The Botanist’s Daughter Page 27

  Florence looked intrigued as she took the book that Anna offered her, placing her glasses on the end of her nose and peering down at it. ‘Oh my dear, I can barely see this, the ink is so faint. Would you mind reading it aloud?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Anna. ‘“My mistress Elizabeth …”’

  Florence’s eyes widened in shock.

  ‘“… made me swear to take care of Lily should any ill befall her. Of course, I never did imagine that I should have to fulfil this promise.”’

  ‘Oh my dear,’ Florence interrupted. ‘Can this be true?’ The old lady’s rheumy eyes appeared to water as she wiped them with her sleeve. The two women looked at each other. There were no words.

  Anna heard the buzzing of the bees in the flowers and the cry of a bird overhead. Time seemed to stand still.

  ‘Can it really, possibly be true?’ Florence repeated.

  ‘I think it must,’ said Anna.

  Chapter Forty-six

  CORNWALL, SUMMER 2017

  Anna poured tea for them both and waited for Florence’s questions. She had barely taken a sip when they came tumbling forth.

  ‘Your family in Australia? Your grandmother?’

  ‘My grandmother was called Gus – Augusta,’ replied Anna. ‘Her mother I never knew, but she was called Lily. I am certain that this is the same Lily who came with Marguerite to Australia in the 1880s.’

  ‘Then we are related,’ said Florence, a trace of wonder in her voice. ‘Branches of the same tree, separated by a hemisphere.’

  ‘Yes, I think we must be,’ said Anna.

  ‘Do you have brothers, sisters … your mother and father?’

  ‘My mother, Eleanor, was Granny Gus’s only child – and I’ve a sister, Vanessa, she has three children, Fleur, Ivy and Jasmine … I know, the floral thing seems to be a bit of a theme in the family, one way or another,’ she laughed. ‘My dad isn’t around, though – he died when I was little.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna. Do you have children yourself? I never thought to ask.’

  ‘No, no I don’t.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of time,’ the old lady replied, ‘though you may prefer not to. I certainly did, although now I wonder if that was the right choice. And, well, I found I rather preferred my own company. But,’ she beamed at Anna, ‘how absolutely splendid that I now find I have a cousin. Albeit several times removed.’

  ‘I suppose you do.’ It was almost, in a strange way, as if she had a part of Granny Gus back. ‘Although it feels as though you should be a kind of great-aunt.’

  ‘You know, you have quite the look of her,’ said Florence. ‘I meant to mention it earlier, but it seemed like simply the fancy of an old woman.’

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘Augusta. The portrait in the house. You’re almost the spitting image of her.’

  ‘You may be right. I thought I was seeing things when first I looked at the painting,’ admitted Anna. ‘But Ed mentioned it too.’

  ‘Well, I think this calls for something stronger than tea. Will you have a nip of whisky with me, Anna?’

  Anna smiled. ‘I will indeed.’

  Two glasses later, Anna began to feel a little woozy as the sun rose higher in the sky and the heat began to build. There had been something niggling at the back of her mind ever since she’d read the diary and realised that Marguerite/Daisy had brought Lily to Australia. ‘I’ve been wondering,’ she said to Florence. ‘Who the man was that threatened her, and why she never went back to Cornwall.’

  ‘And never returned Lily to her family?’ Florence asked.

  ‘Yes. It seems odd that she didn’t. I mean, I know from what her diary says that she feared for her life; but you would have thought that she would one day bring her back, or at least tell Lily.’

  ‘Don’t forget what a long way it was to travel in those days – the voyage took months and not everyone survived it. Not like today where you can jump on a plane and be there in a day. Anyway, maybe she loved Lily as if she were her own and after a while couldn’t begin to think of letting her go. Did she marry in Sydney?’

  ‘Yes, she did. She mentions a man in the diary that she liked – a carpenter called Joseph Bailey. She married him.’

  ‘Well, maybe that was another reason she didn’t want to leave. She’d made a new life for herself. And don’t forget, back in England she was a servant and probably always would have been. In Australia she could create a whole new life for herself; there were far fewer boundaries.’

  ‘Yes, but what a secret to take to your grave,’ Anna mused. ‘It must have been awful.’

  ‘We all have regrets we have to live with, but I agree, this might have weighed very heavily on her conscience.’

  ‘I mean, she lived a lie her whole life,’ said Anna.

  ‘What’s done is done, my dear, and there’s no point in trying to make it otherwise. Now, I think I might need a rest if you don’t mind,’ said Florence getting unsteadily to her feet. ‘Be right as rain after that, though. Would you care to stay to dinner? I’ve a bit of steak in the fridge and a nice bottle of red I’ve been saving for a special occasion.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Anna. ‘But perhaps I should leave and give you a chance to nap?’

  ‘Take my car, my dear. In fact,’ she said, ‘you are welcome to borrow it until tomorrow. I’m not very good after dark.’

  Anna breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t be subjected to Florence’s driving again, especially not after a few glasses of whisky. ‘If you’re sure, then that would be very kind.’

  Anna spent the afternoon exploring some of the local villages, charmed by ancient stone and slate houses that huddled into the landscape, as if sheltering from the wind blowing off the ocean. As she walked she tried to imagine growing up on this rocky, wild coastline; what sort of a person she might have been. All a bit silly really, because she wouldn’t exist if Daisy had returned to Cornwall with Lily. She eventually came to the conclusion that Daisy/Marguerite couldn’t be all to blame, and that she had at least preserved Elizabeth’s sketchbook and her own diary; a trail of crumbs that had led Anna to solve the mystery, and brought her to Cornwall. What was it that Fleur was always belting out at the top of her voice? ‘Let it go … let it go …’ Perhaps it was time for her to do some letting go of her own.

  Her thoughts turned to Ed and she pulled out her phone to call him. It rang through to his voicemail but she didn’t leave a message. She’d try again later. She found herself missing his good-natured teasing, not to mention the lopsided smile that made her stomach somersault whenever he directed it at her.

  Florence looked delighted to see her again when she opened the front door, and hugged her warmly. ‘Hello, Anna dear,’ she said.

  ‘There’s something else, something I read in the diary,’ Anna said as they took a seat out in the garden again. ‘I forgot to mention it earlier.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘The name of the man who threatened Marguerite – Daisy. His surname was Chegwibben or Chegwidden. She seemed especially concerned about him. She mentions that she feared he would hunt her down and harm her and Lily. That she was concerned about where he might be.’

  ‘Chegwidden, most likely. It’s not that uncommon a surname in Cornwall. I know a family of that name. Not far from here. If I recall correctly, I had a couple of the girls go through the school. Wild girls, but likeable nonetheless. I always thought they could have done better than they did.’

  ‘You don’t think it could be the same family?’

  Florence shrugged. ‘More likely than you might think. Come on, why don’t we Google it?’ She disappeared into the house.

  Anna hid her surprise when Florence returned with a slim, silver laptop.

  ‘Now, what was his first name?’

  ‘Damien. With an e.’

  Florence’s gnarled fingers skipped over the keyboard. ‘Computer lessons at the village hall,’ she explained, noticing Anna’s impressed expression. ‘Ah, there’s a Re
verend Arthur Chegwidden … no … a Daniel Chegwidden wanted for a pub brawl …’

  ‘Why don’t you put in a bit more information?’ suggested Anna. ‘Damien Chegwidden and the word “plants” or “botany” perhaps?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s an idea. Okay, here we go.’ She double-clicked and then began to read. ‘This is from a historical site, something about botanical scandals of England. Ooh, this could be good …’

  Anna leant over to read alongside her. ‘Damien Chegwidden, born 1852, died 1893, arrested and found guilty of smuggling seeds. Died in Bodmin Gaol of causes unknown.’

  ‘Oh goodness. Is there anything more?’

  Anna waited a moment as she read on. ‘Nope. That’s it. How disappointing.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘I know, what if I went to Bodmin Gaol? Surely they’d have records? We might find out some more from those?’

  ‘Anna dear, I hate to disappoint you, but the place is now a ruin. There haven’t been prisoners incarcerated there since the 1920s. But hang on a second, I’ve got an idea.’ Florence stomped off back into the house again.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said, returning with a battered White Pages. ‘Chegwidden C … Claire was her name, I’m almost certain of it. Happily it would seem she’s not married and taken another surname. It has to be her. Pass me your phone and I’ll give her a call.’

  Anna was dubious about the plan, but duly handed over her mobile and watched while Florence dialled.

  She listened as someone answered and Florence made plans for the following morning. Anna could scarcely believe her ears. Was everything here so intertwined?

  ‘Now, are you hungry, my dear?’ Florence asked, handing her back the phone with a look of satisfaction on her face.

  ‘Miss Deverell. I must say I was surprised to get your call last night.’ The woman standing in front of Anna and Florence had a baby on one hip and a toddler hiding behind her skirts eyeing them with as much curiosity as his mother. She held a ragged piece of tissue in one hand, wiping the baby’s nose, before turning and ushering them in.

  ‘You are very kind to see us, Claire,’ said Florence as they walked along the hallway.

  ‘It must be more than fifteen years ago. I can’t say I was the best of students,’ she said, a note of apology in her round Cornish vowels.

  ‘Yours was my last year. I remember it well.’

  ‘Aye. I’d not much use for school by then.’ She led them into a small, bright kitchen and shifted the baby into a highchair, fetching him a sippy cup. The toddler disappeared into what looked to be a sitting room, and soon the sounds of cartoons burbled in the background. ‘Perhaps I should have done. Might not have ended up on my own with two little ’uns.’

  ‘There’s always time, Claire.’ The schoolteacher in Florence was still evident.

  Claire shrugged. ‘You think? With these two under my feet?’ She looked at the baby, who was banging his cup on the tray of the highchair.

  ‘This is my— er, my friend, Anna, from Australia,’ said Florence.

  Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve come a long way. Can I get you both some tea? You’ll have to have it black, though. Milk’s run out.’

  Anna and Florence shook their heads.

  ‘We won’t keep you long,’ said Florence. ‘Anna is here doing some research for a history project. I’m helping her out with it.’

  ‘Oh, and what does that have to do with me?’

  ‘Well, she mentioned that one of the people she is researching was a man called Damien Chegwidden.’

  The woman’s eyebrows lifted even higher at the sound of her own surname.

  ‘He lived in the late 1800s, and it seems he was imprisoned in Bodmin Gaol.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I know the story well.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Anna.

  ‘Aye. The blackest of black sheep in the family. My dad used to like to joke about it. Said if we weren’t careful we’d end up no better than Great-great-great Uncle Damien, rotting in prison. Used to scare me silly.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ asked Anna.

  ‘From what I know of it, he was a thief.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that,’ said Anna. ‘Stealing seeds? It hardly seems such a heinous crime.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Claire, relishing her story. ‘Apparently in those days there was a great deal of money in bringing seeds and plants from across the world back to England. Cornwall was known as a place where rare plants were grown and sold to gardeners throughout the country. Anyway, according to Dad, who heard it from his grandfather, Damien Chegwidden became caught up in a seed-smuggling racket in South America.’

  Anna and Florence exchanged the briefest of looks.

  ‘Apparently – though no one knows for sure – he was killed while he was in gaol. What did you say you were looking into him for?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a project on plant-hunters in the nineteenth century for …’ Anna thought quickly. ‘For uni. Finding out about Damien Chegwidden is a small piece of the puzzle. But an interesting one nonetheless.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased I could help … oh Christ!’ she yelled as the baby tipped water all over himself, soaking his towelling playsuit. ‘I’ve only just changed him.’

  ‘We really shouldn’t keep you,’ said Florence. ‘But here’s my number.’ She handed Claire a piece of paper. ‘I’d be happy to help you with any further study, point you in the right direction. As a thank you, if you like. You showed promise.’

  ‘I did?’ Claire seemed pleased with the compliment.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  CORNWALL AND LONDON, SUMMER 2017

  ‘Thank you, Anna,’ said Florence as Anna drove them away – after the previous nerve-shredding experience Anna had insisted on it.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For not telling Claire that Damien Chegwidden was most likely a murderer as well as a thief.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would have served any purpose. She might have got defensive. After all, he was a relation of hers, however distant. And it seemed he got his just deserts.’

  ‘You’re a perceptive girl, Anna. Sometimes the truth does no one any favours.’

  ‘But it was my search for the truth that brought me to you.’

  Florence smiled at her. ‘It was, and I’m very glad of that. You have solved a mystery, but, more importantly, given me the ‘satisfaction of knowing that the Trebithick line will carry on after me, even if it is on the other side of the world. It is more comfort than you can know. I have carried the burden of thinking I was the last for so long. It is good to be able to cast it off.’

  Anna nodded. She was beginning to understand the relief that came with the throwing off of burdens.

  ‘I suppose I should return to London,’ said Anna, feeling sad at the prospect. She had come to love the wild beauty of the Cornish coast, even after such a short stay, and it would be a wrench to leave so soon.

  ‘Your young man will no doubt be missing you,’ said Florence.

  ‘My young man? Oh, you mean Ed? He’s not my “young man” as you call it. We actually don’t really know each other that well.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Florence clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘He certainly looked like he was very keen on you.’

  Anna went pink at the suggestion. ‘Anyway, I’m only here for a few weeks,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve a home and a business to return to.’ All of a sudden her lonely flat didn’t seem quite so appealing.

  ‘You never did say what it is you do in Sydney.’

  ‘I’m a gardener. Well, that is, I have my own horticulture business.’

  ‘Now, that doesn’t come as too much of a surprise – you come from a long line of those with their hands in the soil one way or another.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do. My grandmother taught me the thrill of growing things. You would have liked her, I know it.’

  ‘I’m sure I would have, my dear.’

  Anna pulled up in the
car park of the Smugglers Arms. ‘Lunch. My shout,’ she insisted. ‘It’s the least I can do after all your help.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Florence, ‘it’s been absolutely fascinating. Given an old stick like me something to focus on other than the church flowers. Not to mention that I’ve got a new relative – cousin or great-niece, I don’t care which.’

  Despite her assertion, she agreed to Anna’s invitation and they feasted on sausage rolls and crisp, cold beer, as Anna told Florence all about Vanessa and the girls, even about Harvey, who somehow didn’t seem quite so obnoxious from a distance. When they had finished, Anna hugged Florence farewell but she found it hard to let go, not knowing when or if she would see her again.

  ‘Off you go, then. Come on, don’t get all sentimental on me. Can’t stand that stuff,’ said Florence gruffly as Anna released her.

  The last Anna saw of the old lady was the back of her head, barely visible over the driver’s seat of her car as it careered around a bend in the narrow lane. On the wrong side of the road. The woman must have nine lives thought Anna, smiling in amusement.

  Anna returned to her room and swapped her sandals for trainers. She was booked on the London train late that afternoon, but before she left, she wanted to visit Trebithick Hall one final time. She had a plan that was taking shape in her mind, and she wanted to talk to the head gardener to see if, rather than a flight of fancy, it might be a possibility. The house was only a few miles away and she welcomed the exercise.

  Arriving in Paddington late that evening, tired and travel-weary, she splurged on a taxi to Richmond. It was nearly midnight when she retrieved the key her Airbnb host had left out for her and crept, as quietly as possible, up the stairs to her room. She wanted to call her mum, but she couldn’t risk the sound of her voice waking the sleeping household. She’d rung Ed before boarding the train, and had arranged to meet him the following afternoon after work. ‘We’ll go for a ride through Richmond Park,’ he’d suggested and rang off before she had a chance to say that she hadn’t ridden a bike since she was a kid. Spin classes didn’t really count.