Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Lady Byron, Miss Byron,” he finally said, “my results confirm something I’m sure you already knew: Miss Byron has a truly remarkable mind.”

  I felt a wave of relief, and when my mother threw me a proud, exhilarated glance, I smiled nervously back.

  “Her intellectual faculties are highly developed,” he said, taking a slender wooden baton in hand and indicating a region on the phrenological map. “Also highly developed are her faculties for Imagination, Wonder, Harmony, and Constructiveness. In short, Miss Byron, I’m sure this will surprise exactly no one, but you have the head of a poet.”

  I felt my mother grow rigid beside me. “What do you mean, Doctor?” she said tightly.

  “Only that she has precisely the mental acumen one would expect a poet to possess.” He shrugged. “Of course, without sufficient interest and proper guidance, the faculties will manifest themselves in other ways. She could grow up to be an excellent hostess and letter writer, for example, without ever realizing her latent potential.”

  “I do write a lot of letters,” I ventured. “I’ve had little opportunity to be a hostess, though.”

  Abruptly my mother rose, startling the phrenologist, who quickly scrambled to his feet. “Thank you for your opinion, Doctor,” she said. “You’ve certainly given me much to consider. Now we must bid you good day. Come, Ada.”

  She left the room, and I hobbled along after her on my cane. Murmuring an apology, Dr. De Ville hurried past me to catch up with my mother, and I arrived at the front door just in time to hear her bidding him a curt good-bye.

  The carriage had taken us halfway home before she finally spoke, as if she were thinking aloud. “I don’t understand it. He found my organ of Sensitiveness to be so pronounced that he wanted to call for immediate medical treatment. How could he so accurately read my head and yet be so wrong about—”

  When she said nothing more, I said, “Logically, we could conclude that he wasn’t wrong about me.”

  “I don’t accept that,” she snapped. “He must have missed something. Perhaps he’s not accustomed to diagnosing young girls. Your species is remarkably difficult to comprehend.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I replied glumly, but she did not seem to hear me.

  In the days that followed, letters flew between my mother and her usual cohort of friends, and when they visited, I overheard myself discussed in hushed, incredulous voices. I was never supposed to have turned out poetical. Even my genius poet father had not wanted that for me. What had the point of my education been if not to suppress the imagination and enhance the intellect? Had all of my mother’s tireless efforts to bring me up in her rational, virtuous image been for nothing?

  “Dr. De Ville made a mistake,” Miss Montgomery said flatly, sipping her tea. “That’s all there is to it. You could not have failed, my dear Lady Byron. It’s simply inconceivable.”

  “Perhaps Ada shifted in her seat during the examination,” said Miss Frend.

  Naturally she would blame me.

  “Perhaps,” my mother mused. Unwilling to hear myself further maligned, I crept silently away, as much as one could creep balanced on a cane.

  It was with more resignation than surprise that I accepted my mother’s announcement a few days later that we would be paying Dr. De Ville a second visit so that he might investigate certain anomalies in my head. “In my head or in his diagnosis?” I queried, somewhat annoyed. “If there’s been a mistake, my head didn’t make it.”

  “Of course I meant in the diagnosis. You parse words like the meanest solicitor.”

  “Evidence of my Intellectual and Constructiveness faculties working together, no doubt.”

  She brought the conversation to a halt with the oft-declared truth that sometimes she did not know what to do with me, and that she hoped someday I would be blessed with a daughter exactly like myself.

  So we returned to London and to the offices at 367 Strand, where an understandably anxious Dr. De Ville examined me more assiduously than before. I sat perfectly motionless in my chair, impersonating as best I could a Greek marble statue, just as Miss Montgomery had admonished me to do in a very sermonic letter.

  Afterward my mother and I sat side by side on the sofa again while the doctor studied his notes. “I see where the difficulty arose,” he announced after a long, tense quarter of an hour. “I did accurately measure the pattern of bumps and dips in my original examination, but there were other factors I didn’t take into account.”

  “What factors?” my mother prompted.

  “Language, for example. While there’s no dip above that organ, there’s no swelling either, which indicates that this faculty is no more or less prominent than the average. Music and mathematics, however, are strongly indicated by the overall shape of the head, and the diagnosis ought to reflect that.”

  My mother inhaled deeply, her shoulders squared, her face perfectly calm. “And by this you mean that her organs of Imagination, Wonder, and Harmony do not lend themselves to poetry, but rather to music and mathematics?”

  “Indeed. The two are more closely related than most people realize.”

  My mother smiled. “Of course. It makes perfect sense.”

  “I do adore music and mathematics,” I ventured, “and I had never intended to be a poet.”

  It was precisely the correct thing to say, apparently, because the doctor heaved a sigh of relief and my mother beamed. I watched them congratulate themselves as he escorted us to the door, hiding my amusement. Why should they not be pleased? They both had gotten exactly what they wanted from repeating the examination. For my part, I had been given another outing to London, so I would not complain.

  Privately, though, I scorned them both for interpreting the evidence to conform to the conclusion they wanted, and I remained skeptical of phrenology ever after. My mother, on the other hand, left Dr. De Ville’s office wholly convinced of its validity. It had confirmed what she already knew to be true, and therefore it must be a legitimate science. She began to study phrenology in earnest and to attend demonstrations of its practical applications, and she developed the custom of evaluating everyone she met according to the shape of his or her head. She did not go so far as to ask new acquaintances if she might feel their scalps for lumps and dips; that was a privilege reserved for her closest friends.

  And what friends they were. I did not care for the women my mother chose as her companions, but how I envied her for having them. I had spent time in the company of my own precious few and maternally sanctioned friends only rarely before my illness struck, and when my vision failed, I had been unable to write to them from my sickbed for many long weeks. Another sad consequence of my affliction was that quite a few of my friends disappeared from my life while I was ill. Others were more faithful, including dear George Byron, whom I still thought of as a younger brother, and my witty, charming friend Fanny Smith.

  A few months after my excursion in the world of phrenology, on 10 December 1831, Fanny wrote me an amusing, one might even say cheeky, letter on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday. “My Dear Ada,” she began, “I wish you many happy returns of this day, and hope that as it is your birthday, you will begin seriously to think about walking with your own legs, instead of borrowing wooden ones, and that your next birthday will not see you still a Cripple . . .”

  No one wished for that more fervently than I, and I exercised faithfully throughout the winter so that I might dispense with cane and crutches once and for all—and acquire the graceful slimness required of any young lady who aspired to beauty. But I devoted myself with even greater alacrity to nurturing my active and fertile mind, which thrived, unencumbered, as if to defy the failures of my body.

  Chapter Eleven

  But Sweeter Still Than This, Than These, Than All, Is First and Passionate Love

  April 1832–March 1833

  By April I could walk quite well on my own, and
I was obliged to resort to the cane only if I had imprudently overexerted myself the previous day. My mother decided that I was strong enough to endure another move, and before I had time to formulate a well-reasoned argument for returning to Kirkby Mallory without displacing her cousin as the estate agent, she leased Fordhook, an elegant villa on the outskirts of Ealing Common. Fordhook had once been the home of Henry Fielding, author of the immensely popular novel Tom Jones and other stories of seventeenth-century manners and debauchery, none of which my mother permitted me to read.

  My mother arranged for several tutors to instruct me, each in his or her own particular field of study. I studied French, German, Latin, history, geography, philosophy, natural science, music (which I adored), and mathematics of every sort (which I adored even more). I excelled in geometry, astonishing my tutor and pleasing my mother immeasurably. I have no doubt that her approbation compelled me to work even harder, to progress more swiftly, to master ever more difficult concepts. If she had expressed as much approval for my advancement in geography, perhaps I might have gone on to become a celebrated cartographer or famous explorer instead.

  There were days I would have happily given almost anything to escape Fordhook and set off on a journey to the remotest regions of the globe, for my mother had enlisted three of her most trusted, most suspicious longtime friends to watch over me during her frequent absences. Between the three of them, Miss Mary Montgomery, Miss Frances Carr, and Miss Selina Doyle—Fanny’s aunt, with none of my friend’s kindness and charm—contrived to keep me under constant surveillance. They noted the time I rose from bed, and if I was a minute late, they called me indolent. They studied my plate at mealtimes; if I finished all I had been served, I was gluttonous, and if I left more than a few polite mouthfuls, I was wasteful. If I did not follow instructions the moment they were issued, I was willful. If I did not humbly thank them for their criticism, I was bold and proud and arrogant.

  What I resented most about their constant scrutiny was how they robbed me of my contemplative solitude. I have mentioned my pervasive loneliness so often that you might assume I hated being alone, but that was not so. I cherished quiet, uninterrupted hours that I could fill up with my thoughts—often mathematical, occasionally metaphysical, sometimes merely whimsical—but my mother’s friends could not bear to see me thus idle, as they perceived it. Perhaps they assumed I was plotting some mischief. If they came upon me lost in reverie, they would order me to take up a prayer book or a pen or needle and thread, work they understood. I gritted my teeth and obeyed, longing for bedtime, when I could lie alone in the darkness and think as much as I liked. They only rarely cracked the door and peered inside to make sure I had not gone astray.

  Every day it was the same. If two of the oppressive trio had their eyes upon me, the third was busily writing a report full of recriminations to my mother, and if only one of them was watching me, the other two were surely off somewhere discussing how dreadful, willful, disobedient, and disrespectful I was. They could not fathom how a lady so wise, so good, so pious, and so admirable as Lady Byron could have produced a child as contemptible as myself. The obvious culprit was the influence of my bad Byron blood, for which my mother was blameless.

  They were each unmarried, and so, unencumbered by the burden of raising their own children, they had enjoyed an abundance of time in which to contemplate how other women ought to raise theirs. Even now I feel my bitterness rising when I remember how they never gave me a moment’s peace, how their accusing, condemning stares followed me everywhere, how they stalked me and crouched and waited to pounce the moment I committed the slightest error. They hated me like poison—why, I cannot say, unless they were jealous of my kinship to my mother, something they could never take from me nor earn for themselves. I have readily admitted that I was far from a perfect child, but they invented and exaggerated stories about me without scruple, as if they sought to drive a wedge between my mother and me. So relentlessly did those odious women hound me that I dubbed them the Three Furies, if only in my own thoughts and in letters to Fanny Smith. I heartily despised them.

  I was granted a slight reprieve from their constant scrutiny whenever my mother returned to Fordhook, for the Furies would much rather spend their time admiring her than glaring at me. Unfortunately, her visits invariably meant at least one conference in her study where I was presented with their charges: willfulness, rudeness, idleness, spitefulness, and a whole host of other offenses.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” I protested, time and again. “They simply hate me and want you to hate me too.”

  “That is nonsense, Ada,” my mother reproached me. “These are good Christian women and they do not lie.”

  “They exaggerate and embellish, then. Ask them to be specific. Demand exact quotes. I can’t defend myself against these generalities!”

  But my protests only made her more certain of my guilt. Every conference ended with me exhausted, resigned, and mumbling promises to do better.

  My only real escape from the Furies was the occasional trip to London my mother treated me to, sometimes overnight, more often just for the day. I was getting about so well by then that I was usually able to leave my cane at home. Perhaps in my absence, my mother’s friends glowered at the cane and wrote scathing reports about its idleness.

  In early August, I enjoyed a fortnight’s liberation from my jailers when my mother took me to Brighton, one of her favorite seaside resorts in Sussex. We strolled along the beaches, attended concerts, spent leisurely hours reading, and, to my immeasurable joy, went riding. I had not sat a horse for ages, and so at first some of my childhood nervousness reemerged, but my riding master was capable and reassuring, and before long I was comfortable and happy in the saddle. My mounts came in every color—black, gray, chestnut—all equally graceful, beautiful, and strong. Once, after my mother observed me circling round a corner at a canter, she told me, “I believe that was the first time I have ever seen you holding the reins entirely to my satisfaction. Well done, daughter.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” I replied, inordinately pleased by the rare compliment.

  While in Brighton, my mother arranged for me to begin guitar lessons, which she said would provide a pleasant accompaniment to my singing. My master was a Spaniard of high rank, Count Urraea, who had been reduced to poverty and expelled from his country along with many other unfortunate refugees. He played with exquisite beauty, and I marveled at his ability to produce the effect of a full band or orchestra, including harp and castanets, from his deceptively simple instrument. I would have declared that his deft, supple hands or at least his guitar had been enchanted by fairies, if I had thought my mother would have been amused rather than annoyed by the fancy.

  If only the Queen of Fairies had spirited away my mother’s friends before we returned to Fordhook, but alas, they had dug themselves in deep, and there would be no uprooting them, only a temporary pruning. They were present for my seventeenth birthday, but they departed to torment their own families for the Christmas season, and so I celebrated very merrily indeed, playing with Puff, singing and playing Christmas carols on my guitar, breathing freely and sleeping soundly as I had not been able to do since returning from Brighton.

  Early in the New Year, my mother decided that I should add chemistry and shorthand to my studies, and she hired two new tutors to instruct me. A retired chemist, gruff but brilliant, instructed me via frequent letters and weekly meetings at Fordhook, where he guided me through instructive and entertaining experiments. The tutor of shorthand, Mr. William Turner, was decades younger but quite accomplished in his own right. He was earnest and patient, even when I became distracted and began sketching Puff or a vase of flowers instead of forming the quick-flowing symbols I was supposed to master.

  I don’t remember when it was that I first noticed how handsome Mr. Turner was, how his brown eyes shone when he was proud of my accomplishments, how his golden hair fell in a silken wave
over his brow when he concentrated, how a charming dimple appeared in his right cheek when he smiled. I endeavored to make him smile as often as I could for the pleasure of watching the dimple appear and vanish and appear again, like a glimpse of the sun through clouds on a stormy day.

  We always chatted briefly before our lessons began and for a few moments afterward, but I longed to know more about him. As the weeks passed, I teased out of him that at twenty he was but three years older than myself, that he had studied at London University, that his elder brother had been appointed the first professor of chemistry there, that he was saving his wages to further his education, and that at present he lived with his parents, elder sister, and younger brothers not two miles from Fordhook.

  “Do you have a sweetheart?” I inquired innocently.

  That elusive dimple appeared and vanished. “No, Miss Byron, I do not have a sweetheart.”

  “Do you wish to have one?”

  He held my gaze for a long moment, smiling faintly, both wary and amused. “If I would happen to meet an amiable young woman who finds me tolerable, I would have no objection.”

  His words brought a rush of heat to my cheeks, and I found myself compelled to look away. I took a deep breath and addressed myself to my copybook, but after that, whenever our eyes happened to meet, I felt a strange, unfamiliar, tremulous warmth in my chest and in my stomach, so that it was exquisitely unbearable to hold his gaze too long.

  Mr. Turner began arriving earlier for our lessons, giving us more time to chat before our formal lesson began, and he often lingered afterward, readily accepting my mother’s offer of a cup of tea if she came looking for me in her study and found him still there. “He’s a very industrious young man,” she told me approvingly one evening at supper. “Far too many young men in his position dash off as soon as the clock strikes the hour. I’m glad he remains until he’s certain you’ve mastered the lesson.”