The butterfly collector, p.1
The Butterfly Collector, page 1
‘Fans of Natasha Lester and Kate Morton will absolutely devour The Fossil Hunter. It is the kind of story you can easily get swept up in. Readers interested in Australian history, museums, and the fascinating world of fossils will be especially delighted with Cooper’s stunning new historical novel.’ —Better Reading
‘Cooper fills the page with strong and intriguing female characters. There is a soupçon of romance but the real focus is on these trailblazing women. Highly recommended.’ —Booklist
‘Elegant … Cooper’s confident prose and deep empathy for her characters will keep readers hooked as she unspools her intrigue-filled mystery. Historical fans will want to dig this one up.’ —Publishers Weekly on The Fossil Hunter
‘Cooper again indulges her love of museums and historical relics to produce a fascinating tale.’ —The Australian on The Fossil Hunter
‘Tea Cooper’s meticulous prose and deft phrasing delight the reader.’ —Historical Novel Society (US) on The Cartographer’s Secret
‘Cooper gets to the heart of a family’s old wounds, puzzles, and obsessions, while providing a luscious historical rendering of the landscape. This layered family saga will keep readers turning the pages.’ —Publishers Weekly on The Cartographer’s Secret
‘Weaving together historical facts with fabulous fiction, Tea delivers a richly imagined world. Her research is impeccable and the era vividly drawn … [she] excels at writing complex, strong female characters. Evie and Lettie, and their dual timelines and tales, are completely mesmerising. I devoured this novel over the weekend and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. The Cartographer’s Secret is an excellent Australian historical.’ —Better Reading
‘… set in New South Wales’ Hunter Valley [this book] follows the determination of a young woman, Letitia Rawlings, who is trying to uncover the truth of the disappearance of her aunt three decades earlier … Cooper is known for her strong female protagonists, and the way she brings historical narratives to life in such a visceral way.’ —Mamamia on The Cartographer’s Secret
‘A new Australian historical fiction book by Tea Cooper always gives reason to celebrate. So many of her previous works are both engaging and masterfully crafted tales of mystery and intrigue that allow her readers to journey alongside strong heroines and enticing tales. In her latest, Tea once again provides the perfect blend of fact and fiction in this riveting historical mystery.’ —Great Reads and Tea Leaves on The Cartographer’s Secret
‘… a delicate union between historical fact and compelling fiction. The Cartographer’s Secret presents a remarkable voyage of adventure, exploration, mystery and family secrets … a delightful tale that historical fiction fans will not want to miss. … Take a trek back into Australia’s stimulating past, thanks to the masterful writing of Tea Cooper.’ —Mrs B’s Book Reviews
‘… a mesmerising historical mystery.’ —Herald Sun on The Cartographer’s Secret
‘Take a journey into the heart of Australia’s past, in the company of the strong and inspirational characters in Tea Cooper’s latest triumph, The Girl in the Painting. A stunning historical timepiece … one of Australia’s leading historical fiction specialists.’ —Mrs B’s Book Reviews
‘Refreshing and unique, The Woman in the Green Dress sweeps you across the wild lands of Australia in a thrilling whirl of mystery, romance, and danger. This magical tale weaves together two storylines with a heart-pounding finish that is drop-dead gorgeous.’ —J’nell Ciesielski, author of The Socialite
‘Readers of Kate Morton and Beatriz Williams will be dazzled. The Woman in the Green Dress spins readers into an evocative world of mystery and romance in this deeply researched book. There is a Dickensian flair to Cooper’s carefully constructed world of lost inheritances and found treasures as two indomitable women stretched across centuries work to reconcile their pasts while reclaiming love, identity and belonging against two richly moving historical settings. As soon as you turn the last page you want to start again just to see how every last thread is sewn in anticipation of its thrilling conclusion. One of the most intelligent, visceral and vibrant historical reads I have had the privilege of visiting in an age.’ —Rachel McMillan, author of The London Restoration
‘… boasts strong female protagonists, an infectious fascination with the past, and the narrative skill to weave multiple timelines into a satisfying whole … easy to devour.’ —Sydney Morning Herald on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘An exciting, moving and satisfying read.’ —Australian Books + Publishing on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘… weaves a seductive narrative of secrets, memories, lost love and mystery … a freshly drawn bittersweet saga that draws nuggets of “truth” with timeless magic and might-have-beens.’ —North & South Magazine (NZ) on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘Cooper weaves historical fact and creative fiction through the two periods with success. The plot … contains Cooper’s signature mix of colonial and indigenous social history, scientific discovery, mystery and a hint of romance.’ —Historical Novel Society on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘Cooper is a welcome inclusion to the rising ranks of female-centred historical Australian novels.’ —Herald Sun on The Naturalist’s Daughter
TEA COOPER is an established Australian author of historical fiction. In a past life she was a teacher, a journalist and a farmer. These days she haunts museums and indulges her passion for storytelling. She is the internationally bestselling author of several novels, including The Naturalist’s Daughter; the USA Today–bestselling The Woman in the Green Dress; The Girl in the Painting; The Cartographer’s Secret, winner of the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award; and The Fossil Hunter.
www.teacooperauthor.com
Also by Tea Cooper
The Horse Thief
The Cedar Cutter
The Currency Lass
The Naturalist’s Daughter
The Woman in the Green Dress
The Girl in the Painting
The Cartographer’s Secret
The Fossil Hunter
(Available in ebook)
Matilda’s Freedom
Lily’s Leap
Forgotten Fragrance
The House on Boundary Street
www.harpercollins.com.au/hq
Contents
Also by Tea Cooper
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
One
Sydney, 1922
‘My office, if you please, Miss Binks.’
Verity flinched. Mr Bailey sounded very serious for a Friday afternoon. Usually at this time of the day the chief editor was full of bonhomie and a hankering to get down to the Glebe Hotel before the six o’clock swill.
‘Certainly, Mr Bailey. I’ll be right there.’ She dropped her coat and hat over the back of her chair and picked up her notebook and pencil.
‘You won’t be needing that. Just a moment of your time.’
Verity smoothed down her skirt and crossed the floor to his office.
‘Close the door behind you.’ Twisting his swivel chair from side to side, his face hidden by a wreath of smoke, Mr Bailey offered a half-hearted smile. ‘I was most impressed with your article. I think we can find room for it in the weekend edition. Bicycles—who would have thought? An excellent angle.’
A great bubble of happiness blossomed in Verity’s chest and she beamed at Mr Bailey.
‘Chip off the old block, hey?’
Perhaps. It was the first full-length piece Mr Bailey had ever accepted. Grandpa Sid would have been so very proud. ‘I have another idea that I would like to …’
He raised his hand. ‘Verity, let me speak.’ With a long and rather painful cough he stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. ‘I really don’t want to have to do this but I’m afraid I have no option. The management’—he pointed to the ceiling with a yellowed finger—‘have decided to implement government policy to the extreme. We have so many returned servicemen out of work. They’ve fought for their country and they deserve all the help they can get.’
Of course they did. So many men, homeless, injured and down at heel begging for money on street corners or curled up in doorways. It was a disgrace. Maybe she should think about writing a piece about that. A call for government assistance, job schemes, housing …
‘And so, unfortunately, I am going to have to let you go. Your job has to go to one of our returned soldiers.’ He handed her a small, buff-coloured envelope. ‘A week’s pay in lieu of notice.’
Her bottom hit the seat of the chair and a streak of pain shot up her spine. A week’s notice? I didn’t write the bicycle piece during work hours. I wrote it at home.’
‘Verity, believe me, the last thing I want to do is lose you but I don’t have any option.’ He knocked another cigarette out of the packet and twirled it between his fingers.
‘What about Sadie?’ She and Sadie were the only two stenographers employed by the paper and they were run off their feet almost every day. Mostly with the classifieds that filled the front and back page of the daily newspaper and brought in a large chunk of revenue. Sadie had lost her husband, had a little boy, lived with her mother in rented rooms, could hardly make ends meet as it was.
‘I’ve already spoken to her. There’s nothing I can do. You’ve both got a week’s money and I’m happy to pay you stringers’ rates, per column inch, for the bicycle article. You’ve got a lot of promise, we could do with some more of these life interest stories for our women readers; there’s only so much food, fashion and relationship rubbish I can stomach. You bring me anything you come up with and I’ll do my best for you. Least I can do for the daughter of one of our heroes, never mind the promise I made Sid.’ Mr Bailey stuck out his hand.
Verity sat, dumbstruck. She hadn’t expected to lose her job. At least she wasn’t as badly off as Sadie. Didn’t have to pay rent, thanks to Grandpa Sid. She had a bit put by, which would see her through for a month or two, but regular jobs were impossibly difficult to find. As a last resort she could let out a room but she didn’t want someone else living in Grandpa Sid’s house. It wouldn’t feel right.
‘Might be time to think about your personal life.’ Mr Bailey raised an eyebrow. ‘Sid wouldn’t like to think of you on your own.’
A wave of anger swept through her. What right did he have to comment on her personal life? At twenty-five she didn’t have to answer to anyone, was entitled to make her own decisions. She wouldn’t be the first. Many women were making the choice to forgo marriage these days; besides, there simply weren’t enough eligible men to go around.
‘Keep in touch, Verity.’ Mr Bailey gestured to the door. ‘Don’t forget to bring me anything you think might be of interest.’ He lit his cigarette and vanished behind a haze of smoke.
Her legs didn’t want to co-operate but Verity shuffled off, trying to keep her chin up. It was only when she buttoned her coat that she noticed Sadie’s cleared desk. No teacup, no ashtray, no pot of pencils, just the typewriter sitting in splendid isolation.
Verity scooped up the debris on her desk and dumped it in her satchel, put her hat on, stuck her nose in the air and marched out through the sea of faces. A few muttered goodbyes filtered in the air but she couldn’t bring herself to speak to anyone. Didn’t dare, more like—she’d make a fool of herself and burst into tears.
A particularly grey drizzle coated the footpaths and puddles of yellow reflected from the streetlights. She slipped her satchel across her shoulder, unlocked her bicycle from the railings and pushed off. The rhythmic motion of the pedals and the cool wind cleared her head as she meandered through the city and headed for Sussex Street.
Bicycles might have emancipated women, given them a degree of freedom and improved their physical condition, but what good was that if a woman couldn’t work? She’d only managed to hang on as long as she had due to the sense of guilt Mr Bailey harboured because he’d promised Sid he’d keep an eye on her.
Women had voted for the last twenty years but it hadn’t made much difference in the real world, especially since the war ended. Why couldn’t she hold down a job because of her ability? It wasn’t as though she needed to be stronger or brawnier to lift a pencil, answer the telephone or hit the keys on the typewriter.
She coasted down the hill towards The Cut, possibly her least favourite place in the world—in fact, she hated it with a vengeance. The dank, dismal tunnel stank of rats, piss, puke and the sweat of the thugs and petty gangsters who plied their trade in the half-light, but it took ten minutes off the trip home and saved lugging her bicycle up the steps that snaked their way over the road tunnel. A chill lifted the hair on the back of her neck, bringing with it the peculiar sense of being watched. A nasty shiver that had her looking over her shoulder every few seconds. The first time it had happened, she’d put it down to imagination—now she wasn’t sure. She slowed, listened for the sound of footsteps.
Nothing, other than her gasps and the blood pulsing in her ears.
The rough stone walls, mossy green with seepage, magnified her every breath, every sound giving life to the spirits of the convicts who’d hewn the roadway through the sandstone.
Imagination. Nothing but imagination.
She picked up her pace, forced the pedals down. There wasn’t a stretch of The Rocks she didn’t know, every alley, every back street and every row of terraces. After Grandpa Sid died, she could have sold up, moved on, but she’d chosen not to. Tara Terrace, home of her heart and her history—the only remaining link she had with her family.
Without a backward glance, she flew out of the tunnel and along Argyle Street where the lights from the terraces shone a welcome. When she finally swung into the familiar labyrinth of alleys linking the terraces, her thumping heart rate settled. Bent double from the stitch in her side, she sucked in a gasp before slipping her fingers through the white-ant-ridden fence to the latch.
The gate groaned as it swung open and she wheeled her bicycle into the yard and slumped against the shed, waiting for the blood to return to her cramped muscles. The dunny door swinging on its rusty hinges creaked its usual greeting. She cast a hurried glance around, kicked it shut, then propped her bicycle underneath the decrepit lean-to next to the copper and wringer.
Squinting into the pool of light thrown from next door’s yard, she made her way under the clothesline and past the small patch of dirt that had originally been home to Grandma Clarrie’s prized vegetable garden. Since she was out of a job she’d have no excuse not to restore it to its former glory. She traipsed up to the house and retrieved the key from under the rock outside the door. It slid silently into the lock—one twist and she’d be inside, the door shut fast, bolts secured.
‘You’re late, love.’
Verity slapped her hand to her chest to still her thumping heart. ‘Mrs Carr, you made me jump.’
‘Not surprised, skulking around like that. Why don’t you use the front door?’
She didn’t want to confess her fear. No one who’d lived their entire life in the crazy warren of streets that made up Sydney’s oldest suburb would admit to being fazed by the occupants. ‘I came through The Cut. It was getting late and I had my bicycle.’ Besides, she hated using the front door, which opened directly into the parlour. It was like inviting the world into her sanctuary.
‘Wondered where you were. There’s a parcel. On the kitchen table.’
Ever since Grandma Clarrie and Grandpa Sid had passed, Mrs Carr had extended her role of next-door neighbour to mother hen and general busybody, but Verity couldn’t fault her—she’d provided a welcome shoulder on so many occasions. There’d been times, more than she’d like to count, when the offer of a cup of tea and a scone had saved the day. However, Mrs Carr’s habit of nipping in and out of the house rankled. Maybe the time had come to move the key to another hidey hole. ‘A parcel? Who from?’
‘No idea.’ Mrs Carr shrugged. ‘No return address, no name, no nothing. Young lad brought it. I found him hammering on the front door. Personal delivery, he said.’
She wasn’t expecting anything. In fact, couldn’t ever think of a time when she’d received a parcel other than Christmas. ‘Thank you.’
‘Right you are, love. Let me know if you need anything.’ Mrs Carr eased through the gap in the fence and disappeared into her kitchen.
Verity stepped inside, shrugged out of her coat and hung it onto the back of the chair then pulled off her cloche, shaking her hair free. A sliver of moonlight shone through the window; it threw quite enough light to see what was what—every step, every creaking board as familiar to her as the lines on her palm. The fragile pool of light revealed a large box—three foot by two, white cardboard. She ran her hand across the smooth surface and the strangest quiver rippled down her spine.
