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in me, but I am afraid that there has been some kind of misunderstanding.”
    Masson heard Boulton gag behind him.
    “A misunderstanding?” repeated Banks.
    “Yes, sir. You see, I only came here this morning at the instruction of Mr Aiton to deliver this specimen to Mr Solander.” Masson held up the box as if exhibiting a piece of evidence to a jury.
    Banks’s look of puzzlement was replaced by one of realisation and then of hard determination as he looked from Masson to the box and then back to Masson again. “I’m sorry, Mr Masson, but I fail to see your point.”
    “My point, sir, is that I did not enlist for the expedition. I merely wish to fulfil the instructions that I have been given by Mr Aiton and to return to my duties at Kew.”
    The silence that followed was profound. Masson did not dare to look behind him, but he was sure that Boulton and Simmons had ceased breathing. Cook was no longer smiling, turned and walked to one of the far windows, removing himself as a witness to the proceedings.
    Banks’s lips tightened into a smile, but his eyes remained murderously cold. “I think you will find, Mr Masson, that your duties have just changed. I am sure that I did not understand that you mean to refuse to complete a task requested by your King?”
    Masson knew then that from the moment he had walked through Banks’s door, any chance of returning to his life at Kew had been lost forever.
    “No, sir. Of course not.”
    “Very well, then. I look forward to hearing of your progress.”
    “Yes, sir. I will do my utmost to ensure that neither you nor the King is disappointed.”
    “I would expect nothing less,” Banks said without a smile.

C HAPTER 6
    K ENT , J UNE 1772
    Masson sat alone at the foot of the bed in the spare room of his mother’s cottage and smiled at the irony of Banks’s request. He would be travelling “light” not because he had to, but because he had no other choice.
    His luggage, which had brought from his lodgings at Kew, consisted of a single leather valise which he carried on a strap that hung from his shoulder and which had his initials, now flecked and fading, stamped onto the battered cover flap that was fixed by two brass buckles. In it were packed his toiletries, two changes of work clothes and his Sunday-best shirt, waistcoat and breeches. In addition to the clothes he wore, this represented his entire wardrobe and, apart from the new shoes that his mother had given him that morning, which he could feel were already causing his feet to blister, almost every item had been patched or mended.
    As all of his tools and botanical materials were to be provided for him, the only other things he packed were his most treasured possessions: a small mahogany box and a jackknife. The box, which contained cakes of watercolour paints, brushes, reed pens and a supply of iron-gall ink, was small and robustly made and, like his clothes, had been repaired countless times.
    He always kept the small folding knife close to him, as a constant reminder than for its utilitarian value. His father had given it to him before setting off to join the crew of Fame, a ship belonging to the great British privateer Fortunatus Wright.
    Masson recalled with a sense of loss the stories his father had told him as a five-year-old boy of the French ships that he would sink and the treasure that he would bring back as his share.
    But his father did not return. He was killed at sea, and instead of treasure, Masson’s only inheritance was to be left fatherless and destitute. He never forgot the hole that opened up in his young heart at the understanding that all the stories he had been told of treasure and adventure were nothing more than a prelude to a deep and debilitating sadness.
    He took solace in the things that could be depended upon. He did not seek out friendships, nor did he regret their absence. People, Masson decided, would always let you down when you needed them most. Instead, he found solace in his