The Botanist’s Daughter Read online

  As they gathered their things to leave, Jane hung back with Anna, letting Noah go ahead of them. ‘Anna,’ she began, ‘I never got the chance to say how sorry I was about Simon.’

  Anna raised a hand to stop her saying anything further. ‘It’s fine. Really. A long time ago now.’

  Jane took the hint. The truth was, it was still far from fine, but Anna had no desire to dredge up the past, not with anyone.

  When they caught up with Noah, he pressed a piece of paper into her hand. ‘It’s my email address.’ Anna worried for a moment that he might be angling for a date. She’d noticed a speculative look in his eyes that indicated interest in not only the watercolours. ‘Drop me a line and I’ll dig out the details of the person I think might be able to shed some more light on this.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ she said. ‘Um. Thanks.’

  ‘I knew it was a good idea to bring him along.’ Jane said slyly as they departed.

  Anna walked back alone through the gardens, enjoying the peace and stillness away from the crowded city streets. She tried not to think about the times she and Simon had spent there, the lazy picnics in the shade of the enormous spreading Moreton Bay fig trees, strolling hand in hand across the gardens’ hidden bridges, talking, debating and finally kissing to the backdrop of the lotus pond, but they almost seemed imprinted on the landscape. It had been one of their favourite places in Sydney, and she’d not been back in years. For good reason.

  As if of their own accord, her steps took her through the rose garden, its flush of blooms now fading with the onset of cooler weather. Gussie had loved roses more than anything but had always struggled to grow them in her tiny backyard. Sydney just didn’t offer the right climate for them.

  She reached the bronze sundial at the centre of the herb garden and ran her fingers along its raised surface, noticing the faint line of dirt under her nails, dirt that she could never quite scrub away. She traced the engravings of oregano, mint, parsley and, of course, rosemary. ‘For remembrance,’ she whispered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  VALPARAISO, 1887

  ‘Oh Daisy!’ said Elizabeth as the maid entered her cabin to help her pack on the morning of their arrival into Valparaiso. ‘I feel as if a thousand butterflies are milling around in my stomach. Now we shall begin the exploration in earnest.’

  ‘Yes, we shall,’ replied her maid, though her voice bore none of the excitement of her mistress’s.

  Elizabeth looked carefully at her. ‘You will miss this, won’t you?’ Elizabeth understood that for Daisy, leaving behind their friends on the ship would be a wrench.

  Daisy nodded. ‘Mr Williamson informs me that they shall be in Brazil and Argentina for several months, but that they will return to Valparaiso in due course.’

  ‘Well, then I am sure this is not the last you shall see of him,’ said Elizabeth brightly. Inwardly she was happy that they at least would be gone for some time and that Daisy’s friendship with Mr Williamson was to be nipped in the bud.

  Daisy said nothing as she busied herself folding and stowing away her mistress’s garments.

  Elizabeth smelled land as soon as she walked out of her cabin and onto the deck. It was the scent of vegetation, of earth and wood smoke and even the faint stench of sewage, but to her, after months at sea, it was as if the sweetest perfume was borne on the breeze towards her. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. At last! The real purpose of her journey could begin.

  Peering into the distance, she could see the small port, and a mass of ships – there must have been three score or more – including what looked to be a navy frigate. There was a strong onshore wind and so Valparaiso soon hove more clearly into view. The port town sprawled at the foot of steep cliffs, with a number of long, low stone buildings with regularly spaced windows set on gently curving, wide cobbled streets above the shoreline and whitewashed houses with red-tiled roofs scattered on the plain above. As well as the ships already at anchor, there were numerous boats no bigger than rowboats closer in. ‘Why, that part of it looks so like a Cornish fishing village!’ Elizabeth exclaimed in surprise. After sailing nearly halfway around the world, she had been expecting something considerably more exotic.

  ‘Land ahoy, eh, Miss Elizabeth?’ The voice behind her was that of Mr Windsor. ‘You’ll be pleased to get back on dry land, I’d wager?’

  ‘Oh yes. I have a letter of introduction to the Consul-General, a Mr Fraser, in Santiago. Though I confess, he will be expecting my father, not me. Are you by any chance acquainted with him?’

  Mr Windsor shook his head. ‘No, though his reputation has him as a fine man.’

  ‘Oh, that is good to hear,’ she replied. ‘I think we shall stay awhile in Valparaiso first before continuing to Santiago.’

  ‘A sensible plan, Miss Elizabeth. For just as it took you a while to become accustomed to the ship, so you will have to find your feet on land again.’

  Several hours after anchoring, and as she had watched with fascination the throngs of people who arrived to greet the ship, Jose, a manservant of a Mr Campbell met Elizabeth on board. He had been expecting her father, but nonetheless informed her that he would be pleased to escort her to her lodging. Daisy stayed on board to organise their belongings and Elizabeth was rowed ashore in a small boat, then continued on foot along a dusty road. Elizabeth felt almost giddy at the feel of solid ground beneath her boots and her disappointment at being a poor sailor, which had haunted her throughout the long days at sea, soon disappeared as she eagerly drank in the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the town. The landscape formed a natural amphitheatre, like the ones she had seen in books about Roman times, with rectangular buildings, some with columns and colonnades, as well as gracious squares filled with fountains and flowers on the flat ground surrounding the bay, and then further up, smaller dwellings arranged up the narrow streets that snaked up the hillside and on the plain that sat above this. ‘There you will see the ascensor, the Concepcion. It was completed barely three years ago,’ explained the manservant, pointing to a box-like carriage above which stretched a ratcheted railway.

  She looked up at its fearful steepness and then back towards the bay. In the distance she could see the Corcovado, its masts now bare of sail. The sudden realisation of how far she and Daisy had travelled hit her like a punch to the solar plexus and momentarily stole the breath from her lungs.

  There was no time to dwell on such matters, however, as they soon reached the lodgings her father had arranged. The house was the home of an English merchant and his wife, the Campbells, who had settled in the port some ten years earlier. They were the proprietors of a general store, the town’s largest, Elizabeth’s father had told her, as well as taking in occasional lodgers.

  As they arrived, Jose whispered in the ear of a broad, rose-cheeked woman who came to greet them. Elizabeth heard her father’s name mentioned.

  ‘Oh my dear!’ Mrs Campbell favoured a similar bright plumage to the birds that Elizabeth had seen on her journey to the house and almost completely filled the narrow passageway. ‘I must confess, we were expecting Mr Trebithick. But how delightful that his daughter – for he spoke of you and your sister often – has made the journey to visit this fair country.’ She beamed at Elizabeth, who felt the warmth of her welcome and was immediately grateful for it. ‘Come, come, you must be exhausted merely from the walk here. And you look as though you would blow away in the first gust of wind. Such a slip of a thing! And you’ve come all this way on your own, you say?’

  ‘Well, there is my maid, who will travel up from the ship shortly,’ replied Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes, yes, our man will see her safely here, along with your trunks. But now – food!’ Mrs Campbell clapped her hands together. ‘We must eat,’ she said as she led the way through to a courtyard. The home was a modest but clean mudbrick dwelling, with four sides facing the courtyard in which they now stood. Within it grew such a variety of plants as Elizabeth had ever seen: white roses, carnations, lobelias, mimosas, even sweet peas
tumbling over each other in vigorous abandon. At one end was a herb garden, and Elizabeth recognised rue, fennel, caraway, sage, thyme and mint. Through a doorway at the rear of the courtyard she could see a grove of olive and lemon trees and on the short walk from the harbour to the house she had spotted tall, spiky thistle-like plants, palms and trees covered in white flowers. She was seized with an immediate desire to open her sketchbook and take out the magnifying glass from the pocket of her cloak, to capture the intricate detail of an almond blossom, its calyx and corolla, stamens and carpel, or perhaps to draw the curl of a vine tendril or a spiky aloe leaf, but her hostess insisted that she sit with her while food was prepared. It would have been rude to do anything else.

  The dullness of the ship and the never-ending uniformity of the sea and sky had left her parched for such beauty and she thirstily drank it in. ‘What a serene spot,’ she said as they sat at a low table in the shade. ‘And how lush everything is.’

  ‘Everything grows so wonderfully here,’ her hostess agreed. ‘It is barely any effort at all to cultivate a plant from seed, but doubtless your father would have told you that. It seems like only yesterday that Mr Trebithick was here with us, leading us all on merry outings into the cordillera. I am most sorry for your loss, my dear, I know how very fond of you and your sister, Georgiana, he was.’

  ‘Thank you, it means a great deal to me to hear that,’ Elizabeth replied.

  ‘You must think of me as a mother while you are here,’ she insisted, though Elizabeth had not been in need of a mother for many years, nor, in fact, did she know what it felt like to have a mother. Mam’zelle Violette had been the closest she and Georgiana had come to such a relationship, but she nodded politely.

  ‘You will meet Mr Campbell anon, but I have to say he spends most of his time at our business, down in the town,’ said Mrs Campbell. ‘So, I am afraid you will have to satisfy yourself with my company for much of the time.’ She said this with a twinkle in her eye, as if she were sharing a private joke between the two of them, and Elizabeth warmed to her even more.

  A young Chilean maid with thick dark hair fastened in a plait that hung down her back entered the courtyard. Carrying a tray, she moved gracefully across the bare earth, setting it down before them and smiling as she did so.

  ‘Thank you, Mercedes,’ said Mrs Campbell. The maid disappeared as noiselessly as she had arrived.

  Elizabeth was surprised when she spied a large wooden cup with a wide bowl instead of the china pot and cups she had been expecting, but waited to see what her hostess would do. Mrs Campbell raised the cup and sucked on a thin silver straw that Elizabeth now noticed stuck out from the cup. ‘Matté,’ she said after taking a sip. ‘I find it quite refreshing.’ She passed the cup along to Elizabeth, who hesitated, staring uncertainly at the mashed green leaves and water in the cup. Was she expected to drink from the same straw as her hostess? Mrs Campbell nodded, encouraging her.

  It appeared she was.

  Elizabeth sucked on the straw and a warm, harsh liquid flooded her mouth. It was bitter and she gave an involuntary shudder.

  Mrs Campbell laughed. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, you will get used to it. It’s really quite nice once you do.’

  Elizabeth was not so sure.

  ‘Here, try one of these. The sweetness will help.’ She proffered a plate upon which sat several small, half-moon-shaped golden pastries. ‘Empanadas. They are often filled with meat, but I like these, more usually in the afternoon – a little pick-me-up after siesta and before I go back to the shop,’ she explained.

  Elizabeth gratefully accepted one, and bit into it. Sweet ripe pears flavoured with cinnamon and cloves provided the filling to a slightly cheesy pastry. ‘Delicious,’ she said, when she had finished her mouthful.

  Mrs Campbell nodded, approving. ‘You look like you could use a little meat on your bones, girl.’

  Mrs Campbell was outspoken in her observation, but Elizabeth paid it no mind. She was not offended – indeed, her gown hung off her, no matter how tightly Daisy had tried to lace her corset. ‘I was quite unwell on the voyage,’ Elizabeth confessed. ‘I survived on bread and peppermints.’

  ‘Well, here, you must have another,’ Mrs Campbell offered, pushing the plate towards her again.

  As she was doing so, the plate began to shake and several of the empanadas bounced onto the dirt floor. The leaves of the plants had begun to tremble, and the table jittered and danced, jostling the cup of matté and slopping green sludge everywhere. The seasickness that had dogged her on the ship returned.

  ‘Wh … what is it? What’s happening?’ Elizabeth’s eyes were wild with panic.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SYDNEY, AUTUMN 2017

  Anna pulled on a pair of overalls, boots and heavy gloves from the back of her ute and spent the afternoon deadheading flowers and pulling out the asparagus fern that had completely taken over her client’s front garden. As she worked, sweating in the warm sun, her thoughts returned to the photograph. ‘Of course,’ she muttered to herself. Why hadn’t she thought to Google the name on the back? Trebithick. It was worth a shot. She pulled her phone out of her pocket but cursed as she realised the battery was dead. She would have to wait until she got home. After that, the afternoon dragged as she hauled out yet more of the invasive weed, her imagination swirling with the possibilities of actually identifying the house in the photograph, and from there … well, who knew? She couldn’t wait to get home and so, just before five, when the light was starting to fade to a glorious rose-gold-tinged sunset, she pulled off her gloves and loaded up her ute for a final drop-off at the rubbish tip.

  It was dark by the time she got home to her flat, and she made straight for the shower. It took a good scrub to lift the dirt from her hair and skin, but eventually she was clean, dried and dressed warmly in her favourite fleecy jumper, leggings and a pair of fluffy socks. She turned on the heater – the nights were definitely cooling. The fridge revealed a couple of wizened apples, half a loaf of bread and a block of cheese. Starving, she made herself a toasted cheese sandwich and opened a bottle of red wine. It was Friday, after all. She only allowed herself one glass, though. She had to be up early for her spin class in the morning.

  When she’d finished eating and wiped the crumbs off her hands, she sat back with her laptop. Typing the word ‘Trebithick’ into the browser, she held her breath as the page loaded.

  Trebithick Hall was listed on an English Heritage website. Apparently a Grade II–listed building in England, whatever that meant. She searched for a photo, but couldn’t see one. She then clicked on another link, ‘Historic houses in Cornwall’.

  Bingo!

  She sat back suddenly, almost knocking over her glass in her excitement.

  There it was. Just as it looked in the old photo. The same long windows, circular gravel path and wide front door. Even the rhododendron, though far larger, was still there.

  Anna reached for her phone.

  ‘I’ve got ten eight-year-olds here dancing to Taylor Swift and I can’t even hear myself think,’ her sister yelled when she picked up. ‘What’s going on with you?’

  ‘Listen to this,’ Anna began, ‘I think I’ve found something.’

  ‘Hang on a sec, let me go somewhere a bit quieter … Ivy!’

  Anna held the phone away from her ear as her sister yelled at her teenage daughter to watch her younger siblings.

  ‘Okay. That’s better.’

  The music had quieted and Anna cleared her throat and began to read from the website. ‘Trebithick Hall was donated to the National Trust by Florence Deverell in 1970. Florence (b 1935) never married. She is the only child of George Deverell (1887–1960) and the great-granddaughter of John Trebithick, who gained considerable renown as a plant-hunter and adventurer in the late nineteenth century. Many of the exotic plants that he brought back from his travels still flourish in the gardens, which are now on display to the public,’ she said, a note of triumph in her voice.

  ‘So,
if this Florence Deverell was born in 1935 she’d be … what?’

  ‘Eighty-two,’ said Anna. ‘That’s if she’s still alive, of course.’

  ‘Well, according to the National Trust she is,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘They’d have put the date of her death there.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anna, overcome by what she’d found out. ‘I see.’ It made the sketchbook of watercolours all the more real, gave it a vital, compelling connection to a place, and to the present. ‘Do you think we should track this Florence Deverell down?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ said Vanessa. ‘She might know the story behind it all – perhaps even how it ended up in Sydney. You’ve got to at least try. All right, I’m coming!’ she yelled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, not you. The girls want me to go and judge their dance-off. I may never get my hearing back and I’ve no idea where Fleur’s learned some of those moves,’ said Vanessa. ‘Certainly not at ballet class.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could stop her watching music videos in the early hours of Sunday morning,’ replied Anna.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Favourite aunts are privy to all kinds of secrets,’ she said, chuckling as she put down the phone.

  Anna stared at the webpage and then continued her search for information about John Trebithick. She was excited to find a couple of references to him being a celebrated botanist and plant-hunter, as well as a purveyor of exotic plants. It wasn’t until much later, when she was owl-eyed from tiredness and getting nowhere, that she remembered the slip of paper that Noah had pressed on her after their lunch. She retrieved it from her jeans pocket, smoothed it out and typed in his email address – but then she paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, uncertain.

  Finally she decided to keep it brief, merely reminding him of their meeting and asking him if he could indeed put her in touch with his friend who knew more about nineteenth-century English botanical illustrators. Pressing send, she turned the laptop off and fell into bed.