A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (30 page)

After covering Schelling’s body in a sheet and locking the barn door, the trio made their way back to the house. They sat at the yellowwood table as Thunberg gorged himself.

“Good news,” he said between mouthfuls. “I managed to book a cabin large enough to accommodate two men and the flowers.”

Masson and Jane looked at each other and then at Thunberg. “What do you mean, ‘two men’?” asked Masson.

“It’s a naval ship and they have strict rules. No women.” Thunberg talked and ate at the same time.

“So I booked berths for Mr Burnette and Mr Masson, travelling as two botanists returning with cargo. There is a small hitch, though. You’ll have to share a cabin — is that going to pose a problem?”

Jane and Masson looked at each other, but Thunberg missed the glance and charged ahead.

“The only snag is that Forster is practically encamped at the dock. He’s personally checking everything and everyone that’s being loaded aboard that ship. Schelling must have sent word to him, but all we need is a way to distract him for long enough so that you can load the cargo and then get aboard. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Oh, I almost forgot.” Thunberg reached into the saddle bags he had brought with him and handed a packet each to Masson and Jane.

“These letters were waiting for you at the Customs House.”

Masson, immediately recognising the handwriting on the envelope, tried to hide his anxiety. He looked across at Jane and saw that she, too, was in no hurry to open her letter.

“Well? Aren’t you going to open them?” Thunberg asked.

Masson looked at the letter in his hands. It consisted of a single page which had been folded to make an envelope with a short message written on the reverse side in the same feminine hand that had penned his name and address.

He took the letter and went outside to the garden so that he could be alone to read it. But when he broke open the seal that held the envelope closed, he saw a second letter within that was written in a less steady hand. When he returned to the dining room, he found Jane in a fit of fury, her own letter laid out in front of her on the table. Thunberg was awkwardly trying to comfort her.

“It’s from my father,” she said acidly. “He’s threatening to disown me unless I come back to England at once. He has arranged passage for me on the
Swallow,
which is due to arrive in Cape Town in two weeks. When I get to Plymouth, I am to join my family and we are to take a ship to the Caribbean, where my father plans to set up a sugar plantation. He has said that the scandal of my affair with Joseph would be catastrophic for them and that I have given them no choice.”

She looked at Masson pleadingly. “If this had arrived yesterday and not today, then I would have been relieved. But now?”

Masson slumped into a chair. All the joy and enthusiasm he had felt that morning was gone, and in its place was the dreadful certainty of what was to come.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said flatly.

If the letter in his hands had broken his heart, the look that Jane gave him shattered it into pieces. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what other choice do you really have?”

Without saying another word, she turned and ran.

“Masson — what?” Thunberg stood up, flabbergasted.

Masson held up his own letters. “It’s news from home. My mother has passed away.”

“I’m so sorry,” Thunberg said.

“Not as sorry as I am. She wrote me a note before she died asking me to come home as soon as possible so that—” Masson broke off and looked longingly at the doorway that Jane had passed through moments before. “So that I can make good the promises that I made to her before I left. I have to marry Constance.”

“But what about Jane?”

“Jane will be better off. What future could I possibly have to offer her, anyway? A nursery and a cottage?”

“Perhaps all she wants is what you have already given her.”

“But what good is a past with no future?”

Masson was woken by a knock at his door before the sun had risen. Thunberg, already fully dressed, had prepared a breakfast for both of them, which they ate in silence. Then they loaded the cart with the boxes of flowers and specimens that Masson had organised the day before. As they packed the last of their luggage, the eastern sky began to brighten. Thunberg handed Masson an oilskin envelope tied together with hemp string and sealed with wax to make it watertight.

“Think of it as a going-away present. I managed to retrieve them after the accident when I went looking for the cart. If I were a real patriot, I would have kept them, but I guess I’m not so Dutch after all.”

“What is it?” Masson accepted the envelope and felt the outline of a notebook through the rough oilskin.

“The missing pages from your journal. To save them from being discovered by the customs men, I would keep them in one of the flowerboxes. After all the trouble they have caused you, I would have thought that would be the best place for them. The oilskin and wax will protect them until you get to England.”

“I don’t know what to say, except thank you — for everything.” The two men shook hands. Masson carefully lifted out the contents of the smallest of the flower boxes, placing the packet at the bottom and covering it over with soil before carefully re-potting the plant.

“I’ll ride out in front and deliver the news about Schelling to Mr Forster,” said Thunberg. “I’ll explain to him that he would be better served by allowing you to leave in peace. I’ll also explain that to ease his disappointment, I have made enquiries and have managed to secure a position for him at the Company Gardens. The salary is not enormous, but if he is prudent, he should be able to save enough to pay for a return trip to England in time to see the
Resolution
returning from her voyage.”

“What’s the position?” asked Masson as Thunberg mounted his horse.

“Assistant to the under-gardener,” Thunberg replied mischievously as he spurred on his horse and sped off at full canter in the direction of Cape Town.

Masson looked over to the house, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Jane, who had retreated to her room and refused to come out. But either she was concealing herself behind the great sash windows or she had no wish to prolong their suffering with a last goodbye, so he set the horses moving just as the sun began to break over the mountains, lighting up the endless rows of vines that surrounded the hamlet of Stellenbosch.

As the sun rose, a fair breeze blew in from across the mountains, leaving no trace of a cloud in the sky. It looked like it would be another perfect day in the Cape.

Masson arrived at the dock at midday and proceeded to the Customs House, where he introduced himself to the ship captain’s secretary, who seemed annoyed at having to accommodate a non-working passenger at such late notice. But Masson’s letters of credit and recommendation signed by Sir Joseph Banks and the Admiralty Board mollified him, and once he had inspected the boxes, he entered the details of the cargo into his manifest.

The customs officers were more concerned with making sure that he wasn’t smuggling wine and had less than no interest in the plants, which they let pass with only a cursory inspection.

The porters carried the boxes one by one to a waiting launch. When about half the boxes were loaded, they heard shouting coming from behind them. They turned to see a tubby and sweating Forster running towards them as fast as his rotund little body could manage, waving his arms and doing his best to shout in between rasping breaths. “Stop! Thief!”

The customs officers turned in the direction that the naturalist was pointing and saw Masson backing away slowly towards the launch. But he knew that he would not make it in time, so he decided to stand his ground. As the furore quietened down, the only sound that could be heard was the wheezing of Forster as he caught his breath.

“This is outrageous,” Masson started to protest before being cut off by Forster.

“What is outrageous,
sir
, is that you would attempt to make off with botanical samples that have been transported to the Cape by Mr Schelling and which are therefore his property and which he has entrusted to me to deliver back to England.”

The chief customs officer had arrived at the scene, having heard the commotion from his office. “Mr Forster, I am sorry, but the cargo has already been entered into the ship’s manifest and has passed through the customs inspection.”

“But this is daylight robbery!” screeched Forster. He then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I am sure that Mr Schelling would be most grateful to you if you could see your way to amending the entry in your log. After all, the cargo hasn’t even left the dock.”

The customs officer’s face reddened as he motioned for the porters to continue loading the cargo. “Despite what you may think, sir, this is not some backwater outpost. This cargo is now the charge of the vessel on which it is to be carried, and any dispute as to its rightful ownership must be resolved at the port of disembarkation. I bid you good day, sir!”

Forster cursed as the rest of the customs officers turned back to their business, resuming their inspection of the remaining items on the dock.

Without warning, Forster lunged for the smallest box, the one that contained the journal pages and Banks’s report. But Masson intercepted him, and soon the two men were caught in a breathless tug-of-war.

“Unhand my property!” Forster cursed as the chief customs officer and his men watched in bemused silence.

“Gentlemen!” a deep and authoritative voice boomed.

The crowd parted to reveal Baron Joachim van Plettenberg striding towards the dockside. Following close behind with a solemn air was Thunberg. They arrived on the dock, and as everyone stopped to watch, Thunberg approached van Plettenberg and whispered something into his ear. He then stepped back and, with his hands held behind his back, he stared down at the dust that covered his shoes, refusing to make eye contact with Masson.

Van Plettenberg scowled grimly as he addressed the crowd that had gathered around. “What seems to be the problem?”

Forster let go of the box and removed his hat, patting at the sweat on his pate and brow before addressing the Governor. “Your Excellency. Please allow me to explain.”

“Please do, Mr Forster. My customs officers have more important work to do than to break up brawls on the dockside.”

“Yes. Well, I apologise for the unseemly events, but Mr Masson here left me no alternative. You see, these plants are in fact my property, and I was merely trying to take back that which is rightfully mine and which Mr Masson here has stolen.”

“Is there anyone who can vouch for your version of events?”

“I can, your Excellency.” All eyes turned to Thunberg, “I can testify to the fact that these boxes are in fact the property of Mr Forster and that he alone is responsible for their contents.”

“Thunberg!” Masson yelled, the betrayal and horror plain on his face.

“I’m sorry, Masson. But it’s the truth, and you know it. The flowers belong to Mr Forster, and I really see no reason why you shouldn’t give him what is rightfully his.”

Whether it was the sly smile that slithered across Forster’s face or the pain of being robbed of his prize so close to home, Masson’s frustration boiled over. He threw down the box he was holding, smashing it at his feet.

The box shattered and its contents were spread out over the cobbles of the dock. Broken petals mixed with clumps of damp soil, dirtying the feet of the bystanders. But then Masson saw that Forster’s eye had been caught by the corner of the oilskin package, which was still concealed beneath a piece of the shattered box. Forster edged towards it and was in the process of picking it up when the Governor’s voice boomed out across the crowd, silencing the hubbub.

“What do you have there, Mr Forster?”

Forster’s head and neck coloured, and for once he seemed at a loss for words. “It’s nothing, your Excellency. They are merely some personal papers that I placed in the box for safekeeping. I assure you that they are of no interest to the VOC.”

“I think you will find that it is I who has been tasked with looking after the VOC’s interests here in the Cape, Mr Forster. Now, if you would be so kind as to hand it over.” Forster shambled towards the Governor and handed him the bundle. The Governor snapped his fingers, and a moment later a knife was placed in his hands. He slit open the oilskin wrapping, revealing the documents within.

“
For the attention of Earl Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty
,” the Governor read aloud the address that Cook had written on the cover of his sealed report for the benefit of the gathered audience, which was growing in number by the minute.

“I assure you, your Excellency, I can explain. You see, the reason for my departure from the
Resolution
was not, as I previously explained to you, solely due to a difference of scientific opinions with Captain Cook, but rather over more fundamental disagreements.” From Forster’s squirming, it was clear that no one else in the Cape had been apprised of the real reasons for Forster’s disembarkation.

“All I can see, Mr Forster,” said the Governor as he unfolded the sheets of Masson’s journal that had been bundled together with the sealed report, taking his time to scan their contents before glowering at the trembling Forster, “is that you have abused our hospitality in order to attend to matters of a less than scientific nature.” He held up the pages for the whole crowd to see. “Such as the safety and security of our beloved home!”

Forster’s face was a picture of puzzlement as he tried to reconcile the report that damned him to the First Lord of the Admiralty with the pages that the Governor now brandished in his fist. “I’m sorry, your Excellency, but I don’t understand — are you suggesting …”

“That you have gathered intelligence on the fortifications here at the Cape?” the Governor said, finishing Forster’s question. “It is not I that suggests it, Mr Forster, so much as these pages that prove it!”