It is a pleasure to look upon her and see that wishful inkling of my brother. His note to me I have kept all these long years and framed behind glass and put on my dressing table. I show it to her from time to time and tell her, ‘This was a present from your uncle, my brother.’ Just saying the words fills me with pride and sadness in equal, exquisite measure. The loss of him, the silhouette where my mother should have been, and my father more shadowy still – these blank spaces, this hollow in the heart of me, I see now it has driven me onwards, to seek, to find, to be found. For years I harboured a fantasy that my brother would track me down to the asylum, would speak to Matron who would surely recall me, would find his way to my benefactor and appear at our door one glorious day. I pictured his face, his features lengthened by age and hard experience, yet his eyes the same as those I knew as an infant, that smiled kindly upon me. But it never came to pass. I know it never will. Yet I still dream of his face from time to time and wake in serenity. Alexandra has inherited some of his character too, methinks. She is certainly kind and tender, like him, bright and quick too.
She knows how to wield a quill, one of my first gifts to her once she could hold a spoon. No child of mine will be deprived of writing, however young. I continue to write, part for my living – books on my past travels, on my drawings of the natural world, and more recently on children’s primers in science – and in the evenings, once Alexandra sleeps, I write my own private ideas. One day perhaps the world will be ready to hear my hypothesis; it may have evolved sufficiently to accept it from a woman and an orphan, even. But for now I do not attempt to broadcast my dangerous ideas, as I will not threaten my daughter’s future by willingly risking her mother’s place by her side, of removal to the pillory or to prison. I’ll be damned if she might ever know the smallest part of what it feels to be a foundling. I have made more than simply a domicile for us here. My child came into the world in this little house and will always know it as her birthplace. One day, I intend to travel again – to see those exotic creatures I imagine in unknown lands – and Alexandra will come with me. Together we shall seek evidence for my theories in hidden caves and hollows, jungles and oceans, as yet unexplored, undiscovered; beyond the edge of the map, where the sun sets. Yet wherever we journey, like a shell on her back, my daughter will carry the memory of home.
One late March afternoon in 1760, a week or so after her third birthday, we are rambling on the beach, Alexandra running ahead as ever, stopping to hold aloft fossil prizes to show me then placing them in the bulging pocket I have sewn on to her smock for just that purpose. There is a warm breeze this day that blows the surface of the sand in rushing waves upon waves, as if alive – a bright shadow on the sea-damp surface. A figure arrives way down at the end of the beach, near the great dark cliff that looms above us; come from the coastal path, it steps out on to the mingled pebbles and sand. Clothed in a dark coat and broad tricorne hat, Robin Alexander stands on Charmouth beach and scans the scene, his head turning this way and that among the other strollers and fossil-seekers this bright spring day, and then he finds me.
As I walk towards him, he stands straight and serious, not moving. Only as we approach – as Alexandra curves in her circuit and runs to me, hands me the fossils she has no room left to store, then is off again on her own aimless path – can I see his eyes turn to her, a golden-headed ball of energy whisking this way and that with the sea breeze, crunching across the pebbles and talking to the clouds. He watches her, cannot take his eyes from her every move, and only when I am close enough to see there is white in his hair now, and that his left arm is shorter than his right, that indeed his left hand is missing, does he turn to me and meet my gaze. We stand apart, almost four years and convention between us.
‘Are you angry I have come?’ says he.
The sound of his voice, the tone of it, how I had practised the timbre of it for many months in my head, until it faded and at last I had forgotten its exactitude, and now to hear it again is like song.
‘Never that. Does it hurt you?’ I ask, looking at his arm.
‘Not any more.’
‘How did you lose it?’
‘In a mighty sea battle, at Quiberon Bay.’
I had heard of it. Last winter, our navy had routed the French and put paid to their invasion plans once and for all. ‘Our local lord put on a day of festivities in Bridport.’
‘Did you attend?’
‘I did not.’
Years of painful separation and we speak of such trivialities.
Say I, ‘Thank you. For fighting for England, for keeping us safe.’
‘I did my duty.’
‘And did it exceedingly well, I warrant. Can you continue, as a captain, I mean, with your injury?’
‘It is possible. There is an understanding that I could retire honourably, take up a position on land, in Greenwich or suchlike. I have had my fill of war.’
‘How fares your family?’
‘My wife is well. She is very active in society. My boys are now fourteen and have entered the navy, insisting that they serve together on the same ship, against my wishes. They are hearty, brave boys, but they will not be parted for all the world.’
‘They are twins. They are bound to each other.’
There is a fervent silence between us and we may gaze upon each other. I dearly wish to touch him. I take a step forward.
Says he softly, ‘All is dust and ashes without you.’
Alexandra squeals as she has found a sandworm and is dangling it for my approval.
‘Be kind to it,’ I call.
Robin stares at her, then looks to me. ‘You are married now?’
‘You do not know?’
He glances at Alexandra again.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask.
‘I went to visit Woods. He said you had moved to the country, to the West Country in fact, to pursue your studies of the natural world. I do believe he misses your company exceedingly, as he reminisced at length about your younger days. I could extract no further information from him as to your exact whereabouts, without raising suspicion. But as I was leaving, the cook pulled me aside and handed me a slip of paper, your dwelling written on it. We did not speak one word. Excepting that you are here, I know little else.’
‘Dear Susan …’ I muse, then turn to watch my daughter frolic in the encroaching tide. I look to Robin. ‘She is my daughter. Three years old. Her name is Alexandra.’
He watches her. ‘She is beautiful,’ says he.
‘She is yours.’
I have a rowboat we use, Alexandra and me. I have become quite the sailor these three years. On summer days when the sea is warm we slip over the side and I teach her to swim like a fish. Now we take off our shoes and stockings and Robin removes his boots too, swiftly and with no delay; he has become accustomed to a single-handed life. The three of us – barefoot and laughing at the cold sea slapping about our toes – push the boat into the water and hop in. Robin takes up the right oar and I the left, and together we propel ourselves smoothly out into the grey-blue waters of Charmouth Bay.
Says he, ‘I miss the sea terribly. One day, I would like to pilot scientific journeys again – as we did on the Prospect – further away, to the South Seas perchance. I would require natural philosophers to accompany me.’ He looks down at his daughter. ‘Of any age.’
She pulls out her fossils from her pocket and lays them all down in a row in the bottom of the boat in an order only she understands. I sit and watch them both, my heart full.
We come to silence. We drift.
‘Who are you?’ says Alexandra to Robin.
He looks to me, and I nod.
‘I am your father.’
She shoots a glance at me and I smile.
Says she, ‘Will you stay with us?’
‘I wish to,’ says Robin. ‘Very much.’
‘Do so then,’ says Alexandra and turns back to her fossils.
It is easier for us than for him. He yet resides
in a world fraught with ticking minutes and wagging tongues, past regrets and future restraints. Alexandra lives in the endless present of childhood. I have always been the outcast: a foundling, a woman, a thinker. Once I sought to join the crowd for approbation, existing on the edges, looking in. Now I have geological time as my lens. It has brought me great peace. I recommend it to you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Here are some thoughts on the varied historical aspects of Song of the Sea Maid.
Women in C18th science
Readers may like to seek out the excellent and mind-expanding book Hypatia’s Heritage: A History of Women in Science from Antiquity to the Late Nineteenth Century by Margaret Alic, to learn about the hidden history of women in science. There were several models and antecedents of Dawnay Price in the C17th and C18th, including such important figures as Émilie du Châtelet, Sophie Germain, Anne Conway, Lady Mary Lee Chudleigh, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Mary Somerville and Margaret Cavendish. Many of these women are largely forgotten by history, and arguably this is largely because they were women. They had a lot to fight against to be allowed to work, let alone be recognised. Émilie du Châtelet once wrote:
Judge me for my own merits, or lack of them, but do not look upon me as a mere appendage … I am in my own right a whole person, responsible to myself alone for all that I am, all that I say, all that I do. It may be that there are metaphysicians and philosophers whose learning is greater than mine, although I have not met them …
And as Alic writes:
From the earliest times women contributed to the development of scientific knowledge, yet most of the women in this book remain unknown – even to historians of science – and most of those recorded here were women of privilege; as such, they represent only the surface of the history of women in science. Thousands of other women scientists have undoubtedly been forgotten forever.
One of my main ideas behind the novel was this: what if a poor woman made an important scientific discovery in ages past? Would this idea be heard or remembered? Charles Darwin, a century after Dawnay, did not develop his wonderful ideas in isolation. His work built upon that of many others over the centuries; for example the past scientists and their work that Dawnay discusses with Applebee and Robin – all of these are real and documented. Darwin was a man of independent means who was able to put forth his ideas, eventually, though of course even in his age he met with considerable obstacles. Yet largely he was the right person, in the right place, at the right time. Dawnay Price – an C18th woman and orphan – was the wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The reader may like to consider how many other important ideas have been lost throughout the history of humans which were likewise thought of by the ‘wrong’ people, and this may well continue to this day.
The very helpful historian Dr. Gillian Williamson also told me that the concept of ideas coming before their time affords other examples in Dawnay’s era. For example, in Gillian’s words:
‘In the Gentleman’s Magazine there was a letter on the dangers of tobacco-smoking linking it to lung cancer – which obviously got nowhere for centuries. There was also a physician who said that puerperal fever swept through lying-in hospitals because it was spread by doctors’ unwashed hands – this was thought inconceivable since the doctors were gentlemen and the patients of the lower orders …’
Cave art
Dawnay’s caves are my own invention, yet they are based upon some existing finds, such as drawings of seals, mermaids and red dots, and the presence of primitive oil lamps and skulls embedded in calcite. To date in 2014, very recent discoveries suggest that women played a significant role in cave painting. Female handprints have been found at many cave art sites surrounding key paintings. I carried out my own small (and highly unscientific) survey to get an idea of how modern humans imagine their ancient counterparts and almost every respondent pictured a male painting cave walls. Yet there is little or no evidence that this was the case. Research in this field – largely due to the rarity of finds – you might say is in its infancy. What other hidden caves may be out there to reveal to us more secrets of our past? Whatever is found, it is to be hoped that the interpretation of this evidence is free from gender bias and represented as such when it is reported and analysed. For issues of how researchers of both sexes have interpreted ancient humans, see Women in Human Evolution edited by Lori D. Hager and The Descent of Woman by Elaine Morgan.
Dawnay’s sea cow
Readers who know anything about sea cows may wonder if they used to frequent the Mediterranean, as they certainly do not nowadays. The truth is that remains have been found of prehistoric sea cows in the Mediterranean region, but there is no evidence that they inhabited this area in the C18th. Thus, this is artistic license. However, Steller’s sea cow, a large species found near Russia, which Dawnay mentions, was discovered during Dawnay’s time and soon after promptly became extinct. I wished to use Dawnay’s sea cow as an example of how, in the 1750s, there were still many species of animal not yet widely known even by expert naturalists, and also there were many mythical creatures that were still widely believed to exist. Most of the references to mermaids in this novel are taken from contemporary ‘sightings’ of mer-folk, some of which were published in highly respectable journals such as the Gentleman’s Magazine. I hope the reader will allow me some license in placing a creature in a sea it has not frequented for some time. After all, just because there is no evidence available for something, it does not mean it never happened …
Robin and his ship HMS Fox
As scholars of the Battle of Menorca 1756 will know full well, there was no frigate present named HMS Fox. I did not wish to usurp the real captains of the ships involved and unceremoniously dump one overboard to be replaced by my fictional character. Therefore, I chose to insert a fictional ship into the battle. I suspect, however, that an extra frigate such as Robin’s would have been most welcome to a fleet not as full as Admiral Byng would have liked it. Byng’s fate in this novel is, sadly, all true and alluded to by Voltaire in Candide.
The Berlengas Islands
The flora and fauna of these islands has been rendered as accurately as possible, reliant upon research into the C18th inhabitants. However, there is no evidence of a painted cave on these islands – this is fiction. Yet, a cave has been found since near Peniche that contained a variety of artefacts and evidence of early humans, so this area of Portugal is a fitting one for Dawnay’s quest.
Lisbon earthquake
This natural disaster was well documented at the time and I have used a variety of sources to provide details of what happened. Luckily for the English-speaking researcher, there was a range of English people in Lisbon at the time who wrote detailed accounts of what happened to them and thus provide invaluable resources for the modern reader.
Orphanages
There were several such asylums set up in the C18th, particularly in London. See the Coram Foundling Hospital, which now has a museum dedicated to it. This was established a little too late for Dawnay’s purposes, yet several aspects of the orphans’ lives were gleaned from here, as well as other less positive institutions of the time.
Markham Woods as benefactor
Mr. Woods is an example of a type of self-made, wealthy man in this era who turned his money to good use. Thomas Coram (of the Foundling Hospital) is one and there were many others, who used their benevolence – some with good intentions and others less so – to fund various charities or adopt those less fortunate to improve their lot. Other examples include Jonas Hanway, who founded the Marine Society, whilst Thomas Day adopted two orphan girls in order to educate them in how to be ‘good wives’, which unsurprisingly did not end well for anyone involved.
Women on ships in the Royal Navy and elsewhere
See the fascinating book Female Tars: Women Aboard Ship in the Age of Sail by Suzanne J. Stark for details on how women sailed the seas in this period. Also, The Ordeal of Elizabeth Marsh: A Woman in World History by Linda Col
ley is a wonderful account of a lone female traveller in the 1750s who was taken prisoner aboard a Moroccan corsair ship and makes Dawnay’s adventures seem positively tame. I read this book after I had written the novel, yet was gratified to see that Dawnay was not the only woman to strike out unaccompanied upon the seas in the mid-C18th.
Porpoises swimming up the Thames
This did happen in Dawnay’s time and was documented by witnesses.
Frost Fair
There was indeed a Frost Fair on the Thames in 1740 and at other times before and since.
The Menagerie
There was a zoo of sorts at the Tower for many years, through which a variety of exotic and sad beasts passed and were seen by avid visitors.
The English Hotel, Lisbon & Mr. and Mrs. Dewar
This establishment did exist in Dawnay’s time and was run by the Dewars. However, my characterisation of the Dewars and their dialogue is entirely of my own creation.
Lizards on the islets of Menorca
All of the varieties of lizard described do exist and you can go and see them today if you wish.
C18th prose
Many aspects of current language use that we tend to take for granted – such as punctuation and paragraphing – were not fully standardised during the C18th. Therefore, writers such as Daniel Defoe, Henry Fielding, Laurence Sterne and Tobias Smollett used aspects of punctuation and emphasis in varying ways. This is complicated by the fact that the texts were then at the mercy of the compositor, who also made decisions regarding its layout and presentation. In creating my own C18th narrator, I decided to use this point of flux to my advantage and make my own choice of rules to follow and to disregard, in order to give the flavour of C18th prose, hopefully without alienating the modern reader in the process. It is also worth noting that – as this narrative is told in the present tense and in the first person; a kind of stream of consciousness style – that it is not entirely necessary to approximate the C18th prose style, as it is not meant to approximate a written text as such. However, I did feel that the reader might find it appealing and interesting to experience a way of presenting prose that is more contemporary to the period than that provided by modern texts.
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