A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (11 page)

Cook stepped back and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “I will give Mr Masson here a copy of my report so that he can send it on to the Admiralty on the next available ship headed for England.”

Forster stared at Cook. “You can’t do that! I’m the chief scientist!” he screeched.

“As Captain and leader of the expedition, I think you will find that I can. Your son seems perfectly well qualified and he is much preferred amongst the crew, so I am happy for him to remain, unless, of course, you would like to scuttle his career as well as your own?”

Forster remained silent, allowing Cook to continue. “I didn’t think so. I have already ordered your belongings to be offloaded from the ship; I expect that you will be able to collect them from the Customs House within the hour.”

“But I have no letters of credit. How do you propose I pay for my passage back to England?” Forster pleaded.

“I am sure that with your resources, you will be able to come up with something. Perhaps you could ask your new friend the Governor for a loan? What I can tell you is that if you so much as set foot near my ship, I will have you shot.”

Cook then turned to Masson and pulled him aside. “I had hoped to stay a while in the Cape, but with the news of our destination in the open, we must make haste and so will leave on the outgoing tide tomorrow. I will have the report delivered to your lodgings this evening and I trust that you can pass it to the captain of the next homebound ship?”

“Yes, sir. Of course,” replied Masson.

Masson and Cook shook hands and bid each other farewell. A savage wail that was first whooping and then staccato cries echoed from one of the enclosures in the menagerie as Cook and the lieutenant left, leaving Masson alone with Forster. The shaken man got up off the ground and brushed himself down in a vain attempt at retaining some semblance of dignity.

“Well, Masson,” Forster said, standing erect with his head tilted back, that old condescending tone creeping its way back into his voice, “you saw what happened: he assaulted me! I will be writing a letter of protest to Lord Sandwich and I fully expect you to back me up.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Masson, flabbergasted.

“Well, I’m sure that even a man of your background can appreciate what a scandal this little misunderstanding would cause, not to mention the damage to the cause of science and even to Sir Joseph’s reputation if you were somehow to be implicated. Naturally, I would compensate you for your assistance—”

“A man of my background? Compensate?” Masson was stunned.

“Come now, Masson, there’s no need to be prudish. I am well aware of the tight purse that Sir Joseph has given you. I am not without some means, and I am sure that I could make your life, and that of your family back home, much more comfortable if you were to simply misplace that report. In any case, these things get lost all the time — ships flounder in storms, or get raided by pirates — you probably wouldn’t be doing anything that fate wouldn’t do herself.”

Masson started to say something but then stopped, realising that there was no point. Instead, he just turned and walked back towards the party.

“Don’t you walk away from me, Masson. I am a member of the Royal Society! I demand that you do your duty as a servant to science! Masson!”

Masson kept walking, and gradually Forster’s shouts were drowned out by the night sounds of the Gardens, the music that came from the Governor’s house and that haunting, whooping laugh that came from the menagerie.

C
ANADA
, 21 N
OVEMBER
, 1805

“Forster was lucky,” the old man said with a wry smile. “As he stormed off, the last thing I heard Captain Cook say was that if it weren’t for all the witnesses, he would have fed the scientist to whatever creatures were making that baleful noise.

“But I think in truth that he was happy to be given an excuse to be on his way. It was chilling to think that even there, at the Governor’s own house, surrounded by all that finery and gentility, animal savagery seemed to lurk constantly on the periphery, just out of sight.”

“I know just what you mean,” Robert whispered conspiratorially.

The old man leaned closer to the boy, a quizzical look on his creased features. “You do?”

“Yes, sir. When I was little, we used to go to Grandmamma and Grandpa’s house, and it was enormous. I even had my own bedroom. But they said that I was not to go out into the garden by myself because there wild animals in the woods.”

The old man looked across and saw that the old woman had not even paused in her needlework as her grandson continued his tale.

“One time I heard Grandpa tell a story about how, before they were married, Grandmamma saved his life when she shot a bear that had wondered into the garden, but Grandmamma said that he was just making up stories to stop us children from going out alone.”

“Well, I suppose sometimes it’s good to be frightened,” the old man said. “Fear can keep you alive.”

“Fear can also stop you from living,” said Jack, puffing out his chest as if getting ready to launch into a well-prepared speech.

“Is that what you were thinking when you went after Mr Masson in the snow?” asked his father, who had appeared in the doorway.

Jack started to reply and then bit back his answer, his cheeks flushed.

“I guess Grandpa didn’t learn his lesson, though, because one day he went out hunting alone and he was killed by a bear. After that, Grandmamma came to live with us, and now I have to share a room with Jack, but I don’t mind because Jack says that soon I will have the room all to myself—” Robert was cut off by his older brother, who cleared his throat at the same time as giving his younger a sharp nudge with the toe of his shoe. The blow was hard enough to make the boy wince but well concealed so that no one seemed to take much notice — except for the old man, who saw everything.

“So, Mr Masson,” Jack said, making a show of checking his notes, “you were telling us about the party at the Governor’s house?”

The old man smiled, happy to be caught in the harmless conspiracy. “So I was. Now, where did I leave off?”

As Masson re-joined the party, he saw Schelling and Willmer deep in conversation. But before he was close enough to hear what was being said, a rustling of bushes off to his left caused him to start. Instead of a wild animal, the only thing to emerge from the foliage was a man bearing a wide and a self-satisfied grin.

It was the same man Masson had seen earlier, and although he was relieved to see that he was not injured or unwell, he could not help but wonder if he had been close enough to hear the words that had been exchanged between Forster and Cook.

The man was a couple of years younger than Masson, with clear blue eyes that didn’t just gather up information but examined with intense fascination every single thing that their gaze fell upon. The velvet ribbon that secured his blond hair in a ponytail was the only lavish touch to a suit of clothes that was practical and yet well made, expensive without appearing ostentatious. He exuded a confidence well beyond his years that stopped short of being a kind of smug superiority. Although he was only of average height, his bearing and demeanour seemed to add six inches to his total. With long, delicate fingers, he extracted a small brush from one of his pockets and used it to remove the dirt and leaves from his clothes with a practised flourish. He also dusted off his hat, adjusting it to make sure that it sat perfectly on his fair and very handsome head. He then replaced the brush in his pocket, squared his shoulders and strode over to Masson’s group, one of the star-shaped fruits held aloft in his outstretched palm.

“Good evening, Doctor Thunberg. I hope we haven’t interrupted your nap?” Schelling said with more than an edge of malice.

“As an amateur botanist, Mr Schelling, I find the study of the sexual reproductive system is best effected by taking one’s time, lying down and committing one’s self wholly to the task.” He paused and smiled before continuing. “Of course, if I were as busy as your good self, I might only be able to spare a moment or two, but then, what would be the pleasure in that?”

Schelling’s smile was erased from his face as Thunberg continued “Take this
Mesembryanthemum cordifolium.
Incredible, really. The locals call it the
Rose of Jericho.
It can last months, years even, lying in the desert, keeping itself closed off from the elements and the world, its secrets safe and sound within. But with just the right kind of persuasion, with just one drop of water …” He dipped his finger into Willmer’s teacup and let fall a drop of liquid onto the star-shaped husk. It unfurled almost immediately to reveal bright yellow seeds at its centre, giving the fruit the appearance of a small sun. “… It can be opened up, revealing all that is within.”

With a wink to Masson, Thunberg dropped the now open fruit into Willmer’s teacup and sauntered off towards the house without another word. Willmer made as if to follow after him, but Schelling held him back.

“So, Mr Masson,” Schelling asked, trying to shift attention away from Thunberg’s performance and changing the subject. “Tell me, do you have any idea where you are likely to find this flower of yours?”

“I have been told to look near Muyssenberg on the shores of False Bay,” Masson replied.

Willmer and Schelling exchanged looks, and then Willmer snorted derisively. “Good luck, then. Foreigners aren’t allowed anywhere near there.”

“Why is that?” Masson asked, curious. This was the second time that his intention to go to False Bay had elicited an unexpected reaction.

“Mr Willmer is right,” Schelling said in a slightly hushed tone. “There is indeed an edict prohibiting foreigners from travelling too close to the shore of False Bay. But if you’re with me, you’re not a foreigner. You’ll find that’s generally how things work here.” Schelling took another sip of tea as he allowed the information to sink in.

But Masson was not so sure. “Mr Schelling, I am exceedingly grateful for the friendship you’re bestowing upon me, but I don’t want to inconvenience you. I am rather pressed for time and I had expected to travel alone.”

Schelling laughed. “You still have a lot to learn about Africa, Mr Masson. Haste is not a concept that has much meaning here, and a man alone, well, he simply won’t survive. But I understand your wish not to keep His Majesty waiting, and so I am more than willing to place my not inconsiderable expertise at your disposal. Surely you would not deny me the opportunity to contribute to the pleasure of our King?”

Once again, Schelling placed an offer before Masson that he could not refuse. If False Bay was out of bounds, then getting consent from the authorities would either be impossible or costly and would serve only to slow him down. Here was Schelling offering everything he needed on a silver platter. Perhaps he really could be home in time for Christmas.

He nodded his agreement, and Schelling beamed. He turned his gaze once again to Thunberg, who was now deep in conversation with the Governor. “It’s arranged,” he said, not taking his eyes off the scene on the veranda. “Mr Willmer and I will pick you up tomorrow morning at sunrise and chaperone you to False Bay so that you may find this flower of yours.”

With the star-shaped fruit bobbing on the surface of his unfinished tea, Masson saw that Willmer was also staring at Thunberg.

Schelling smiled before asking with more than a trace of mischief, “Some more tea, Mr Willmer?”

As Masson stood on the veranda of the undertaker’s house, he found his gaze returning, as it always seemed to, to the mountain that towered above the town.

The light here was unbelievably bright compared to what he was used to at home, and he was sure that even at this distance, he could discern the individual leaves and yellow and orange blooms of the numerous species of aloes or the bright red blood flowers, all of which clung to the sandstone cliffs. It was as if someone had lifted scales from his eyes and the world somehow had a clearer, sharper focus.

He had seen no further sign of Forster, but a messenger had delivered the promised report with a note from Cook thanking Masson and wishing him a productive stay in the Cape.

Rather than leaving the report in his room, he secreted it alongside Banks’s sketch in a pocket at the back of the journal that Constance had given him as a going-away present. With the documents well hidden, he then packed the journal into a tote, along with the rest of his collecting equipment, for the journey to False Bay.

At the sound of approaching hooves, Masson came out of his room to find Willmer arriving on horseback, leading a second horse that was saddled but had no rider. The Dutchman stopped and raised his hat to bid Masson good morning.

Masson returned the gesture and then looked up and down the street, but he could see no sign of Schelling. He picked up the tote and approached Willmer, squinting as he looked up at the rider silhouetted against the bright blue sky.

“Will Mr Schelling be joining us later?” he asked.

“Mr Schelling had some last-minute affairs to attend to, so he asked me to accompany you and act as your guide instead, if that is agreeable to you?”

Seeing Masson hesitate, Willmer pressed on. “It’s about half a day’s ride and it’s going to be very warm today, so we should get moving.”

Masson looked up again and saw clouds starting to build on the horizon. Willmer followed his gaze and shook his head with a wry smile. “Don’t let that bit of cloud fool you, Mr Masson. The mountain can play a few tricks, and Mr Schelling wouldn’t forgive me if you ended up in the Company’s Hospital with heat stroke — you’d probably come out with something much worse!”

Masson pulled himself onto the horse easily enough as Willmer passed him the reins. The other man explained with a grin, “Now remember, Mr Masson, this is a Cape horse, so it only understands Dutch.”