Chapter 5
The Botanical Gardens were a forest of trees and shrubbery, drawn from England and forced into a lifetime of servitude on the other side of the world where winter was as summer in their homeland. Confusion must no doubt reign in this foreign land, at least for those who yearned after memories of the past. Local fauna interspersed with the exotic plantings of England and Europe and appeared dowdy in comparison. Or so Algernon Benedict thought. The new world was at a distinct disadvantage from the old. Stories could not be easily gleaned from plants, and animals that appeared so young and old. Fibrous bark peeled away from tall straight trunks of trees, leaving behind colour and pattern as confusing as the shape and smell of the leaves. Vibrancy of blossoms imprinted on his mind; the local fauna’s saving grace. Everything else was complete rubbish. Algernon shrugged away heat and itch and beads of sweat forming on his skin and thought about his son.
The boy was sneaky. No doubt about it. Benedict counted on it. He was also observant and had an excellent grasp of cause and effect. He’d identified the potential of difficulty Mrs Ponsonby might equate to and had secured an ally in the battle to come. George Boseman would make a useful tool in this isolated city even if he was somewhat of a country bumpkin compared to the businessmen in London.
Clement certainly had his uses; as such, Benedict was prepared to overlook the seedier side of his son’s character—the fondness for illicit activities. He watched him now, still dressed in his black dress coat from his evening’s entertainment the night before and helping himself to the expensive liquor at the side bar of the gentleman’s club. He cut a fine if somewhat jaded figure with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his silk tie hanging loose around his neck. Benedict wasn’t sure how Clement managed his subversive tastes and preferred not to know. The only thing that mattered was the collection of relics that would reinstate his family’s position and quench a fair amount of the revenge they had long sought on those who had cursed them.
His fingers itched with the need to return to his room and check on his belongings. Benedict stood, ignored Clement’s raised brow, and pushed past the waiter on his way over with a glass of sherry. He’d go for a short walk. Visit the gardens or the museum. Perhaps pay a visit to Mrs Ponsonby’s tearooms.
The waiter, drinks tray left on the bar, rushed over with Mr Benedict’s coat, hat, and walking stick; hovering behind the elder gentleman as he poised, indecisive it seemed, in the doorway.
‘Father, what are you doing?’ Clement ignored the waiter and nudged his father.
Benedict heard his son’s voice as a distant, irritating buzzing and shook away the weight of the younger man on his arm. A walk might be the thing. He should see his enemy’s natural habitat for himself; find out what sort of woman he was dealing with. If she were anything like his wife, she would be easy to conquer. Threats bundled up as promises had always worked with Margaret. Without him she would have nothing, and even though her family had owned the country home for generations it was his now, and so was she.
His mother, too, knew her place in the world and always acquiesced to her husband, and later her son. He tried to draw an image of his mother and failed. A shadowy silhouette in the background wearing a white cap over pale gossamer thin hair was all he could come up with.
A walk through the streets of this jumped up little city was just what he needed.
A group of gentlemen came in the front door of the club, showing each other in, commenting on the weather, chattering about plants and animals in plummy English accents; the youngest, a Scot by the sound, excited about the sighting of dolphins following his ship in through the headlands. The smell of dust and mud tainted with horseshit and a faint trace of native blossom wafted in through the front door. The men shook off their overcoats in the foyer, and the scent of the colonies was cut off by the closing of the heavy oak door.
‘Father?’
Benedict ignored his son and turned to the gleaming staircase that led up to the guest rooms. With all these newcomers, another check on his belongings wouldn’t go astray.