by Olivia Waite
Mr. Frampton took up the place on Mr. Hawley’s other side, and Lucy hurried forward to take her allotted seat beside the second podium.
For her sins, they’d seated Richard Wilby on her left. Dinner service began, and Lucy moved food around on her plate, put a little in her mouth to taste the sauce, and sipped only slightly at her wine.
Mr. Wilby, on the other hand, was in the highest of spirits, and tucked into his meat with an appetite. “Is the food always this good?” he asked, then immediately smirked and clucked his tongue. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Muchelney, I forgot—you’ve never been to a Symposium before.”
“Perhaps I never will again,” she replied, just to see him choke a little in surprise. She sipped her wine again, red as blood. “I can’t imagine they are all as dramatic as this one will surely be.”
He snickered. “That would be difficult, considering that we have never had an imposter as a guest before.”
“Of course you have,” Lucy contradicted breezily. Her fears were dissolving into bubbles that fizzed angrily in her thoughts. Not the wine, but the absurdity of it all had gone to her head. “Mr. Arbuthnot St. John in 1768 was found to have falsified several of his much-discussed experiments in magnetism. They struck him from the Fellowship rolls for his deception. That’s only one instance, of course, but there are several others if you look back through the archives of Polite Philosophies. Not one of us is truly safe in this company, Mr. Wilby.” She raised her glass in a mocking toast, letting the rim tilt pointedly in his direction.
It took him a long, long moment to swallow that bite of steak.
Lucy warmed to her theme and leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell me: Do you really think I stole my father’s translation? Or did you just think it was a sound rhetorical tactic to increase your own standing in the Society?”
Mr. Wilby sputtered. “I think we have very little proof that the translation is yours, Miss Muchelney.”
“Other than the fact that it exists and was published with my name on the title page? And that nobody else has stepped forward to claim credit—or a share in the royalties? Which, I should add, are not inconsiderable.”
“People love a scandal,” he sniffed.
“Oh yes,” Lucy said with relish, “they very much do.”
Mr. Hawley rose from his seat just then, and as he took the podium, the patchwork of arguments gave way to a single taut and very pregnant silence. “Gentlemen, Society Fellows, and honored guests,” Mr. Hawley began. “I had prepared some few remarks with which to open tonight’s discussion, but . . .” He glanced at the papers in his hand, and then uneasily at the marquise. He coughed slightly and allowed himself another gulp of wine. “Upon reflection, I think the most direct way is simply to begin. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Gervaise Marie Oléron, Marquise de Lantier.”
Applause started up automatically, then scattered, and mixed with increasing murmurs of surprise as the marquise rose, thanked Mr. Hawley, and glided over to stand at the podium.
She cast her eye over the muttering assemblage of gentlemen like a general surveying the field. “So,” she began, her voice ringing out to the very edges of the room.
Silence fell, almost in spite of itself. A few gentlemen who’d lurched to their feet slowly sat down again.
Lucy hid a smile. The marquise had grown up in the shadow of Voltaire, and survived both the Revolution and Napoleon’s empire. Of course she would refuse to be quelled by a roomful of fractious academics.
She began again as soon as she had the room’s attention. “My mother, Gabrièle Louise de Castagnère, Comtesse de Semur, was the first to translate Isaac Newton’s great works into French for our astronomers, philosophers, and mathematicians. Her translations are still the primary editions used in my country to this day, nearly a century after she published her translation of the Principia. I grew up with Monsieur Newton’s Opticks instead of bedtime stories, and my life’s work has been to build upon the truths he discovered and the calculations his work made possible. He claimed he had only seen further because he stood on the shoulders of his predecessors. So, too, does our age seek to look ever farther—and higher—the better to comprehend our place in the universe.
“It is a jostling business, this climb. We must take care that what we set our feet upon is sound, and that it can support us as we move higher. We have to trust one another, that we don’t end up pulling one another down in the scramble to succeed. And all of us, even the most brilliant, even Newton himself, must yield pride of place to the generations who come after us.” She paused, and her eye pinned every member of the audience in place. “Your English astronomers now can begin to evaluate how sturdy my own conclusions are. You have invited me into your Society as an honor—but also to test the one who has framed my words in English, and added explanations of her own. It is of the utmost importance that we understand one another clearly. So I would like to ask her to stand, while I put a few questions to her.”
The crowd hummed like a hive of bees ready to swarm.
Lucy gulped and rose to her feet. The wood of the podium was old and well polished by a hundred years of sweaty hands. She clutched it as she’d clutch a ship’s wheel in the midst of rising wind and waves.
Two hundred faces bent an avid light upon her—but if she looked at the crowd, she would lose all her nerve. Instead she looked steadily at Gervaise Oléron, whose slight nod of approval gave Lucy some relief.
“Miss Muchelney,” the marquise began, “please tell these assembled gentlemen why you chose to expand my Méchanique celeste, rather than translate it plain.”
Lucy’s mouth went slack with surprise, before she caught it. Judging by the murmurs in the crowd, this was just as unexpected a tack for them as it was for her.
She cleared her throat and managed not to let her voice shake as she answered. “I admired the work extremely—but one of the reasons I admired it was that it synthesized so many ideas from so many other places. Newton, obviously, but also Lavoisier, Euler, Lagrange. Probably others I have not yet read. There are not many of us—especially among English astronomers—who have read all these authors either in the original or in a reliable translation. In your book it was . . . it was as if you’d built a ship and were sailing somewhere new. And important. I didn’t want anyone to be left behind.”
Lucy turned her head, and her gaze found Catherine out there in the crowd, haloed in candlelight, her eyes tender as morning stars.
Lucy smiled, unable to help herself. “I didn’t want anyone to be left behind,” she repeated, “whether or not they’d had the chance to study astronomy before picking up your book. It seemed natural to add explanations, to make it more clear what the text was putting into practice. The section on Saturn, for instance, makes good use of several recent advances, and is particularly worth being widely disseminated. The more minds we have working on a problem, the faster it will surely be solved.”
“And has the reception been what you hoped?” the marquise asked. “Do you feel you have claimed more minds for science?”
Lucy’s eyes found Catherine again. “I would not compel anyone to choose the subject if they were not of themselves inclined to pursue it. Science is not the only noble endeavor in this world.” She raised her voice to cover the affronted murmur that bubbled up at this. “But anyone who yearns to discover more truths about the nature and order of our world—they ought to be encouraged, and not forced to rediscover what other people with better luck or more experience have already found out. Our energies are better spent if we work together than if we struggle separately—men and women of every nation and of every race.”
“Hear hear!” This from Mr. Edwards, as the audience broke out again into restless murmurs.
The marquise raised her hand, and silence reigned again. The whole hall seemed to be holding its breath. “One final question, Miss Muchelney.”
Lucy braced herself.
“What if I told you that in reading your translation, I discovered
an error? A rather glaring one, in fact—fundamental to the section in which it appears.”
Someone gasped. The marquise remained unruffled, her eyes stern, the slight curve of her lips warning Lucy to think carefully.
Lucy took a breath, as the silence lengthened. Denials rose up inside her—it was only natural to defend oneself against such a charge—but another moment’s thought had her setting those instinctual denials aside. There were larger stakes here.
She faced the sea of avid scholars arrayed before her, and took a breath. “First, I would have to count myself in very good company: many of our greatest thinkers through history have been as famous for their mistakes as for their insights. Didn’t Copernicus believe the sun revolved around the earth? And Newton’s own work, though brilliant, has also been proven wrong in a dozen different ways.” A few heads were nodding.
Lucy warmed to her theme. “Second, it would be vital to find out how the mistake came about. Was it an error in my assumptions, or in my data? Was it a mistake of imagination, or of deduction, or of hypothesis? Because unless we fix the way we think, we’ll only be making the same kind of errors every time we try to solve the next problem.”
“Would you publish an updated version of your translation?” the marquise asked, “or just let the mistake stand and move on to other work?”
“I would like to update my translation—but I should have to ask the publisher about that. There may be considerations I couldn’t anticipate, as someone new to the trade. Can you . . .” she paused, then screwed her courage up. “Can you tell me what the error was?”
“Of course. It was in the section about tides and oscillation.” Another hum of anticipation from the audience. “Your English indicates the tidal oscillations are a constant. As indeed they are, and must be. But it was in comparing your translation with my original that I realized my text had been not at all clear about this. It left open the possibility of the moon’s gravity being a single action, rather than a continuous exertion. Which is absurd. So in reading your translation, I discovered my own error.”
A roar went up from the surrounding Fellows.
The marquise chuckled at the consternation, and pitched her voice to soar over it. “I wrote to my publisher for a correction at once. As I told you before, I prefer to be precise.”
For a moment everything in the world was chaos. Half-deafened by the hubbub of voices, Lucy once more sought out Catherine’s face. The countess was laughing, but even from here Lucy could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes.
Relief, pure and sweet as ambrosia, poured over her. It was done. Oh, there would still be doubters to mutter quietly in the corner—but Lucy had stood up in front of the whole Society and proclaimed the truth about her work. Many of them had even accepted it: Mr. Edwards was applauding wildly and no few others were joining him.
The marquise lifted her hand—just a touch—and the hall went silent. She nodded at the President. “I believe I have fulfilled my role in this discussion. Mr. Hawley, I yield the floor to you.”
More applause, though not without an undertone of uncertainty. The Society President bowed over the marquise’s hand and stood before the podium. He looked shaken, winded, as though his whole world were spinning around him.
Lucy could sympathize, though not without a little vicious glee.
He cleared his throat twice before he managed to form words. “My esteemed Fellows of the Polite Science Society: tonight we invited one of the most brilliant scholars of our age to become the newest addition to our fellowship. Her words tonight have moved me greatly. They ring of the same keen insight that makes her astronomical work so substantial and significant.” He deflated a bit, then pulled himself up again. “The Polite Science Society has never before admitted a woman into our lists. But tonight, let this tradition yield to a new and better one, even as we all must yield to the discoveries of those who follow in our footsteps. Please join me in welcoming our newest Fellow, Madame la Marquise de Lantier.”
This time the applause thundered throughout the room, though Lucy saw one or two scowling faces slip out quietly into the hallway. Lucy herself clapped hard enough to make her palms burn, as the marquise rose to clasp Mr. Hawley’s hand. Mr. Hawley then bid everyone a good night, though it was clear most of the assembled natural philosophers planned to linger and continue their beloved arguments with friends and nemeses alike.
Lucy rose, and Mr. Wilby was not so lost to politeness that he failed to rise with her. “Until next year, Mr. Wilby.”
“Don’t be certain, Miss Muchelney.” His lips were pursed as though he’d swallowed an entire lemon since the discussion began, and with a nod that was barely polite enough to qualify, he scurried hastily away to a knot of red-faced and agitated young men in the corner.
Lucy turned—and found Mr. Hawley approaching. “My dear,” he said, holding out his hands.
Lucy didn’t take them. She only raised her head. “Mr. Hawley.”
He dropped his hands after a moment, chagrin reddening his face like a sunrise. “I’m sure I owe you an apology.”
“I’m sure you do—but there’s someone else you might apologize to first, if you please.”
He huffed a little. “I’m certain I have done nothing to offend madame la marquise—though really, someone ought to have warned me . . .”
“No.” Lucy shook her head. “You ought to apologize to your sister.”
“How did you . . .” Mr. Hawley trailed off, then heaved a lengthy sigh as if letting go a burden long carried. Lucy fancied she could see every year of his age fall over him, one at a time. “We have not spoken in some time.”
“She wanted to become a Fellow,” Lucy said. “I read her letter. You published her letter.”
“Yes. Not because I doubted her ability, but because I wanted to gauge what the rest of the Society thought of the notion of including women of science.” He shook his head. “They were almost entirely against it. The language in the letters they sent back! Those I refrained from publishing—but I never forgot them. They haunt my nightmares to this day.”
“You could have supported her,” Lucy said, her voice low and stern.
“Would that have stopped them? As a Fellow, she would have been far more open to attack. All her work would have been doubted, all her hypotheses resisted. It would have meant endless trouble for all of us, and I cared about her too much to subject her to such a gauntlet.”
“Did she agree with your decision?”
Mr. Hawley sighed again. “I think you know she did not.” He looked over at the marquise, who was laughing merrily at something Mrs. Edwards was saying to her, while the novelist’s husband blushed furiously. “She might have been here tonight,” he murmured, then clamped his mouth shut and drew himself up. “Do you intend to put your name forward for Fellowship in the Society?”
Lucy nodded, holding his gaze. “Will I have your support?”
“My dear girl,” Mr. Hawley began in his usual chastising tone, then seemed to catch himself. “You will,” he said instead. His lips twisted up, but when his eyes met hers again, his gaze was clear and steady. “Though I may argue against many of your conclusions.”
“Have I ever demanded you shouldn’t?” Lucy countered.
“No. You have only ever asked for the truth. Forgive an old, stout man for not bending as swiftly as he ought.” With a bow and a flourish, he walked over to Sir Eldon and Mr. Chattenden, who were looking rather green around the gills.
Lucy was above all a creature of curiosity, and there was one question left unanswered. She made her way through all the handshakes and congratulations to where Mr. Frampton stood sipping cheerfully at his port in a corner. “How did you know?” she asked.
“About the marquise being—the marquise?” He leaned in close. “In one of her early letters, she used a phrase—a very distinctive French idiom—which I’d only ever heard from my grandmother and her sisters from Saint-Domingue. It felt like a wild supposition—but every instin
ct I trust told me it was true.” He hid a smile behind the amber liquid in his glass. “All the same, I was very relieved to greet her tonight and discover for sure that I was right.”
“And it won’t hurt your career any, to be known as a friend of Oléron.”
“A very welcome benefit, I assure you.” His gaze over the top of the glass was untroubled. “She really is the great genius of our age.”
“I know,” Lucy said, and rested a hand on his arm. He stilled, surprised. “Thank you. I am greatly in your debt.” She paused. “Have you put your name forward as a Fellow?”
“Not yet,” he said. “The issues with Mr. Wilby rather put me off, as you can imagine.”
“Would you consider trying now? You’d be assured of the marquise’s support, of course, and Mr. Edwards, among others. And mine, if the vote goes my way.”
He grinned. “Let’s both put our names up, and race each other to the Fellowship. Or else confuse our enemies so much they let one of us slip through in the chaos.”
“And then that one can nudge the door a little wider as they go through,” Lucy laughed. She bid him good-night, and went to find Catherine and Aunt Kelmarsh.
It was time to make her exit, while things were still triumphant.
The journey across the courtyard of Somerset House was completely different this second time—though if anything, it had gotten colder and icier since the Symposium began. Lucy held tight to Catherine’s arm, as Aunt Kelmarsh anchored the countess’s other side.
Lucy raised her head and looked beyond the rooftops of the city—and there above her were the stars, shining only faintly in the London light but still gleaming, eternal and reliable. For a moment she felt she was almost one of them, her heart a glorious, shimmering piece of silver in her breast.
Then Aunt Kelmarsh grumbled something about the food, and Catherine laughed gently, and Lucy found herself back on earth. But a different earth than the one she’d walked just a few hours before. A wider earth, with more space to expand and grow into the best version of herself.
