A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (3 page)

“Well, if you fancy hearing tall tales about lions and hippopotamuses, then be my guest. I am sure that Mr Francis Masson, servant to the King of England no less, would be only too pleased to oblige.” Jack looked beseechingly at his mother and pleaded, “I’ve done as you asked and looked after him, but I think I have had about as much as I can bear. Where’s Smithers? Is he ready to go yet?”

“You can’t send him out now, Jack. With all that ice on the road, it’s not safe.” George Grant said as he ambled in wearing a smoking jacket, whilst still perusing his ledger. “Besides, all this talk of lions sounds like just the thing for our readers at the
Gazette
. Maybe you can get the story out of him before our guests arrive, what do you think? You did say that you were tired of writing obituaries.”

“Fanciful tales of fantastic beasts was not exactly what I had in mind,” Jack retorted.

“Really, Jack, I am sure you are exaggerating,” Mary Grant said. “Lions, here in Canada? The poor man must really have had a knock. Perhaps I should see for myself.” She passed her eye over the table one last time and then made off in the direction of the summer kitchen, with Jack dragging his heels close behind.

Despite the mayhem of the afternoon, Mary could not help but smile at the sight that greeted her in the cheery warmth of the summer kitchen: Robert, wide-eyed and transfixed, sat atop an old wooden chest that he had dragged over, while the old man, with his worn leather book on his lap, had shrugged off his blanket and was describing incredible scenes with an energy and animation that belied his feeble condition. Mary hovered at the door, keeping out of sight and not wanting to break the spell.

“… and when you think they’re taking a bath, beware, they run underwater as fast as on land! Oh, and there was the time with the poison arrows … But wait, I must start with the beginning. Let’s see. It was in 1772. Good grief, is that really thirty-three years ago already? It is, isn’t it? How quickly time passes.”

Masson had not heard them come in and Jack joined his mother at the doorway and theatrically stifled a yawn. With a silent nod and a frown, she gestured for him to re-join, which he did, reluctantly.

Satisfied that the old man was not about to run stark raving mad through the house, upsetting all her careful preparations, Mary cast a final eye over the room before discreetly backing out and closing the door behind her.

Masson looked up at the sound of the door shutting and then across to the old woman, who still seemed in a world of her own. After only the briefest of pauses, he turned to Robert and, with a sad smile, began his tale.

“It was a hot summer’s day in London — I remember it like it was yesterday — and when I think that it all started because of a mistake.”

M
AY
1772, L
ONDON

There was no escape from the sun as it bore down mercilessly on Ian Boulton and James Simmons. The two men stood and waited at the end of Crane Court, a small cul-de-sac off Fleet Street that was home to the Royal Society. In front of the men was a small trestle table, which had been placed to one side of the main entrance so as not to impede the comings and goings of the Society’s illustrious members. Fixed onto the cast iron railings behind them was a small sign with the words “Botanical Expedition” carefully stencilled in black.

“Bad traffic for sure,” said Simmons, squinting at the sun from under his three-cornered hat. “They’ll come.”

“It is twenty-five minutes past ten already,” complained Boulton, as he snapped back the cover of his watch before putting it in to his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. “Didn’t you say ten o’clock at the south door? Show me the advertisement again.” He pulled at the starched stock around his neck and wiped at his brow, being careful not to skew his wig as he examined the broadsheet that Simmons was hastily spreading over the table. The words had been ringed in pencil and as Boulton re-read it for the seventh time that morning he could not imagine how they could have made it any clearer that all applicants were to present themselves at the south door of the Royal Society no later than ten o’clock on the morning of the first of May. The advertisement ended with the words, “No submissions will be accepted beyond this date and time. All enquiries are to be addressed to Mr Boulton, secretary to Sir Joseph Banks.”

Boulton huffed in frustration as he finished reading. “But is it obvious that this is the south door?” he asked, worry creeping into his voice. “Perhaps you should have put up a bigger sign.”

“The sign is as per your instructions, sir, and if I may be so bold as to suggest that a gentleman proving incapable of locating the south door may, by definition, be unworthy for consideration. After all, if one is applying for the post of
botanical
explorer
,
then surely one should know one’s north from one’s south?” Simmons grinned at his own joke as he refolded the newspaper.

“And may I suggest to you, Simmons, that being in the post of my assistant, your function is to assist. You can be assured that should we return empty-handed, Sir Joseph will prove perfectly capable of showing us the door, and it will matter not one jot whether it is the south or the north one!”

In the distance, the Bow Bells sounded half past the hour. Boulton muttered an oath and watched helplessly as the pedestrians going about their business on Fleet Street all walked past the entrance to Crane Court without showing any interest whatsoever. His brow patting increased to a frenzy, threatening to dismount his wig entirely.

“Well, that’s that, Simmons. You don’t happen to have a relative with the requisite qualifications, do you?” Boulton asked, his tone almost hysterical.

“I’m afraid my lot are all gone to the colonies, sir. My wife’s family, however,” he snorted derisively, “showed remarkable navigational skills in finding their way into my house, but now seem unable to find their way out.”

Boulton stared down at his diminutive assistant, unable to understand how the wretched man could so brazenly fail to appreciate the seriousness of the predicament that they now faced. “Well, what do you propose I tell him? Hmm? And then there’s the Admiralty. And the King. Oh dear God.” Boulton was now sweating so profusely and in such a state of agitation that Simmons could not be sure whether it was perspiration or tears that cascaded down his cheeks.

“Hold on a minute, sir,” Simmons looked passed Boulton and to an approaching figure. “We may not be out of luck just yet.”

Boulton followed Simmons’ gaze and saw a man turn the corner into Crane Court from Fleet Street carrying a battered wooden container the size of a hatbox.

His eyes were verdant sparkles, at odds with the serious and unsmiling face in which they were set. He was not younger than thirty years of age and was strongly built, but he pulled and fidgeted at his clothes. Although they were neat and clean, they seemed to sit uncomfortably upon him, as if they were new or were seldom worn. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was long, bleached a lighter shade of brown by the same sun that had tanned his skin, and it had been hurriedly tied back into a ponytail. On top of his head was a three-cornered hat which, unlike the rest of his ensemble, was battered and worn.

He was tall and walked with his chest thrust out, but not in a way that was pompous or aggressive. His upright gait only implied a sense of certainty of purpose and direction that, when combined with his size and build, sent out a subtle message to others that it might be better to step aside rather than to block his path or hinder his progress.

But Boulton was in no mood for subtleties. He grabbed Simmons by the elbow and rushed straight towards the man who saw the pair coming and, sensing a confrontation, instinctively pulled the box towards his chest with his left arm in order to free his other.

He veered to the right so as to avoid them, but they changed course to match him and just as a collision seemed inevitable, Boulton beamed his most convincing smile and opened both arms expansively, effectively blocking the pavement. “We thought you would never come! Please do hurry, Sir Joseph is waiting.”

The man let the case drop to his side and replied with the faintest of Lowland lilts, “Sir Joseph Banks? Waiting for
me
?”

“Indeed,” said Boulton hurriedly, his smile widening to almost impossible proportions. “He’s with the Admiralty right now, deciding who will go on the expedition. We must hurry.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” the man said firmly. “I'm here to deliver seeds and a sample of
Paeonia albiflora
.” Boulton looked to Simmons, who simply shrugged.

“From China?” he said holding up the box by way of explanation. “They are for Mr Solander from Mr Aiton.”

“Seeds?” asked Boulton, caught between confusion and disappointment.

“Yes, seeds. My name is Francis Masson. I’m an under-gardener at the service of His Majesty the King at his gardens at Kew.”

“Seeds,” Boulton repeated emptily. “So … not an explorer, then.” His eyes started to lose focus.

But a smile had started to spread across Simmons’ feral face. “Did you say a gardener, sir?”

“Under-gardener, actually, I—” began Masson.

But Simmons cut him off, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice. “With, I am sure, an excellent knowledge of flowers?”

Simmons glanced sideways at Boulton, who started to nod enthusiastically. Simmons then reached up and, although barely able to place both hands on Masson’s broad shoulders, he looked the taller man square in the eye before asking, “Mr Masson, sir, you’re in good health, I trust?” He gave the man a firm slap on the shoulder as if to check.

“Well, yes,” Masson said, trying to shrug out of the smaller man’s surprisingly firm grasp. “But I’m afraid that I am late already, and Mr Aiton would be most displeased—”

“You know your north from your south?”

“Of course, but if you will just step aside,” replied Masson, beginning to lose patience.

“Then you, sir, are just the man we need! Isn’t that so, Mr Boulton?”

Boulton looked Masson up and then turned back to Simmons. A smile slowly replaced his frown and surprised by the certainty he suddenly felt, he could only utter a single word in reply:

“Absolutely.”

With no time left to lose, Simmons and Bolton frogmarched a still-protesting Masson through the front door and down panelled corridors that smelled of tobacco and old books.

Sir Christopher Wren, Samuel Pepys, the Earl of Halifax, Isaac Newton — not a smile amongst the bunch of them as they peered mirthlessly down from beneath flowing wigs, captured for posterity on canvases that lined the walls of the corridors along which the three men now raced. Through the efforts of these men, the Society had claimed a place at the forefront of the enlightened world and as Masson was dragged beneath their eminent gazes, he couldn’t help but feel that the only emotion their unblinking stares conveyed was one of undisguised disdain.

But Boulton was in no mood for giving sightseeing tours or for appeasing the spirits of deceased fellows. Neither was he too concerned by the Society members who were still alive but were either too slow or too preoccupied with ruminations of greatness to mind their backs so that they were pushed aside as the trio scrambled to get to Sir Joseph’s rooms on the second floor.

“Flowers are the new gold, Mr Masson,” Boulton wheezed as his silver buckled shoes thumped up the solid oak treads. “Scientists want to study them, merchants want to trade them and no stately home can be considered complete without its own collection of exotics. We need bold men to search out these treasures, and Sir Joseph will reward you handsomely for your brave decision to volunteer.”

At the top of the stairs, Boulton tried, with the little breath he had left in his lungs, to prepare Masson for his interview. “Now, just remember,” he wheezed, “Sir Joseph is a man just like the rest of us. He breathes the same air and is as fond of a joke as the next man. So just answer whatever questions he has for you, and as long as you don’t ramble, stutter or hesitate, you will be fine. There is absolutely no need what so ever to be nervous. Is that clear, Mr MacMasterton?”

“It’s Masson, sir, Francis Masson,” corrected Simmons as Boulton wrapped twice on the large oak-panelled door.

Upon hearing a single, bellowed “Come!” from the other side of the door, Boulton pulled down on his waistcoat, loosened the stock around his neck and, with a silent appeal to the heavens, opened the double doors.

“No, wait,” whispered Masson, urgently trying to grab at Boulton’s arm, but it was too late.

They walked into a large, well-lit office. The sash windows were open on both sides, allowing what little breeze there was to cool the space. To prevent the numerous stacks of documents arrayed around the room from being scattered, fossilised crustacea, stuffed animals, multi-coloured crystals and many other strange and wonderful objects had been brought into service as paperweights.

At the centre of the room was Sir Joseph Banks: naturalist, explorer, knight of the realm and, at just thirty years of age, a legend in his own time.

Masson had heard how, upon meeting a person of great stature, people were often disappointed or surprised that the person was not as large in life as the reputation that preceded them. To Masson, however, Banks did not disappoint.

When Banks discovered that the HMS
Endeavour
would make a journey around the world to observe the path of Venus, he leveraged the full weight of his inherited fortune and family connections to obtain a place on the boat. When the First Lord of the Admiralty blocked his requests, he bypassed the navy and gained approval for his participation from the government instead. He also contributed to the expedition a sum more than double that provided by the King and one hundred times greater than the annual salary of the ship’s captain, James Cook.