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It never occurred to her that the intricate drawings could have been done by a housemaid. Named Daisy. And they’d stopped at the same time that Daisy, now quite elderly, had died.

She had not attended the funeral. Why would she?

“This is the last will and testament of William Wolcott, of Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk.”

The solicitor looked over his glasses at the spinster at the far end of the long dining table.

Daisy’s mother, mourned by the entire county as a great contributor to the local hospital and orphanage without her ever actually visiting either, had predeceased her father by a number of years.

And now, at the age of thirty-eight, Daisy was an orphan. And quite a wealthy one at that.

“Can you just tell me how much?”

The solicitor, Mr. Longines, did not approve of women. In any form. And the form this one took was particularly egregious. In his view, women should be ornamental at the very least. And useful, definitely useful. Like a nice chair.

This one, with the common name and plain features, was neither of those things. A spindly spinster. An uppity woman.

He looked back down at the document and wished he could lie. But while tempted, he realized he’d soon be caught out, and annoying this creature was not worth being disbarred.

“Your father has left you, with the exception of some bequests to servants and retainers, his entire estate. It includes this property, the home in London, and…” He paused. He could at least make her wait.

But Daisy Wolcott, instead of satisfying him by proving that all women were indeed impatient, just sat there. Completely composed and apparently content to wait.

She’d chosen the one chair that sat in direct sunlight. Something no woman in her right mind would ever do. A pale complexion was considered the height of elegance.

Daisy Wolcott’s face was tanned dark brown, and was leathery, lined. Her hair, shot through with grey, was held back from her face with what looked like twine, some strands of hair coming loose and lying across her ruddy cheek and down her thin neck.

Her long black mourning dress was embroidered with silver threads in the shape, he now noticed as the sun’s rays hit it, of vines. It was as though some luminous creeping weed was wrapping itself around her.

Lunatic, he thought. Ten to one she ends up in Bedlam.

“… his investments, which total four hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds sterling.”

What a waste, he thought as he removed his pince-nez and looked at her.

The only reaction was a slight lifting of her thick brows.

“Thank you, Mr. Longines.” She got up and without even offering him a glass of sherry, as was customary, opened the dining room door and practically shoved him into the waiting arms of the butler, the son of Hoake. In her mind, she thought of him as Acorn.

As she closed the door on the little man, Daisy leaned against it and broke into a huge grin.

She knew her father was rich, but everyone they knew was. She had no idea that, on his death, she would become one of the wealthiest women, people, in England. Which made her one of the wealthiest people in the Empire. Which made her one of the wealthiest people in the whole wide world.

Pushing herself away from the door, Daisy Wolcott flung out her arms and danced. With abandon. Twirling, her long hair set free, she spun like a dervish in the sunlight. Until, dizzy, she collapsed in a heap, feeling the warmth on the carpet beneath her. Sunlight surrounded her. Embracing her. Illuminating her. Feeding her.

Her cat, Peduncle, walked over from her place in the sunshine and curled up on Daisy’s lap.

And then Daisy Wolcott got up and got to work on her passion project.

Selling the home in Mayfair in London, she bought a place overlooking the Chelsea Physic Garden, of which she soon became patron. Created in 1673, it was the oldest and one of the smallest gardens in the capital. But no less extraordinary for its size.

It was made necessary when explorers, horticulturalists, returned from treks far and wide with samples of medicinal plants. They needed some place to put them that was away from the center of the great city.

London soon engulfed the walled Physic Garden, but it never lost its vocation. It eventually became home to the largest and most diverse collection of medicinal plants in the Empire.

While the garden’s executive was happy to take her money, they stopped short of putting her on the board.

Daisy Wolcott didn’t care. She struck out on her own. She and Peduncle signed on for long sea voyages to reach remote islands. They pony-trekked over Asian mountains, and into rainforests and jungles. Hiking up her long skirts, she sat in dugout canoes, paddling along alligator-infested rivers, while the cat stared over the edge at her own marvelous reflection.