We had ample opportunity to apply our new fond nicknames, for having suddenly found myself the mistress of a grand estate with not the faintest idea of how to run a household, I wrote to my mother often with questions posed in every mood from contentment to curiosity and on through apprehension and frantic alarm. My mother never failed to reply with calm, deliberate authority, advising me on hiring servants, managing staff, arranging dinner parties, and hosting houseguests. Other subjects I did not ask her about, but for which she offered suggestions anyway, included when I should call on William’s sisters, including Emily, the one with whom he did not get along; how I should show proper respect and deference to my mother-in-law while firmly preventing her from getting the upper hand; which books and verses to review when I studied the Scriptures; what concoctions I should drink each morning to ensure good health; and other topics, more than I would have thought there was ink enough in the world to transcribe.
I had to laugh ruefully when I remembered my bitter reflections in those last days before my marriage, that soon my mother would no longer command me. I no longer lived beneath her roof, but as I scrambled to learn how to be a wife and the mistress of a household, I found myself deferring to her experience and superior knowledge more than ever.
Then, in the third week of September, I discovered a new reason to seek my mother’s counsel, one I had anticipated with great hope and joy ever since my wedding night.
I was expecting a child.
Chapter Twenty-two
All Who Joy Would Win Must Share It
September 1835–May 1836
Although I thought I might burst with eagerness to divulge my happy secret, I waited until I was certain before I told William. “My sweet, beloved wife,” he exclaimed, embracing me tenderly. “I thought you had made me the happiest of men when you agreed to marry me, but now—oh, Ada, my darling, my jubilance knows no bounds.”
Next I wrote to my mother, smiling as I imagined her response when she read the joyous news. For as long as I could remember, she had impressed upon me my sacred duty to provide heirs, not only to my husband but also to her, to the Wentworth and Milbanke families. How thrilled she had been when I had taken the first essential step toward fulfilling that duty by marrying William. How elated she would surely be when she learned that I was with child!
A few days later, her reply came in the post from Southampton, where she was staying in a rented cottage by the sea with one of the Furies, Miss Montgomery. Eagerly I opened the letter, expecting to bask in her happiness and praise, and feeling a twinge of glee when I thought of how the spiteful Miss Montgomery would have been obliged to express at least grudging delight when my mother had shared my happy news.
Dearest Ada,
If what you surmise be true, you must expect to feel very uncomfortable for a few weeks—perhaps depressed, but if you remember this, the misfortune which would otherwise appear real, will seem to you the mere results of physical causes. You must take great care of that back of yours, and it will be difficult for you to do so in company without occasioning the sort of remarks that would be particularly unpleasant as people are very ready to suppose this cause.
The less known to others the better till it cannot be concealed.
I read on, disbelieving, as she turned the subject to her most recent illness, which seemed to be abating as she had been able to eat a little porridge that morning, and Miss Montgomery’s current illness, which was not as serious as my mother’s although she complained twice as often and thrice as loudly.
I had never been able to interest myself in their rivalry of infirmity, and on that day I found it especially irritating. Where were her congratulations and good wishes? Where was her pride in my duty fulfilled, at least imminently so? Where was her gratification in learning that in a few months’ time, she would cuddle her first grandchild? Where, for that matter, were the endearing nicknames I had come to expect in her salutations, instead of the terse “Ada”? At least I was still “Dearest,” but she wrote that even to people I knew she disliked, so it brought me no comfort. Nor did her chilly reluctance to accept my news as something confirmed rather than surmised, or her gloomy predictions of depression and back pain.
“I simply don’t understand her,” I grumbled to William as we enjoyed a late, private supper in our dining room, the windows open to the cool evening air, which carried a crisp hint of autumn. “How difficult would it have been for her to write, ‘My dearest daughter, how happy you have made me with your wonderful news. I cannot wait to kiss my darling grandchild. I hope you are feeling well, and I trust that you are resting and eating as you should. Your blissfully contented and infinitely proud mother,’ et cetera?”
“I’m sure that’s what she meant.”
“There’s nothing in her letter to suggest that.”
He sighed and cut his roast duck into tiny pieces. “Perhaps she’s so eager for a grandchild that she would prefer not to get her hopes up until the doctor has confirmed your condition. Also, she’s probably worried about you, about your health and your upcoming ordeal. I am too. Whatever you’re interpreting as abrupt and cold is probably intended to be rational and calming.”
Incredulous, I set down my fork and fixed him with a level gaze. “You always take her part. I think you adore my mother so much that if not for the aforementioned necessity of producing heirs, you would have preferred to marry her instead of me.”
His dark, piercing eyes met mine for a moment, but he took his time chewing, swallowing, and sipping his claret. “I understand that ladies in a delicate condition are subject to curious and often exasperating moods,” he said, unperturbed. “Keeping that in mind, I will forgive you that wholly inappropriate remark, which does not become you.”
I gaped at him, astounded to hear him sounding like a baritone version of my mother. They were in perfect agreement on almost everything, especially when I was concerned. Little wonder they got along so well. I briefly, irritably wondered if I should have instead married someone my mother disliked, someone more inclined to take my side, but I loved William dearly and shoved those disloyal thoughts aside.
Striving for the rational calm William had displayed, I waited a day before responding to my mother’s letter. Before I took pen in hand, I decided to assume that my husband was correct and that my mother’s restraint resulted from disbelief that I was truly with child. Leaving unspoken my disappointment that she had not received my good news with the elation I might have expected, I informed her that I would soon be examined by the King family physician, whom I expected to confirm my diagnosis. In the meantime, the more intense symptoms I had experienced since my last letter, unrelenting nausea in particular, certainly seemed to point to one happy cause. I underlined “happy,” hoping she would eventually see it as such.
A letter soon came from the cottage in Southampton, but the tone was decidedly one of resignation, not joy. “I think from what you tell me of the fastidiousness of your stomach, that your fate is decided,” my mother wrote. “I have kept my mind in a state of perfect neutrality on the subject. If it is appointed for you to undertake the responsibilities of a Mother, I cannot doubt that they will conduce to your personal welfare, if rightly discharged. I fancy too that your husband will like to have a child to play with.”
It was cheering to see that she had come around to the idea that some happiness might result from my condition, even if it was only that it pleased her to imagine William playing peekaboo with a smiling cherub. I was tempted to dash off a caustic note deriding her “perfect neutrality” and reminding her that producing an heir was the entire point of my marriage, or so she had always taught me, but since William and I intended to visit her in Southampton the following week, provoking her seemed unlikely to bring me any lasting satisfaction.
Instead I wrote to William’s mother and his three sisters, and in the days that followed, I received three warm and happy replies. From Emily
I heard nothing, but Hester’s delight more than made up for her eldest sister’s silence. “I shall come and care for you in your confinement,” she promised, “or come afterward to help you recover from your ordeal, or both, or neither, as you prefer. I pray you are well and I hope the babe resembles you and not my ugly brother (and you may tell him I said so for he will know I am only teasing).”
I doubted very much that William had told my mother of my disappointment, for it might have sounded like a reprimand, perish the thought, but by the end of September, her letters suggested that she was gradually accepting the idea of my pregnancy. That was fortunate indeed, as her grandchild was coming in May whether she liked it or not. As for me, I was happy and excited, for the most part, although I did suffer occasional bouts of trepidation, like any other expectant mother.
The date of our visit approached, and as William and I traveled about seventy-five miles south of London to the Hampshire coast, I prepared myself to find my mother in any mood from indifference to outrage. Yet when we arrived at her cottage, she greeted us with warm embraces and solicitously asked me how I was feeling. “Come inside, Ada,” she scolded as if I had been standing shoeless and hatless in a snowstorm. She guided me inside to a comfortable armchair, which I did not really want because I had been sitting for hours, but I was too surprised to refuse.
She told us that Miss Montgomery had left the previous day to visit a niece in Swindon, a development I silently cheered, for it dramatically improved the forecast for our visit. We settled in to catch up on all the family news, and when my mother’s tone remained resolutely pleasant, I relaxed my vigilance and began to enjoy the views of the Channel and the sunshine spilling through the windows.
“I have canceled my plans to go to Greece,” my mother announced at supper that evening, a simple affair with plain, wholesome food that comforted my unsettled tummy.
“Didn’t you want to inspect your estates?” William asked, and I realized with a jolt that he knew much more about her plans than I did. A few months before, she had spoken vaguely about going to Europe after the wedding, but she had not decided between Malta, Euboea, or Switzerland, where she hoped to learn more about the Hofwyl method of education. That was the last I had heard on the subject, but apparently she had kept William better informed.
“My cousin Edward Noel is serving as my agent there, and he keeps everything in good order. Besides,” she said, reaching for my hand, “if I went, I almost certainly could not return in time for the introduction of your young gentleman into the family circle. I would not miss that for the world.”
“When the time comes,” I confessed, astonished but grateful, “I’ll feel better knowing you’re near.”
“As will I, but we’ll make sure you’re attended by the finest doctors.” She smiled fondly at us both. “How handsome and intelligent the child of such parents shall be. He is sure to delight all who see him.”
“‘He’?” William echoed, smiling. “‘Him’?”
“Yes, you see, I’ve determined that I shall have a grandson.” Squeezing my hand, she gave me an appraising look, and my first instinct was to promise that I would certainly give it my best attempt. “Have you settled upon names?”
William and I exchanged glances, and I carefully said, “We’ve considered a few, but we still have several months to decide.”
“Byron, perhaps,” said my mother, as if it had only just occurred to her. “The name could not otherwise be preserved.”
“That’s the very name I would prefer if we have a boy.” William and I had considered it but had regretfully abandoned it, assuming my mother would strongly object. “Anne Isabella for a girl, although we shall call her Annabella, like her namesake.”
“Very fine names indeed,” said my mother, glowing. To William she added, “I’m sure I have you to thank for this honor.”
“On the contrary,” he said, “it was Ada’s idea.”
My mother smiled and nodded, but she did not seem convinced.
As the days passed, I began to wonder, somewhat irritably, why my mother would not prefer to name my firstborn after William, for the mutual admiration between my mother and my husband, so evident in their letters, now swelled and spilled over like bread dough left to rise in an undersized bowl.
Recently William had decided to emulate my mother by opening an industrial school in the town of Ockham modeled after hers in Ealing Grove. He had toured the school near Fordhook shortly after we had returned from our honeymoon, and for the next fortnight letters had flown between my husband and my mother as he queried her about educational philosophies and pedagogy. When he had announced his intentions, I had been proud of him, and pleased to know that I had married a generous man who cared about his tenants and the working poor. Before long, however, my misgivings had grown as their correspondence had consumed increasingly more of the leisure hours William had once spent with me.
In selecting an appropriate building, appointing a headmaster, hiring teachers, and establishing a curriculum, he had put himself entirely under my mother’s direction. He would have been foolish not to benefit from her experience when she had so willingly offered her help; but even so, I wished he had sought my opinion now and then too, for I could have offered useful suggestions, especially about the mathematics curriculum. I felt excluded, as if I had been sent upstairs to the nursery with my governess while the adults discussed important matters in the library.
William was almost eleven years older than I, and my mother was only thirteen years older than he, so I supposed it was only natural that they would share certain opinions and interests that I did not. And yet I found it vexing when he went from consulting my mother about founding a school to soliciting her advice about managing his estates, his farms, his tenants, and many other matters. I was only nineteen, but I was Lady King, his wife, and a rather clever and well-read person besides, and I longed for him to care as much for my opinion as he did for my mother’s.
After four days with us in Southampton, William returned to Ockham to practice maneuvers with the Surrey Militia, one of his favorite obligations of his role as lord, while I remained with my mother. It was the first time William and I were parted in the three months of our marriage, and I missed him terribly. I distracted myself with reading, studying mathematics, exchanging letters with Mrs. Somerville and Fanny Smith, and taking long, leisurely walks through the village and along the shore.
Despite these pleasant distractions, I was lonely without William. I wrote to him every day, but he rarely responded. My mother reminded me that he was busy with the militia and likely had few opportunities to take pen in hand, but knowing how he had written so frequently to my mother even when he had been occupied with the business of his estates, I could not help feeling abandoned. “If I could only impart to you how happy it makes the poor Bird to receive your letters, long or short, you would be quite happy,” I wrote him forlornly in the second week of October. “The poor Birdie feels grateful even for a few lines from her dear Crow.”
I grew restless for news, not only from home but also from London. “I wonder how Mr. Babbage is getting along with his engines,” I mused one day, disconsolate, after my mother sorted the post and found nothing for me. I had not seen or heard from Mr. Babbage since before my wedding. How I missed his cheerful company and fascinating conversations. I fervently hoped I would be able to attend at least a few more of his delightful soirées before my delicate condition became noticeable and it would be unseemly for me to appear in mixed company.
One sunny morning I arranged for the use of a horse and went riding for an hour and a half, but when I returned to the cottage, happily fatigued and breathless, I found my mother pacing fretfully in the sitting room. “You must be more cautious,” she scolded me as I removed my hat and gloves. “Excessive activity could cause you to lose the baby.”
“Excessive inactivity could cause me to lose my mind,” I re
torted lightly, refusing to let her spoil my good mood. “The baby is still so tiny, Mama. There’s very little that can harm it.”
“That’s no excuse to be reckless.”
Reluctantly I agreed not to ride at any pace swifter than a walk while upon the unfamiliar horses at Southampton, but I refused to promise that I would not ride at all while I still could.
No sooner had we reached accord on that issue than my mother raised objections to my long walks. “Exercise is hazardous in your condition,” she declared, and when I came down with a slight cold, she cited that as evidence that I should spend most of my day reclining with my feet up. Her constant vigilance almost made me nostalgic for her indifference.
On the last day of my visit, I was packing my bags in my bedchamber when my mother entered, carrying a pasteboard box. “I wondered if you might have room for this,” she said, her expression serene and inscrutable.
“It would take up a lot of room, so it depends what it is,” I teased, but when she held it out to me without a word, I set down the petticoat I had been folding, accepted the box, and lifted the lid. Inside was an inkstand of gleaming silver and ebony, about twice as long as it was wide and deep, with two inkwells and caps, a shaker for sand, and a drawer for quills and wipers. Although it had evidently been carefully cleaned and polished by a loving hand, it showed signs of frequent use, and I knew at once that it had been my father’s.
When I glanced up from this treasure to turn a quizzical look upon my mother, she folded her hands at her waist and met my gaze calmly. “It was Lord Byron’s,” she said. “Your aunt Augusta received it shortly after his death, and earlier this year she gave it to me, as a token of her thanks for assistance I offered to her daughter Medora—” She made an impatient gesture to indicate that we would not discuss that now. “I think it would look very well in your new study at Ockham Park, if you would like to have it.”
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