The Botanist’s Daughter Page 29

  ‘You can’t change the past. What’s done is done,’ said Ed, inadvertently echoing Florence’s words as they talked later that day. He’d invited Anna to his home for dinner. ‘Come and meet Ella. She’s dying to find out about my mysterious new Australian friend.’

  His house wasn’t far from Kew, and was in the middle of a smartly kept terrace of pristine white houses with neat front gardens, each with a dazzling display of summer flowers – in one were rose bushes, heavy with blooms, in another, digitalis rose behind sweet William and delicate white fleabane, and yet another featured scarlet geraniums blooming in terracotta pots. Ed’s garden was a scented mass of sage, rosemary and thyme. She also noticed a circular bed of calendula, hyssop and angelica – healing plants, all of them. She rubbed the soft flowering spike of a lavender bush as she passed, inhaling the calming scent, before knocking at the door.

  There was a pounding of feet from within, and the door opened to reveal a girl, about eleven or twelve years old Anna guessed, with long, dark hair and her father’s blue eyes. Ed appeared behind her in the doorway.

  ‘Anna!’ he said welcoming her in. ‘Anna, this is Ella.’

  ‘Hello,’ the girl said. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. We’ve been cooking especially.’

  Anna sniffed – the unmistakable aroma of a roasting chicken. ‘Yum. Are you a good cook, Ella?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Pretty good. We made pudding too. My favourite.’

  ‘Well, I am in for a treat,’ said Anna as Ella took hold of her hand and pulled her along the hallway into the house. Anna’s shoulders relaxed in relief that the little girl seemed so pleased to see her. She knew from her own nieces that tween girls could be some of the hardest to figure out: at times caught up in a world of their own creation, yet at others undeniably sweet and sociable.

  Ed poured her a glass of wine and they sat in a cosy kitchen at the back of the house. French doors were open onto a strip of back garden, which included a small vegetable patch, and Ella, having quizzed Anna about Australia, soon wandered off to play outside.

  ‘Cheers,’ Ed said, clinking his glass to hers. ‘So, how did you get on with Hal?’

  Anna filled him in.

  ‘Heavens above. Well, what a story.’ He shook his head as if regretting the loss of such a powerful plant.

  ‘There’s something else.’ Anna paused. ‘I have a dried specimen. And some seeds. Datura niger.’

  Ed, who had opened the oven, nearly dropped the roasting dish he was holding. ‘What? You’re kidding! Really? How?’

  ‘They were in the box with the drawings and the diary. I’m almost certain that’s what they are.’

  ‘Oh good lord,’ he said. ‘Did you bring them with you?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘No. They’re still in Sydney. I wasn’t sure whether quarantine rules would even let me bring them, and at the time it didn’t seem important. But Ed, there’s something else.’

  ‘There is?’ he said, putting the roasting dish down on the kitchen benchtop.

  ‘Uh huh.’ She paused to let the importance of her words sink in. ‘Ed, I planted a few of those seeds. Thought it couldn’t hurt.’

  ‘Don’t tell me …’

  ‘Yup. I spoke to Mum this morning. She’s been watering my plants while I’m away. I asked her about the pot of soil on my balcony. I’d particularly asked her to water it as well. She said there were green shoots.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Deadly serious.’

  ‘Do you know what you’ve done, Jenkins?’

  She gave him a quick grin. ‘Pretty good, huh?’

  ‘I’d say so. I’ve heard of old seeds being propagated after years, of course, but still …’

  ‘I know, right?’ Anna, too, was incredulous.

  Ed looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Did you plant them all? How many were there?’

  ‘Only about half of them. Hal’s going to help me arrange to airfreight the rest over to Kew. It’s only taken a hundred and thirty-odd years to get them there, but I’d like to think that Elizabeth Trebithick and her father would be pleased that they’re finally going to make it.’

  ‘Good lord,’ he said again. ‘I can barely believe it.’

  An acrid smell of burning emanated from the stovetop. ‘Er, Ed,’ said Anna, ‘I think the vegetables might have boiled dry.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ He took the lid off the saucepan and looked miserably at the contents.

  ‘Why don’t I go and pick some lettuce for a salad, with Ella?’ Anna suggested.

  ‘I rather think that might be wise.’

  Later, after Ella had been dispatched to bed, they lingered over the dregs of the bottle of wine. ‘So, what’s next for you then, Jenkins?’ he asked. ‘I expect you’ll be off to Europe?’ He looked downcast at the prospect.

  Anna shook her head. ‘Actually, I’ve had a change of plan. I’m going to go back down to Cornwall. Florence has offered me her spare room and I think she’d like the company. Believe it or not, I’ve wangled a job for the summer working in the gardens at Trebithick, volunteer basis only. I feel as if I need more time there. And the experience will be useful. I’m keen to learn more about the plants that thrive down there and what’s involved in looking after such a large estate.’

  Ed brightened. ‘So, you’re not leaving our shores just yet?’

  ‘Nope,’ she replied. ‘Think you might want to come down for another visit? Bring Ella with you this time?’ Hope that he might say yes thrummed through her and she held her breath, waiting for his answer.

  ‘I think that can certainly be arranged, Jenkins.’

  They grinned foolishly at each other.

  Chapter Fifty

  SYDNEY, 1888

  Marguerite gripped the rail and tried to still the mass of butterflies ready to take flight in her stomach. She could rightly be considered a veteran of ocean travel now, but her nerves were as taut as they had been on her first voyage, nearly two years earlier. The smell of the land reached out to greet her, of earth and industry and growing things and she breathed it in deeply, steadying herself against the ship’s railing.

  As dawn broke over the horizon the ship sailed into the glorious harbour, the one she’d been told about, had dreamed of during those long days at sea. The ship rolled in the swell as it entered the heads, and then turned to starboard, towards a small crescent of sand. Marguerite could make out several low buildings, the roofs of which were barely visible through the thick vegetation. The quarantine station. Where incoming migrants were screened for disease, their belongings fumigated and their bodies scrupulously cleansed.

  As she stepped onto the rickety jetty, she raised the small soft bundle in her arms up to the buildings that hunkered on the water’s edge. ‘How’s that, little Lily, eh? What a sight for sore eyes.’ She was sure they had travelled far enough to be safe.

  The baby blew bubbles from her Cupid’s bow lips and blinked her bright blue eyes at Marguerite. Coffee-brown curls escaped from her bonnet and shone like mahogany in the sunlight. A smile dimpled her cheeks. Marguerite hugged the baby tight to her, humming ‘Hush little baby’ under her breath. Together, they had survived, and she wasn’t about to let her go. They had new names in this new land and they would be safe. No one would find them. Marguerite would make sure of it.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  CORNWALL, SUMMER 2017

  Anna woke early on her first morning at Trevone. It was three miles to Trebithick, and Florence had lent her an old boneshaker of a bicycle to get there and back, but she reckoned that after her experience in Richmond Park, she was capable of wrangling even a recalcitrant steed with wobbly steering.

  Before she left London, she’d Skyped her mum and her sister, filling them in on everything that had happened since she’d been in England. ‘I can’t believe you’ve solved the mystery,’ Vanessa had said. ‘Well done, you.’

  ‘Congratulations darling,’ her mother had said. ‘I’m really proud of you for seeing it t
hrough. What an extraordinary story. Without your persistence we might never have known that part of our history.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact of bringing a plant back from extinction – and one with such potential,’ added Vanessa. ‘That’s just amazing.’

  Anna told them of her plans to stay on for a few months and work at Trebithick, the excitement clear in her voice.

  ‘Sounds like a terrific idea. You sound almost like your old self,’ said her mum.

  There had even been a ‘Good on you’ in the background from Harvey. ‘Are you sure he’s feeling all right?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Oh, him?’ Vanessa had answered. ‘He’s on his second glass of shiraz and the Wallabies look like they might finally beat the All Blacks.’

  ‘Right.’

  She’d called them again on arriving in Cornwall, only to discover that they had some news of their own.

  ‘We’re coming over to see you!’ said Vanessa. ‘Me, Mum, Harvey and the girls. End of August. It’s all organised. We’ve booked a place in Port Isaac – it’s really close to where you are, at least I think it is.’

  Anna nodded. ‘It is. But what about school?’ she asked. ‘And their activities? Fleur’s ballet?’

  ‘Oh, I think a few weeks off might be good for all of us,’ replied Vanessa. ‘Besides, I want them to know about this part of their history.’

  Anna couldn’t wait to see them, to introduce them to Florence, and perhaps also to Ed, who was coming to visit in a few weeks’ time.

  As she sailed along the narrow lane towards the house in the cool of the early morning, she smiled to herself. The wind rushed through her hair and she revelled in the smell of the salt air and the sounds of the sea and the sharp cries of seagulls as they hovered over the cliffs. The lane was thick with grasses, nettles and brambles, and wind-bent trees formed a green tunnel over her head. At one point she was forced to throw herself onto the tall hedge on the side of the road as a truck passed her with an insistent beep of its horn.

  She made it to Trebithick Hall in one piece, if rather flustered, and parked her bicycle around the back of the old stables next to a number of others, some even more decrepit than her own. She walked towards the gardens, stopping to run her hands over the sundial, its familiar raised relief of herbs worn by more than a hundred winters.

  ‘Ah, Anna, there you are.’ It was Richard Allen, the head gardener. When she’d returned to Trebithick on her last visit, she’d sought him out and on discovering her love and knowledge of plants, he’d kindly given her a personal tour of the estate. She hadn’t mentioned her connection to the Hall, but he had joked that if she ever wanted a job, she could contact him. It was exactly what she’d had in mind.

  ‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ And it was. The sun was already warming the air and the sky was a cloudless periwinkle blue.

  ‘Ready to get stuck in?’ he said, handing her a pair of gloves.

  She nodded happily.

  ‘I’ve paired you up with Jamie. He’ll show you the ropes. Jamie!’ he called, putting a hand to his mouth.

  Anna looked in the direction of his shout as a man emerged from the greenhouse.

  ‘Jamie. This is Anna. I’d like you to help her out today.’

  ‘Anna. Jamie Chegwidden.’

  Anna stumbled backwards, looking up into a pair of the blackest eyes she had ever seen.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The story told in this book came to me as the result of a couple of events: a sultry afternoon in Sydney’s Royal Botanic Garden, long a favourite place, where I ran my hands along the beautiful sundial there and was suddenly transported to an English walled garden, imagining where a similar such sundial might be fixed. Then, several months later, I visited Kew Gardens, and the wonderful Marianne North Gallery, hung from floor to ceiling with her extraordinary oils, depicting the flora of the many countries to which she travelled. I began to wonder what the life of an adventurous lady botanist must have been like, and so my story began. Two years later, I was at Kew again, and found the exhibition of botanical art from Dr Shirley Sherwood’s collection, together with an exhibition of the work and letters of Joseph Hooker. It was also instructive to read the transcripts of his letters and of his travels and travails as a nineteenth-century plant-hunter.

  Any errors in imagining late-nineteenth century Cornwall and Chile are my own. I found Maria Graham’s, a sea captain’s widow, Journal of a Residence in Chile, During the Year 1822 invaluable and drew heavily upon her accounts and descriptions of Valparaiso in the nineteenth century. Kate Forsyth, a historical fiction author and whom I very much admire, very generously gave me advice on tackling a dual timeline story. I am also very grateful to Varuna, The Writers’ House, in the New South Wales Blue Mountains, for the chance to spend a precious, uninterrupted week stitching the two narratives together.

  Thanks also go to my agent, Margaret Connolly, for her continual encouragement and belief in my writing, and without whom I would not be writing these words or all of the others that make up this story. To Richard, for his fearless driving along the winding Cornish lanes. To Andy, Becky and Mercedes for being such positive early readers and to Taryn the most honest critique partner I could wish for. Finally, I could not be luckier to have such a thoughtful, intelligent and enthusiastic publisher in Rebecca Saunders. Indeed, the entire team at Hachette Australia, including Fiona, Justin, Louise, Karen and Alana, have been so incredibly supportive and generous and I am very lucky to have found a home there.

  Read on for an extract from Katye Nunn’s next novel of transporting historical fiction …

  1951. Esther Durrant, a young mother, is committed to an isolated mental asylum by her husband. The hospital is at first Esther’s prison but soon becomes her refuge.

  2018. Free-spirited marine biologist Rachel Parker discovers a collection of hidden love letters, and is determined to track down the intended recipient.

  2018. Meanwhile Eve is helping her grandmother, a renowned mountaineer, write her memoirs. When Rachel contacts her, secrets kept buried for more than sixty years resurface …

  A gothic, impossible love story full of intrigue – perfect for fans of Elizabeth Gilbert and Kate Morton.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London and Little Embers, Autumn 1951

  It wasn’t their usual destination for a holiday and the timing was hardly ideal. John and Esther Durrant generally took a week in Eastbourne or Brighton in the final week of August, so the far south-west tip of England was an odd choice, even more so considering it was early November. John, however, had been adamant. ‘It’ll do you good,’ he said to his wife, in a tone of false jollity, when he suggested – no, insisted on – the trip. ‘Put some colour back in your cheeks. Sea air.’ Never mind that a bitter cold gripped the nation with the kind of weather that you wouldn’t put the cat out in and Esther couldn’t have felt less like a week away even had she spent the previous year down a coal mine. She also didn’t understand why they were leaving Teddy behind with the nanny, but she couldn’t begin to summon the necessary enthusiasm for an argument.

  Before catching the train south, they dined at a restaurant near Paddington station. Esther wasn’t hungry, but she allowed John to decide for her nonetheless. After a brief perusal of the menu and dispatching their order to the black-clad, white-aproned waitress, he unfurled his Telegraph and spent the time before the arrival of their food absorbed in its pages. Winston Churchill and the Conservative Party had been returned to power she saw, noticing the headline on the front page. John was pleased, although privately she believed Mr Churchill terribly old and probably not up to the job. They didn’t discuss politics anymore, for they saw the world quite differently, she had come to realise.

  Esther managed a little of the soup that arrived in due course, and half a bread roll, while John cleared his dish and several glasses of claret. Then Dover sole and tiny turned vegetables, all of which he ate with gusto while she pushed the peas and batons of car
rot around on her plate, pretending to eat. Her husband made no comment.

  Esther declined dessert but John, it appeared, had appetite enough for both of them and polished off a slice of steamed pudding made with precious rationed sugar and a generous dollop of custard. He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we make our way to the train, my dear?’ he asked, wiping the bristles of his moustache on a starched napkin. She couldn’t help but be reminded of an otter who’d just had a fish supper: sleek, replete and satisfied with himself. He was wearing the dark suit – his favourite – and the tie she’d given him several birthdays ago, when she had been expecting Teddy and the future felt as if it were the merest outline, a sketch, waiting for them to paint it in bold and vivid colours. Something to look forward to, not to fear.

  She nodded and he rose and reached for her hand, helping her to her feet. It was a short walk from the restaurant to the station, but Esther was glad of her thick coat and gloves. She’d not ventured from the house in weeks – the November weather had been simply ghastly – and she shivered as she felt the wind slice through her outer garments and numb the tip of her nose and lips.

  They entered the cavernous terminal and Esther was almost overwhelmed by the bustle and noise, the hissing of the giant steam engines and the raucous cries of porters as they effortlessly manoeuvred unwieldy barrows top-heavy with luggage. It was as if they were part of the opening scene of a play, the moments before the main characters take the stage. She might once have enjoyed the spectacle, found the purposeful activity invigorating, but today she gripped John’s arm as he steered her towards Platform One. ‘We’ll be there in a jiffy,’ he said, reassuring her.

  Everywhere she looked, lapels were splashed with poppies, blood-red against dark suits. A brief frown creased the pale skin of her forehead as it took her a moment to place them. Then she remembered: it would soon be Armistice Day. The terror, uncertainty and deprivations of the recent war were a scarlet tattoo on every Englishman and woman’s breast.