finished in there?’ Mrs Rushworth’s voice rang down the hallway.

  Tamsin gritted her teeth. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. She grabbed the tin from Shaw and tucked it under her arm. ‘I want to take it with us as well as the copies of The Dawn and The Penny Magazine.’

  The door swung open to reveal Mrs Rushworth with the linen bag containing the sketchbook dangling precariously from the drawstring. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave now. Shaw—don’t forget we have an appointment this afternoon.’ She studied the last remaining bits and pieces on the table, handed Shaw the sketchbook then leant in to scoop up the papers on the table. ‘These can be burned. There’s no point in keeping old newspapers.’

  ‘I’d like to keep some if I may.’ The words leapt out of Tamsin’s mouth. ‘The copies of The Dawn—it’s almost a full collection.’

  ‘For goodness sake, take them. You’re turning the place into a bazaar.’

  ‘And this.’ Something about the tin drew her. ‘I collect old tins.’ She gave a wan smile. She had no idea which part of her mind the lie sprang from but she wanted it. Surely Mrs Rushworth wouldn’t refuse.

  A knock sounded on the door. ‘That’ll be the furniture dealer. I must ask you to leave.’

  They dutifully filed down the hallway, Tamsin clutching the tin and the copies of The Dawn, Shaw the linen bag with the sketchbook inside, and the four leather-bound volumes.

  ‘Thank you very much for your help, Mrs Rushworth. I’ll let you know the result of the Library’s appraisal of the sketchbook, and thank you for the tin.’

  ‘For Miss Alleyn’s collection.’ Shaw shot her one of his cheeky grins and they stepped out and left Mrs Rushworth to deal with the poor cloth-capped furniture dealer.

  Tamsin didn’t envy him. Insufferable woman. They shot down the path with their treasures like a couple of kids raiding a lolly shop and it wasn’t until they’d collapsed into his car that they burst out laughing.

  ‘That was strange, really strange. The woman gives me the shivers.’

  ‘And tins.’

  If nothing else he broke the tension, made her laugh. ‘I know it was a whopping lie. I have no idea what made me say it. I just wanted the tin. Had to have it. Probably because I couldn’t open it.’

  ‘Come on, Miss Alleyn, let’s go back to the hotel and I’ll see if I can get the lid off your consolation prize. Can you nurse these books on your lap?’

  She settled the four volumes with the papers and the sketchbook then balanced the tin on top. ‘I think you’d better call me Tamsin. Miss Alleyn sounds far too formal for a co-conspirator.’

  The moment they pulled up outside the hotel the barrel-chested man sauntered out to the car.

  ‘Any chance of using your workshop?’ Shaw asked him.

  ‘That new-fangled machine of yours broken?’

  ‘No, but I need a vice and a screwdriver or two. I have a tin I need to open.’ Shaw lifted the tin from her lap and rattled it.

  ‘Be my guest, but leave the car out here. I’d like to have a look at it.’

  ‘That’s fine. Tamsin has some things to stack in the back.’ Shaw took the sketchbook and got out from behind the wheel. ‘Why don’t you sit here and try it for size.’

  The man didn’t have to be asked twice and levered himself in, hands resting on the wheel, eyes riveted on the road ahead.

  ‘Keep an eye on him. I won’t be long,’ Shaw murmured before disappearing around the back with the tin while she stacked the four books and the papers neatly behind the passenger seat covering them with the blanket they’d used for the picnic. When she straightened up the man had taken to turning the wheel and making a series of strange noises that sounded nothing like a motor car.

  ‘Give me a horse any day.’ He yanked down on the wheel making the tyres groan. ‘Got a really hard mouth this thing.’

  Tamsin could hardly wait to get away from him. The noises coming from the workshop behind her had her mind whirling. She’d definitely heard a long drawn-out sigh and then silence. Had Shaw got the lid off the tin? The wait was driving her to distraction. The contents had almost become more important than the sketchbook. She had no idea what could be inside or where her strange affiliation with an old biscuit tin had come from. She didn’t even eat biscuits!

  With a series of grunts and groans the cantankerous man heaved himself out. ‘I don’t reckon these things’ll ever replace a horse.’ He kicked at the tyre then ambled into the hotel.

  The moment he’d gone Tamsin barrelled through the door of the shed. Shaw raised his head and raked his fingers through his hair, his eyes wide with curiosity.

  The hint of fresh sweat, motor oil and warm leather, so delightfully male, almost intimate, made her toes curl.

  ‘Success?’

  He pushed his sleeves further up above his elbows exposing the bunched muscles of his forearms and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead leaving a trace of the rust clinging to his damp skin. Then with a flourish he eased off the lid of the tin.

  ‘You got it off. What’s in it?’

  ‘I thought you’d like the first look. It’s your tin, after all.’

  Her fingers itched to touch it though she had no idea what she might find. She peered over Shaw’s shoulder at a pile of crumpled yellowed paper. ‘I wonder if we missed anything particularly important.’

  ‘Like what?’ He slid the tin across the top of the workbench and waggled his eyebrows. ‘Another sketchbook? A moth-eaten nineteenth-century platypus pelt?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She peered into the tin and plucked at the layer of paper releasing a dusty sweetness that made her nose twitch. A small package lay underneath and three handmade envelopes tied with a faded pale blue ribbon.

  ‘Letters?’ Shaw moved closer, leaning over her shoulder, his warm manly scent combining with the whispered secrets of the tin.

  Her heart skipped a beat and she wiped her hair back from her face.

  ‘We should get some gloves.’

  Tamsin toyed with the tin while Shaw delved into the linen bag containing the sketchbook. He retied the bag and made room on the workbench. ‘Here you are. Put these on.’ A ribbon of excitement laced his voice as he handed her the gloves.

  She shot a look at him from under her lashes, the sense of camaraderie filling her with a warm glow. As much as she wanted to know what was in the tin this was the moment she treasured. The anticipation. That brief few minutes when she simply didn’t know what the future held. She’d felt the same way when the first of Winton’s letters had arrived from England, and when she’d first seen the sketchbook. She pushed the gloves on and interlaced her fingers making them fit tight. ‘Ready?’

  Shaw nodded. ‘Come on. I can’t wait any longer.’

  Picking up the faded ribbon she lifted the envelopes, releasing a more intense whiff of the sweetness belonging to the biscuits that once inhabited the tin, and lowered them to the table. She plucked at the bow of the first. The ribbon fell free and she unfolded the thick piece of cartridge paper and scanned the beautiful swirling script, an artwork in itself.

  Jenifer Trevan, loving granddaughter of Granfer Tomas Trevan, May 24th, 1772—February 2nd, 1788.

  ‘Is that all?’

  She turned the piece of paper over and back. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘I was hoping for something more exciting.’ Shaw’s hand reached for the package and something snatched at Tamsin’s throat. She didn’t want him to touch it. It belonged to her—what nonsense! He had as much right as she did, more in fact. He’d introdu
ced her to Mrs Rushworth. She dropped her hand and gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. For some reason I feel possessive about the tin and its contents.’

  He chuckled. ‘It’s because you found it and now you know how I felt about the sketchbook once I’d seen it.’

  She hadn’t thought about that. Perhaps it wasn’t only Mrs Rushworth who was hesitant about allowing her to take it to Sydney; with his interest in old books he might feel the same way. ‘I’m sorry, it hadn’t occurred to me.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and took a step back from the table. ‘Come on, let’s see what else is in there. Try and keep everything in order.’

  She lifted the next envelope and placed it face down on the table. It was thicker than the last. She ran her gloved hand over it. ‘It feels like it’s padded.’ She lifted the flap of the envelope and her fingers closed over a piece of material. ‘I think it’s a handkerchief. It’s old. Look at the lace. Eighteenth, maybe nineteenth century. Beautiful.’ She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the faint scent of lavender. ‘I wonder who it belonged to. Jenifer Trevan perhaps?’ She unfolded the frail linen. ‘No, not Jenifer Trevan.’ She ran her fingers over the embroidered corner. ‘A rose and the initials CM.’

  ‘Keep going. Let’s see what else is there.’

  She slid the handkerchief back into the envelope and picked up the package, thicker than the envelope. She let the paper fall open. Wrapped in a piece of tissue paper was a daguerreotype, framed in dull red cardboard. ‘Here they are, look.’ The perfect Victorian portrait, except taken outside and not an aspidistra in sight: a man and a woman, and standing beside them two young women, their arms linked. She wiped the finger of her glove over the glass, so scratched and tarnished it was as though a group of ghosts peered back at her.

  With a frustrated sigh, she put down the daguerreotype and foraged in her skirt pocket for her spectacles.

  Shaw reached for the picture.