by Julia Gray
Was it something to do with me?
It is, I decide, not unlike a Euclidian puzzle. Human Geometry. I imagine now my parents as shapes – my obstinately rational mother I cast as a square; my father, less symmetrical, a triangle. The angles of the triangle add up to 180 degrees; the angles of the square to 360. The floor of the box room is dusty enough to allow me to draw the shapes with a finger. Inscribed within a circle, it is possible for their respective points to meet in only two or three places. In short, they do not match. There are sharp, uncovered edges; differences in behaviour.
I wonder, did my parents love each other at all?
‘I know she loved him,’ I say aloud, staring hard at my diagram as though it contains the answer. ‘I know she did. Why else did we travel to all those places that he had visited? But why does she never talk about him – or rather, when she does, it seems that there is so much that she cannot, or is unwilling to, say? And... did he love her? If he didn’t, why... Why am I here?’
The problem seems worryingly insoluble. My grandparents, who might have been able to shed some light on my questions, are dead; Miss Stamp did not know my father, nor my mother until she was engaged as my governess. I resolve to talk to some of my mother’s friends at the next suitable juncture – although I am doubtful that they will give me any meaningful information.
The window, I notice, is as grimy as the floor. Wiping away a thick film of cobwebs and dirt with my skirt – Nanny Briggs won’t be pleased about it, but never mind – I peer through the film glass and down to the gravelled pathway at the back of Bifrons. Sudden movement startles me – a blur of silky fur, shimmering out from beneath a bush – before I realise that it’s only Puff. She is circling something on the edge of the flowerbed, prowling like a tigress, occasionally darting forth to take little vindictive nips at what looks, at first glance, like a heap of funeral garments.
Taking care to first brush away my Human Geometry from the floorboards, I hurry down to investigate.
The heap of funeral clothes turns out to be a poor dead crow. Puff is dancing elatedly about, looking for all the world as though she killed it herself, which she may well have done.
‘Come away,’ I tell her, kneeling down. ‘Naughty Puff! Then again, I suppose you are only following your instincts.’
The bird is only recently dead, I think. I try to dissuade Puff from eating it; she has of late become incredibly fond of feasting on the corpses of birds. I feel sorry for the crow, and also curious. I would like to examine it. After a moment’s thought, I scramble over to the greenhouse, locate a pair of gardening gloves and return, emboldened, to scrutinise the bird. Tenderly, I take one wing and stretch it out so that I can see it well. I must make a sketch of it, I think; and when the flesh has decomposed, I will be able to study the skeleton properly, and make a sketch of that as well.
I feel it then, that web-like funnel-feeling: the world expanding and contracting around my ears, the daze swallowing me whole for a short while... undoubtedly, an idea. I sit for a moment longer, the wing resting between gloved fingers, and then dash pell-mell into the library, and this is where Miss Stamp finds me a couple of hours later, surrounded by notebooks and loose sheets of paper.
‘My goodness, Ada! What are you doing?’
‘Oh, Miss Stamp,’ I say. ‘It’s absurd – why has nobody thought of this before? Man should be able to fly! I feel intoxicated with the thought of it. Look!’
She leans over the pages, trying to decipher my writing, which always descends into lamentable squiggles when I am excited. ‘This,’ I explain, ‘is a design for a pair of fully-functioning wings, for a man – or woman, of course – to put on and fly with. I shall try to make them myself to see what can be achieved.’
‘As long as you take greater care than Icarus did,’ ventures Miss Stamp, with a smile.
‘I will write a book to go with my inventions,’ I tell her, ‘called Flyology. With illustrations.’
‘Oh, Ada,’ says Miss Stamp. ‘I am glad that you have not entirely abandoned your dream of being a writer.’
She smiles broadly, and I smile back, feeling – for some reason – relieved. ‘I never wanted to abandon that dream,’ I say slowly. ‘But I do worry that Mamma will say that Flyology is too fanciful. I shall make sure my designs are sound; then, perhaps, she will approve of them.’
‘That seems an excellent plan,’ says Miss Stamp.
‘I can’t help my imagination, sometimes,’ I say, thinking about it. ‘It just wants to do things, and I can’t stop it, you know.’
‘Ada,’ says Miss Stamp, ‘if I had your imagination, I would be very proud indeed.’
It is perhaps one of the nicest things that anyone has ever said to me, and I make up my mind to remember it always. For perhaps half an hour, my governess and I discuss my newly-christened Flyology. Miss Stamp suggests that we consider Da Vinci’s sketches for inspiration, but I point out to her that he did not actually succeed in designing fully-functioning wings, as I mean to do. We talk also of the Montgolfier brothers, who were, we think, the first to come up with the concept of human flight, by means of hydrogen-fuelled balloons. Miss Stamp raises the question of safety, and we talk about this for quite some time.
‘All good inventions must involve some risk,’ I say. ‘Just look at Mr Harris, the balloonist. He invented a special valve to allow gas from the balloon to be discharged slowly. A most important discovery.’
‘He died while flying his balloon, did he not?’ says Miss Stamp.
‘Yes, he did,’ I say. ‘But he died for the cause of scientific discovery. A most noble reason.’
‘Would you be prepared to die for your own inventions?’ asks my governess.
Thinking about the matter in all seriousness, I am not sure how to answer. No one, surely, can consider their own death lightly. But I think of my father, and also of my mother: each, in their own way, a person of remarkably strong convictions. My father believed absolutely in his work. (I am sure of this.) My mother believes absolutely in her duty to do good. I, Ada, must believe equally absolutely in my own causes.
I say: ‘If my invention – whether it is a flying machine or something else entirely – proves to be of indisputable use to society, then, yes, I think I would be prepared to die for it.’
‘That is a brave intention indeed,’ says Miss Stamp. ‘As long as there is to be no dying while I am here.’ She goes on: ‘Oh, Ada, I shall miss you.’
The words arrest my pencil mid-motion, and it slips from my fingers, landing with an apologetic clatter on the floor.
‘Miss me? But... where are you going?’
‘I am going to be married. I have just spoken to Lady Noel Byron. I shall leave before Christmas.’
‘You will come back,’ I say, wanting it to sound like a question. Instead, it has the querulous, tremulous tone of a vain command.
Bifrons, Kent
November 1828
I sometimes think that I give up on things rather quickly, but Flyology is different. Perhaps it is because I know that Miss Stamp is leaving. The design of our flying machine is to be our last collaboration, and as such I wish to invest all my energy in it. I continue with my lessons, working diligently enough at my French compositions and algebraic equations, and filling my commonplace book with essays on the Napoleonic wars and maps of Europe, but in the afternoons – or whenever there’s time – I work on Flyology, and Miss Stamp helps me.
To begin with, we concentrate solely on the wings, making small models in different materials – mainly wood or paper – and writing detailed notes on how they are to be made to work. The days shorten; winter draws near, sweeping chill-frost winds from the sea along the Dover Road. I have begun, over the years, to notice how the lack of daylight affects my mood – and, to some extent, Mamma’s too.
‘I feel odd,’ I say to Miss Stamp, one afternoon. We are walking about t
he grounds of Bifrons while it is still light – Miss Stamp is a great believer in the benefits of exercise.
‘In what way, odd?’ says my governess.
‘I shall try to explain. The more work we do on Flyology, the more I feel like a wing myself. Sometimes I feel that I am at the highest point of a lifted wing – do you know what I mean?’
Miss Stamp nods quietly, avoiding a puddle of dead leaves that the gardeners have yet to clear.
‘At that highest point, I feel as though I can do anything and be anything and that everything is beautiful,’ I say. ‘And then... and then at other times I feel like the same wing at its lowest point, sort of flapped downwards.’
‘How often do you feel like this?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, not sure whether I ought to have embarked upon this topic at all. ‘Perhaps once a day I feel an up-stroke, and once a day a down-stroke. And then... at different times of the month I might feel worse. Or better. Or simply more up and more down in a day.’
Again, my governess nods. I can talk to her about things such as bleeding in a way that I cannot talk to Mamma. It was Miss Stamp who found me in the nursery, a few months ago, in a state of silent shock, and showed me where the sanitary napkins were stored, and how to tie them correctly. I often feel very disconnected to my body; Miss Stamp reminds me (in clever, gentle ways) to observe the changes that take place in it, and to try and understand those changes. She is so easy to talk to about everything. She told me that there are ancient links between monthly bleeding and the cycles of the moon – this fascinated me deeply, to the extent that I have entered into regular correspondence with Mamma’s old tutor, William Frend – now an elderly, white-haired gentleman – about astronomy.
‘And how does that make you feel?’ says Miss Stamp.
‘Truthfully,’ I say, ‘it makes me feel very tired.’
My governess says: ‘I wonder, Ada, if perhaps we ought to pause our work on Flyology for now.’
‘Oh, but we can’t!’ I stammer. ‘Not now, not when we have so much more work to do. Miss Stamp, only think: if one were only able to fly... why, one would be able to see a rainbow in its entirety. I have always wanted to know why a rainbow is curved, as it appears to the eye. Perhaps, if one could fly high enough...’
We have by now reached the stables. The strong, musty odour of straw and manure greets us as we push open the swing-door. My governess picks up her feet carefully as we make our way down the narrow corridor towards the tack room. The four Bifrons horses whinny and snort, hoping for carrots.
‘Not today,’ I tell them. ‘I’m sorry. We are making a flying visit.’
I glance gleefully at Miss Stamp, to see if she appreciates the joke, but she still has a rather fixed, anxious expression.
The small, disused tack room is a fairly new discovery – recent terrible weather led me to investigate the Bifrons outbuildings for sources of possible amusement, and in the tack room I have found a world of delight: a laboratory, essentially, in which I can experiment with my Flyology plans. From the various hooks that hang on the walls I have hung ropes and saddles and scuffed girths. Now, as Miss Stamp watches – she is part-assistant and part-safeguard in these Flyology sessions – I hoist myself halfway up a rope and begin to swing, an Ada-pendulum, from side to side.
‘Do be careful,’ says Miss Stamp.
‘I am always careful,’ I tell her, swinging more vigorously. The rope creaks on the hook, sounding like an animal in pain. I can hear one of the grooms shouting something to a stable-boy, an instruction of some kind.
‘I do very good thinking when I’m swinging,’ I say. My heartbeat is quick, the blood rustling agreeably in my ears. There’s such a delicious rhythm to it: this way, that way, the slither of rope against wooden wall...
An idea comes upon me.
‘Oh, Miss Stamp!’ I say. ‘Remember the steam boats on the lake at Lucerne? Well, if we can use steam to power boats, then why not machines that can fly? What if... what if we were to design a flying machine in the shape of a horse – larger, of course – with a steam-powered engine?’
My governess gives a little shriek as I let go of the rope at the top of an upswing and propel myself in an arc across the room. I land in a heap of straw, laughing uproariously. Miss Stamp hurries towards me. ‘Oh, Ada, are you all right?’
‘Better than all right,’ I say. ‘We must go back to the library now, and draw some more diagrams.’
Bifrons, Kent
February 1829
Miss Stamp has gone, and there will never be another governess to match her. I am quite sure of it.
She left, as she said she would, just before Christmas. I cried on the morning of her departure, refusing at first to go downstairs to say goodbye. It was Nanny Briggs, who always thinks about the well-being of everyone in the household, who persuaded me that Miss Stamp would be sad if she and I were unable to say our farewells in person.
‘I have a gift for you,’ Miss Stamp said, as the last of her trunks was hoisted onto the roof of the carriage.
Red-eyed, I accepted the pages, which were tied together with pale pink ribbon. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s something of yours, actually.’
I looked down. It was my story – the one that I had worked on with such care in Geneva – ‘The Mystery of the Blue Windmill’.
‘I... I didn’t think it was very good,’ I said.
Angered by what I perceived as its imperfections, I had thrown it away; Miss Stamp had quietly retrieved it from the waste-paper basket and brought it back to England. There she had copied the story out in her beautifully neat writing, and kept it until it was time to bid me goodbye.
‘I did,’ she said, as she kissed me. ‘I thought it was very good. You’ll achieve great things, Ada. I know you will. But you must believe in yourself.’
Mamma was watching this exchange. She said nothing, but she was wearing one of her many Mamma-expressions, all of which I am adept at reading. This particular one – a pinched, tight, nostril-flared look – suggested to me that she, personally, was not sure that I would achieve anything of note, and certainly not by means of writing stories.
I think about Miss Stamp often – she is married now, of course, but I will always think of her as Miss Stamp. I hope that she is happy, and wonder if she misses me at all. The days, so full of excitement and colour and interest when we were abroad, feel dull and flat now, like a landscape of scattered rocks and dried-up rivers and dust. Even Puff gives me less pleasure than she usually does – really, she has turned quite feral now, and spends all her time tracking down mice in darkened corners. I feel listless, achy, uninterested in things. Where I used to feel ups and downs – those winged emotional states that I tried, once, to explain to Miss Stamp – now I feel a sort of level lowness. It is as though there is a heavy coverlet on top of me – one made of lead, or woven rope – a coverlet that I cannot lift.
One rainy February morning, I find that I cannot get out of bed.
‘I don’t... I don’t feel right,’ I say, slowly, to the chambermaid. ‘My head...’
The chambermaid goes to fetch Nanny Briggs. She is gone a long time; I try again to get out of bed, and fail. It is as though the various parts of my body have ceased communication. At last, my nurse appears. It is difficult to explain to her how I am feeling. She presses a hand to my forehead.
‘You’re running a fever, Miss Ada,’ she mutters. She peels back the cuff of my nightgown, and exposes a ruddy, raised rash that extends all along my arm. ‘It may be that you’ve caught the measles,’ she says.
I don’t want measles. I’ve had chickenpox before, long ago, and remember only too well the sweltering, soporific itchiness of it; the muddle-headedness. ‘I don’t have time to be ill,’ I fret, as Nanny Briggs changes my nightgown. ‘I’m working on Flyology. If I don’t invent the machines, then... then someone else wil
l!’
‘Hush now, and don’t babble,’ she soothes. ‘You’ll be right as rain in no time.’
She holds a cool, damp flannel to my forehead. It feels wonderfully comforting. Perhaps she is right: I will just rest for a day or two, until the worst of the illness passes, and then I can return to my study: to Flyology, and my books, and everything else that I enjoy.
But it is a long, long, long time – three years, all told – before I am well enough to get out of bed again.
Part Two: 1832-1833
Age sixteen to seventeen
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the
moonless air...
From ‘Darkness’,
by Lord Byron
July 1816
Brighton
June 1832
My mare’s name is Locket, and she is a slender, dappled creature – as beautiful a steed as I could ever have wished for. For so many years, I wanted to ride, and now, finally, I can. Locket (she isn’t actually mine, rather borrowed from my instructor, but still I like to pretend that I am a genuine horse-owner) trots in her elegant, sure-hoofed way along the crescent. We are in Brighton for the summer, to take the sea air. I pass our hotel, where Mamma is resting, and head towards the enticing stretch of the seafront. The morning is brilliant and clear-skied; seagulls dive and caw above the ocean spray, while holidaymakers, in companionable twos and threes, stroll in leisurely fashion along the pier.
Down at the water’s edge, I slither down from the saddle and undo the straps of my tricot drawers, which are secured tightly over each riding boot. Removing the boots, I hurl them away from the shoreline. They land with a crush in the pebbles. Then, rather furtively, I peel off my drawers and roll them into a careless bundle under one arm. Yes, Mamma would be horrified; but Mamma isn’t here, and neither, for once, is my instructor. I am alone, a rarity, and something of which to take advantage. Barefoot, and delighted to be so, I wander along the edge of the water, holding Locket’s reins in one hand and hitching up the skirts of my riding habit with the other.