Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  When my mother returned from London, I did not mention the unhappy subject, because my thoughts were immediately taken over by her glorious news. After the Separation, my father had insisted that I never be taken abroad, but with his passing, the prohibition had been lifted. The reason my mother had gone to London was to make travel arrangements for us to tour the Continent.

  The wonderful news filled me with elation, followed by a rush of despair when I realized that I would have to leave sweet little Puff behind. Joy swiftly returned, and how could it have not, for I was going to explore wonderful, exotic lands with my good, wise, and brilliant mother. As for Puff, she would be well looked after by the household staff in my absence, and as we packed and prepared, I reassured myself that we would have a happy reunion in a little more than a year.

  My elation dimmed when I was informed that Miss Chaloner would be accompanying us, for her unkind though well-intended evaluation of my beauty still stung. Miss Stamp would come along too, to watch over me when my mother was otherwise occupied. A few more of my mother’s friends and her cousin Robert Noel would round out the party.

  We set sail from Dover in late June, and while Miss Stamp rested below deck with a sour stomach, I held on to the rail and delighted in the rocking of the boat, the wind whipping my hair, the salt spray of the sea upon my face. Our ship docked at Rotterdam, and after spending some time in that city we crossed the Netherlands and entered Germany. I enjoyed our stay in Heidelberg very much, but my mother was eager to visit the spas at Baden-Baden, so we soon moved on.

  I marveled at the sublime beauty of the Black Forest as we traveled through it, for it was so unlike the gentler landscapes of Kirkby Mallory that I had once believed the loveliest in the world. How wonderful and inspiring it was to discover how vast and beautiful the wide-open world was, how much of it there was to explore and discover! But despite my admiration for the natural wonders I observed there, for me, our stay in Baden-Baden was marred by an unpleasant experience at our inn. One afternoon while my mother was off taking the waters, I was writing letters in the public drawing room, watched over from a discreet distance by Miss Stamp. I had finished my report on my mother’s health and was beginning to inquire about Puff when I noticed a group of tourists congregated by the fireplace who kept giving me quick, curious glances and murmuring among themselves. I smiled politely, but that was a mistake, because it encouraged them to settle into chairs much closer to my table and scrutinize me with no pretense of doing otherwise. They spoke to one another in German, but my German was merely serviceable, and I could not follow their conversation and still concentrate on writing my letter. One word they repeated often stood out clearly: Byron.

  Before long, one of the ladies was elected to approach me. “Excuse me, young miss,” she said in accented but very good English, “are you not the daughter of Lord Byron, the great poet?”

  “I am,” I replied.

  “I thought so,” she said, beaming. “My husband saw your mother’s name on the register, and I believed you might be their child.” Turning, she spoke to her companions in rapid German, and as one they rose, surrounded my table, and bent close to study my features. At once Miss Stamp rushed over like a frantic hen with wings flapping wildly to chase them off, but not before I heard enough words I recognized—father, face, chin, eyes, hair—to understand that they were searching me for signs of my revered parent.

  That evening at supper, a group of Italian men stared at me so boldly that my mother’s cousin, Robert Noel, marched over and demanded in fluent Italian that they turn their gaze elsewhere, and the next morning while I played in the garden, a young woman rushed over while Miss Stamp was distracted and thrust a book at me so suddenly that I instinctively took it. “Küssen Sie bitte das Buch,” she said, gesturing eagerly, tears in her eyes. I recognized “kiss,” “please,” and “book,” so I hesitantly pressed my lips to the burgundy leather cover. With a cry of joy and a wary glance for my governess, she snatched the book from me, hugged it to her bosom, thanked me half a dozen times more, and darted away, leaving me disconcerted and a trifle angry. I assumed that it was a book of my father’s poems, but for all I knew it could have been anything from the Bible to The Mysteries of Udolpho.

  I disliked being examined like some curious beast captured in the vast woodland wilderness of America, and I was heartily glad when our entourage left Germany. But if I am to confess the whole truth—and I suppose that is what is expected herein—I should add that I think what bothered me most about the tourists’ attention was that it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my father. I had not earned my small measure of fame for any of my own accomplishments. Mine were borrowed laurels, and they rested uncomfortably upon my brow. I hoped that someday I might earn my own.

  We traveled on to Switzerland, where we were not recognized, or if we were, the people exercised enough restraint that we never knew it. Lake Geneva impressed me deeply for other reasons—the astonishing beauty of the Alps rising above the crystal blue lake, the refreshing chill of the water, the graceful gliding of the sailboats, the charm of the villages on its shores, the enchantment of the castles.

  One afternoon, I was walking along the shore with Robert Noel, while my mother, Miss Stamp, and Miss Chaloner kept a slower pace some distance behind us. I was happy to have time alone, or close to it, with my mother’s tall, handsome cousin, whom I liked very much. He was always impeccably dressed and had studied the law in Edinburgh.

  Suddenly I glimpsed something through the trees, and I tugged on his hand to draw his attention to a particularly mysterious castle looming above the far eastern end of the curved lake. “That’s the castle of Chillon,” he said, a curious note in his voice.

  “Is it famous?” I asked.

  “It certainly is famous now,” he replied, glancing warily over his shoulder, and I understood at once that he did not want my mother to overhear. “The dungeons beneath that castle inspired Lord Byron’s poem The Prisoner of Chillon. He called the lake by its French name, however—Lac Léman.”

  A thrill of excitement and affinity passed through me. “My father was here?”

  “Yes, Ada. Your father spent a great deal of time in this region.” He gestured to the southwest. “You can’t see it from here, but at the opposite end of the lake, there’s a residence called Villa Diodati. About ten years ago—no, more than that, I think, closer to twelve—your father rented it. He and his guests no doubt had expected to enjoy a balmy summer holiday there, but days of ceaseless rain had kept them indoors. They were amusing themselves by telling ghost stories—”

  “I’m not allowed to hear ghost stories,” I murmured, not wanting him to stop but thinking I should give him fair warning.

  “I know, little cousin. I’m not going to tell you ghost stories; I’m telling you about people telling ghost stories.” He grimaced. “Although I suppose this tale wouldn’t meet with approval either.”

  “You’ve started, so you have to finish.”

  “Fair enough. As I said, they were staving off boredom by telling one another old ghost stories, reading aloud from a book of German tales. Then your father proposed a competition, challenging each of the company, himself included, to write a horror story of their own. Mary Godwin Shelley was one of his guests, and she wrote the tale that she later turned into the novel Frankenstein.”

  “Oh, yes,” I exclaimed. “I’ve heard of it—but I’m not allowed to read it.”

  “That’s just as well. You’ll appreciate it more when you’re older.” He gave me an appraising look. “And if I may, you probably shouldn’t repeat this story to your mother. It’s well-known, but she might not like that I told you.”

  “I won’t say a word,” I promised. It was not the first time I had kept a secret from my mother, nor, I was certain, would it be the last.

  Knowing that my father had walked along that lakeshore and had bathed in those waters
made Lake Geneva even more glorious in my estimation. I spent hours gazing out upon the deep, mysterious lake, admiring the ever-shifting colors and play of light upon its surface. I longed to explore the castle of Chillon and visit the Villa Diodati, and I secretly hoped that curiosity would compel my mother to add excursions to both sites to our tour, but she did not, and I could not ask her to do so without revealing knowledge of my father she would certainly prefer I not possess.

  As winter approached we journeyed south, first visiting Milan and then Genoa, where my mother found us lovely rooms at the Hôtel d’Amérique overlooking the sea. The view enthralled me, not only the magnificent sunsets, but also the boats sailing with such effortless grace as they returned from or departed for exotic ports all over the world. Watching them, I imagined what I would have seen had I stood there in the age of Christopher Columbus, as the great age of exploration was unfolding. How exciting it must have been to watch the explorers’ ships embark upon their hazardous journeys when so much of the world was yet unknown and waiting to be discovered!

  As we intended to remain in Genoa several weeks, my mother arranged for me to have music and art lessons with local masters in addition to my usual studies with Miss Stamp. I loved my singing lessons more than any other pastime, and I took drawing lessons from a respected artist named Signor Isola. I had some talent but I was no prodigy; but as I happily sketched and painted in the benevolent Italian sunshine, it never occurred to me to wonder why such a renowned master would take on a merely modestly gifted eleven-year-old girl as a pupil.

  As spring came, my scientific curiosity compelled me to study the native insect population. The hotel’s garden boasted many large anthills, whose busy, indefatigable residents enthralled me for hours on end as I followed their meandering trails and observed their battles and marveled at their feats of strength. At dusk, scattered clumps of moldering leaves fairly crawled with woodlice, and at night, countless clouds of fireflies sparked and danced from the grasses to the high boughs of the cypress and juniper trees lining the paths. My most exciting discovery was a scorpion that I found boldly crawling along the floor of a sitting room; the snakes, locusts, lizards, and black-and-green frogs I found were beautiful and better mannered, for they remained outdoors.

  I had settled in quite comfortably in Genoa, so when the day of our departure approached, it was not without regret that I packed my bags and bade my teachers farewell. When I parted from Signor Isola, he gave me a lovely gift, a set of crayons and two paintbrushes. “Grazie mille, maestro,” I gasped, delighted with my treasures.

  “Use them well,” he commanded, smiling. “Ah, little Miss Byron, how I have enjoyed our time together. I see so much of your father in you, the line of your jaw, your close study of a subject, the movement of your hand as you put pencil to paper.”

  “You knew my father?”

  His brow furrowed. “But of course. We spent much time working together when he was last in Milan. You did not know?”

  I shook my head, and while I was thrilled to have this new detail of my father’s past, I felt wistful, too, thinking of all the people who knew my father better than I ever would. Each fact, each story that was revealed to me, was a precious jewel I threaded on fine golden chain and wore close to my heart.

  In early summer we resumed our travels, stopping first in Turin, where I marveled at the beautiful views of the Alps from nearly every street in the city and enjoyed the puppeteers and tumblers parading through the streets. Leaving Turin, we crossed the Alps and returned to Geneva, and after a brief stay there we continued on ninety miles to the southeast to climb Mont Blanc, keeping to the lower elevations. I gazed up at the summit, awestruck, and thought very long and hard about how I might attempt to reach the top—how I would prepare myself with strengthening exercises, what equipment I should carry, whom I would include in my party of brave adventurers. The glaciers we spied from a distance filled me with awe and wonder, and at dinner later that evening, I chattered on about them enthusiastically to an older gentleman who had been introduced to us, an authority on the geology of the Alps, and he kindly and indulgently answered all of my questions.

  Our wanderings took us to Vallée de l’Ouche in France for a time, and then back to Germany, where we visited several cities, among which Stuttgart was my favorite. This time my mother had taken the precaution of signing the hotel registers as “Lady Anne Isabella Milbanke,” her maiden name, and so we remained incognito—although I suppose it was possible that we were recognized, but the people politely left us alone.

  As October waned, we returned to Turin and prepared to set sail for England. I enjoyed my second sea voyage as much as I had the first, and when we reached Dover, I felt as worldly, well traveled, and sophisticated as a young woman of almost twelve years could be. My native England felt both familiar and strange, which is also how I felt to myself. Travel had vastly expanded the boundaries of my carefully circumscribed world, and I felt myself utterly transformed, my curiosity whetted rather than quenched.

  Our party dispersed, and the various families and pairs completed their separate journeys home. I longed for Kirkby Mallory, but my mother took us to Bifrons instead. How happy I was to be reunited with Puff, who was no longer a sweet kitten but a proper cat, and even prettier than I remembered.

  I was very grateful for her company, for after my exciting adventures on the Continent, Bifrons seemed even more dull and isolated than before. I suspect my mother felt the same, for she soon set out for London to visit friends, who were all very eager to hear about her travels. “Would you take me with you?” I asked her forlornly as I watched her and her maid pack her trunks, which had hardly remained unpacked a fortnight.

  “My friends did not extend their invitation to you,” my mother said lightly, holding up a silk scarf she had purchased in Turin, considering whether to pack it.

  I thought her reply was very bad form and that she ought to at least pretend to regret that I had not been invited, but I held back the complaint.

  And so she left me, again, and in her absence, I studied with Miss Stamp, played with Puff, and wandered the countryside around Bifrons. I wrote my mother volumes of letters, saying nothing of my sorrow and disappointment that our time together had ended so abruptly. She had seemed to enjoy my company on our tour, although it is true that I was more often with Miss Stamp, and she with Miss Chaloner, than we were alone together. I could not help feeling discarded, as if she could not get away from me soon enough.

  But I could not chase after her, and begging her to come home would only provoke her ire. Resigned, I counted the days until her return, and in the meantime, I devoted myself to my studies, for my intellectual accomplishments always pleased her even when my conversation and company did not.

  Chapter Eight

  More Restless Than the Swallow in the Skies

  December 1827–May 1828

  Bifrons was a cold and damp place to spend Christmas, and when my mother returned home to spend the holidays with me, she came down with a terrible affliction of the chest, with wracking coughs, fever, chills, and constant fatigue. At her doctor’s urging, she departed early in the New Year to take a rest cure in Devon, leaving me at home with my usual entourage of governess, cat, and servants.

  Puff had become quite a naughty little creature, not unlike her mistress at that age. The day after my mother departed, I discovered that my cat had made a secret hiding place in the chimney of my bedroom fireplace. It was a grisly cache, for within it she concealed the poor birds she had caught in the garden, storing them in her makeshift pantry until she wished to eat one.

  I spun this event into a lively anecdote in a letter to my mother, but I could not sustain my pretense of good cheer for long. “Yesterday it was exactly a week since you left Bifrons,” I wrote seven days later, “and now I have before me two long, dull, tiresome weeks just like the one that has passed only that they will appear rather longer and rather
more tiresome.”

  Bored and lonely, I found myself brooding over the poor birds Puff had slain. I wondered how she had been able to catch them, since they had wings and presumably could have flown away. Puff’s stealth and pouncing velocity must exceed the birds’ takeoff speed, I concluded, unless she had caught them while they were sleeping.

  My contemplation of birds reminded me of our tour of Mont Blanc in Geneva, the summit of which I had glimpsed through the clouds from the foothills. I recalled thinking then that if I had been a bird, I could have soared to the highest peak and enjoyed a spectacular view of the Alps and the valleys below.

  Then inspiration struck like a thunderbolt: I could not transform myself into a bird, but perhaps I could create a machine that would carry me into the air like a ship taking passengers upon the sea.

  My imagination caught fire and burned brightly. I studied birds in flight and at rest, determined to ascertain how wings—so fragile, yet so powerful and cunningly designed—could lift a bird’s body and propel it forward. After sketching several designs, I began building a paper model the exact size and proportion of a bird’s wings to its body, working from memory and images of birds that appeared in paintings displayed here and there in Bifrons.

  The next morning, when I did not show up for our scheduled French lesson, Miss Stamp found me in the study bent over my model wings, furiously scribbling calculations on paper. “What are you doing?” she asked, a bit taken aback by my intense concentration.

  “I’m working out the proportions of a set of wings capable of supporting a human body,” I said, my eyes fixed on my work. “A twelve-year-old girl’s body, to be precise.”

  Miss Stamp peered over my shoulder at my sums and figures. “And what have you discovered?”