by Julia Gray
‘He gives lectures,’ says Mary. ‘Wonderful lectures. We’ll go, Ada.’
‘I would like that.’
‘How is your shorthand progressing? Is it as dull as you anticipated?’
At this, I suppress laughter: that I could ever have been unenthused by the prospect of learning shorthand. How ignorant I was! ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not dull in the slightest. A most useful skill, and one that I find increasingly worthwhile. All my life, Mary, I have found writing quite hard – not the ideas bit, or even the spelling and grammar – but the writing, the physical writing. I never knew why; I just thought it was something to be endured. But Ja— Mr Hopkins says that I have too much laxity in my fingers, and now he has shown me how to exert far better control over my hand.’
‘Ada, that’s wonderful,’ says Mary, though she looks slightly taken aback by the level of detail I have just offered her in my response. ‘The better your shorthand is, the more you’ll get out of the lectures. Ah! Mr Hicks has arrived.’
We watch, fascinated, as a tall man with luxuriant moustaches introduces himself and his novel method of cooking. Mr Faraday is watching too, leaning forward to better see the cooking apparatus, the flame that leaps up, yellowy-orange, when Mr Hicks holds a match to the gas. An assistant brings a plump, plucked pigeon on a metal skewer, and soon the air of the exhibition space is filled with the tang of roasting meat.
‘This pigeon, ladies and gentlemen, will be fully cooked – roasted to perfection – in precisely twelve minutes’ time,’ says Mr Hicks, in a matter-of-fact, rather nasal voice. Oohs and ahhs of excitement from the crowd. One woman turns to another and says: ‘Why, Emily, but this will change everything.’
At home, over lunch, I tell Mamma about our morning. ‘Mr Hicks roasted mutton, as well as pigeons,’ I say, summing up. ‘And Mr Faraday was there.’
‘Goodness,’ says Mamma, who is very keen on mutton. ‘I am glad to hear that your mind was suitably exercised by the excursion.’
‘Oh, it was,’ I say. ‘A lady commented to her friend that it would change everything. So much is changing now, isn’t it?’
Mamma agrees, and then makes an interesting point. ‘You must remember that – in the short term, at least – the Jacquard loom did not change everyone’s lives for the better.’
‘What do you— Oh,’ I say. ‘I see. The weavers.’
‘There were riots, I believe, in the city of Lyon. Looms smashed in protest. Replace too many men with machines, without considering any viable alternatives, and there will always be consequences.’
Mamma thinks very seriously, and very often, about the welfare of everyone. She was being quite truthful when she uttered that phrase of Dr Fellenberg’s: ‘The rich have helpers enough; help thou the poor’. When the Reform Bill was passed last year and the rotten boroughs (those with one or even two parliamentary representatives, but no constituents, thus creating a deeply unfair imbalance of representation) were abolished, Mamma tells me that she thinks her cheers might have been heard all the way across the farmland of Ealing and in the Palace of Westminster itself. Yes: her civic-minded sense of doing good is probably one of her best points. I will admit that.
Another thing happened today, however, and I will not be telling Mamma about it; Mary has counselled me not to, and I trust Mary to advise me correctly.
As she and I were coming out of the Adelaide, we saw a woman standing across the street, unmistakably watching us – or rather, watching me. Used to being stared at, if not comfortable with it, I made to follow Mary into the carriage that was awaiting us. But the woman, seeing that we were about to leave, began to wave earnestly and to mouth my name. Then came a flurry of carriages and barrows, rattling at speed along the road, and I lost sight of her.
I was about to climb up into the carriage when I looked around, and there she was at my side. She was a little taller than me, rather buxom, with untidy, darkish-fair hair and a sweet, rather foolish expression. ‘Ada,’ she said. ‘Is it really you? I sent a prayer-book to you for your birthday – oh, two or three years ago now. Did you never get it?’
From the carriage, Mary called: ‘Come, Ada; we must be on our way.’ But I was momentarily transfixed, searching my memories for a face that matched the one that was now before me. Familiar? A little, yes, perhaps...
And then I said: ‘You are my Aunt Augusta.’
She smiled, revealing small uneven teeth. ‘That’s right. Your father’s sister. Well, half-sister, really. Oh, to finally look at you, grown so tall! Your face... it is so like his – yes, yes, I can see it!’ Reaching out with a hot, dry hand, she touched a finger to my chin. ‘They say you have your mother’s intelligence too.’
‘I—’ But I didn’t know what to say to her, to this Aunt Augusta whom I had never before met.
Another cry from Mary, this time shrill with impatience, which was rather unlike her. ‘Ada! Do hurry up; the carriage can’t wait here indefinitely.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled to this newly-discovered aunt, in whose face I was just able to detect glimpses of my father. ‘I can’t... I have to...’
She smiled and made a funny, tangled gesture with her head – a cross between a nod and a shake – and before long the carriage was rattling away. I looked back, just once, and saw her, standing alone on the pavement, still wearing that sweet, wistful expression.
‘It would be best if you didn’t tell your mother that we saw Mrs Leigh,’ said Mary on our way home.
‘Why not?’
‘They have a difficult relationship. Without going into too much detail, I believe she continually asks your mother for money. Being a kind-hearted soul, and having promised your father to look after Augusta, Annabella generally capitulates.’
I sat back, not quite satisfied with this.
Now, watching my mother finish everything on her plate, I wonder again if there might be another reason. Perhaps there was an argument of some kind between Augusta Leigh and my mother, something bitterly divisive, irreparable... Augusta seemed like a gentle-natured woman; could she, perhaps, have taken my father’s side over my mother’s cold-natured treatment of him?
Did my mother do something that Augusta simply couldn’t forgive?
Fordhook, Ealing
March 1833
Lesson six. James Hopkins is sitting waiting for me in the library. When I enter, he gets up, with a formal bow and I think: He regrets what happened last time, when we held hands. Yes: he seems nervous, chattering more than usual about Mr Lewis and his work, telling me in detail about a new pen that he wishes to buy, and the particular brand of ink (Stephens’ indelible blue-black) that he holds so dear. The lesson begins. Nothing happens out of the ordinary, much to my annoyance, and after a while it strikes me that perhaps he thinks that I regret the hand-holding, and is waiting for a signal on my part. Some kind of assurance that I myself do not regret anything.
I wait for the Fury on Duty to perform her usual check – a brief circuit of the room, skirts sweeping the floor, sometimes a proffered excuse, sometimes no excuse at all – and then I say: ‘It is rather dull always sitting in these upright chairs, don’t you think?’
‘Well,’ murmurs Mr Hopkins. ‘Good posture is quite crucial for good penmanship.’
‘Certainly,’ I agree, feeling suddenly bold, ‘but I wonder if we might be more comfortable in those chairs by the fire.’
And that is how we end up side by side, knees very nearly touching, on the richly-upholstered chairs. No more polite right-angles. I look at the clock; we have almost a full hour left, and I don’t think we shall be disturbed. We look at each other. A bead of sweat lies on Mr Hopkins’ temple. It is rather warm in the library.
‘What shall we talk of now?’ I say. ‘Letter formation? Speed of script?’
Startled, he falters for words. ‘I—’
‘Or else, perhaps,’ I say, edging a little
closer, ‘we ought not to talk at all?’
There’s a blink-brief moment in which I watch him trying to grasp the intimation; I can almost see the realisation flicker across his face, causing those rum-dark eyes to widen most attractively. He closes his mouth, perhaps to form the M of Miss Byron, but he gets no further. Pre-emptively, I move, leaning into him with such fluency that I suddenly cannot believe that I have never done it before; my right hand reaches for his left wrist, encircling it, while my left hand travels audaciously round his right shoulder, drawing him towards me. With alacrity, he mirrors my actions, as though he has simply been waiting for permission. Our eyes meet: in his I perceive a question – May I? Shall we? – and I smile quickly: yes. Only the width of a sheet of paper separates our faces.
I have one last impression of his features before they dissolve entirely, and I am enveloped in new information: the pulse I can feel that is not my own; the smell of someone else’s clothes, someone else’s skin; the heat of another body. His lips: firmer than they look, but soft too, fitting somehow with mine as though we are pieces of the same puzzle. He tastes of the sea: salt and myth and the tiniest hint of danger.
It is exquisite.
For the first time in a long time, my body is alive; I lost so much feeling in it, for so many years, that for a while I felt like nothing more than a brain in a glass box. Now I am in possession of all five senses – and the thrilling thing is that I am connected to his possession of his senses too; I can feel his, and he can feel mine, and we are each enriched by our perceptions of the other...
‘Oh, Miss Byron,’ says James Hopkins, as we pause in order to breathe properly.
‘Ada,’ I say reproachfully.
‘Ada,’ he says. ‘You are... quite...’
Amusingly, for one as naturally verbose as James Hopkins, it seems that words fail him entirely within the context of romantic entanglement. Such an intriguing expression crosses my tutor’s face; it almost makes me laugh. I tell him: ‘You look as though you are trying to find the square root of a large prime number.’
‘Something like that,’ he says. He stands up, abruptly, and I realise that the telltale clatter of Fury footsteps is signalling the end of this delicious – and utterly illicit – moment. We hurry back to our usual position at the table, but this time – perhaps our movements are dulled by sensory intoxication – we are not quite quick enough. As Fury the First enters the room, we are just in the process of taking our seats, and James Hopkins is adjusting his collar, which has become rather dishevelled. Even so, Fury the First might not have noticed anything amiss – we are entitled, after all, to get up from our chairs from time to time – were it not for our expressions. Mine, I know without glancing in a mirror, is guilty. James, meanwhile, has that same look of a man who is trying to find the square root of a large prime number, and failing to achieve his mathematical goals.
‘Ada,’ says the Fury, her voice as dry and crackly as the library fire. ‘I don’t know what you have been doing, precisely, but I don’t like the look of it.’
‘Shorthand, Miss Carr,’ I say, keeping my voice even and serene. ‘What else would we be doing?’
‘Why were you not sitting down?’
‘It’s nice, from time to time, to take a turn about the room,’ I reply. ‘Especially when one’s hand is tired from writing.’
The Fury advances, the lines around her mouth pronounced in distaste. ‘Your tone is one of intolerable impertinence,’ she says. At no point does she address my tutor; if there is fault here, then the fault is clearly mine. ‘I believe that you have been behaving improperly.’
James Hopkins gets to his feet. ‘That is... quite untrue,’ he stammers. I notice that he sounds far less sure of himself than he usually does – the velvety patter is quite gone from his delivery.
‘You have offended Mr Hopkins,’ I say. ‘You should apologise.’
‘I? Apologise? I never heard such insolence. Ada, you are to leave the room at once.’
I never before realised how closely aligned are the states of romantic excitement and righteous anger. I do now, as I run from the room, not looking back at either of them (and how embarrassing it will be for them both). My love for James is matched in intensity by my loathing for the wretched Furies – especially this one, Miss Carr, who has dared to order me about in my own house! The only reason why I obeyed her is because I saw no point in inciting any further sanctions on her part; already, this episode will no doubt be poison-dripped into Mamma’s ear; I will be cast in the worst possible light, and perhaps – just perhaps – Mamma will be prevailed upon to relieve my tutor of his post. That would be unbearable. My heart is still pounding unplayable rhythms as I reach my bedroom, slam-shut the door with far more force than is necessary, and throw myself down on the carpet.
Oh, James, James... I work my fingers into the carpet, just as I wrapped them into his hair not fifteen minutes ago, as my body bordered his absolutely and his lips and mine made a pattern of their own. What can I do now? If he is allowed to continue to teach me – and after all, there is no proof that anything untoward has taken place between us – I can only assume that we will be subjected to even greater vigilance than we have previously endured. I am bound by expectations, by routines, by arrangements... I am a hand in the grip of an aidergraph, but instead of a benign wire-and-ivory device that seeks to help its wearer, and not hinder her, I am trapped, trapped, and will always be so.
Oh, how I hate them all: the Furies, with their watchful, vengeful natures... this house, that imprisons me... and my mother, who orchestrates my every move. I am close to tears, and think how much I will enjoy them – the ocean-burst of despair will engulf me, and quieten me, eventually – when it comes to me. An idea. The faintest glimmer of a plan, a star only just perceptible to the eye of the diligent astronomer. Yes: I think I can see what to do. And for my plan to work there must be no tears. Not now.
I get up, dust down my dress, and go in search of some paper.
When I return to the library, Mr Hopkins is still putting away his books and papers. Fury the First is watching my tutor closely, as though she suspects that he may be planning to steal some silverware. I stand meekly in the doorway, the picture of wronged innocence.
‘Ah,’ says Fury the First, seeing me. ‘What is it, Ada? Have you come to apologise?’
She is not a witch, I decide, but a toad. She is neither powerful nor skilful enough to be a witch; I hereby demote her to a witch’s accessory. She is also irredeemably stupid, to think that she can predict my actions so easily.
‘I am very, very sorry, Miss Carr,’ I say. ‘I was impertinent, I know. I should not have spoken to you in the way I did.’
Slightly mollified, she says: ‘Indeed, Ada, you should not.’
I edge into the room, one foot-shuffle at a time. Subtlety is crucial.
‘I just... I resented... I was saddened that you should have thought ill of my behaviour,’ I say, approaching the mahogany table with measured steps.
Fury the Toad holds up a hand, warning me to come no further. ‘Your lesson is over for today,’ she says.
‘I only wish to borrow The Ready Writer from Mr Hopkins,’ I say. ‘Since our lesson has been cut short, I would like to be able to continue with the chapter that we had abandoned.’
She cogitates; clearly, she has been persuaded by the idea of my continued progress – and thus my mother’s approval – for she nods slightly, and gestures to me to take the book. Mr Hopkins is holding it – I go to him, demure; he offers me the book, and I thank him.
‘Farewell, Mr Hopkins,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday, for our next lesson.’
Fury the Toad does not seem to take issue with this; either she is fully convinced of my repentance, or else she believes that she was unjust in her accusations. Not, of course, that she is likely to apologise to me if the latter is the case. But no matter: I, Ada,
am more than a match for a toad-like Fury. She, and Mamma and anyone else, may think that Mr Hopkins and I will meet again on Tuesday, but the reality is that we shall see each other far, far sooner than that.
For as I took The Ready Writer from his long-boned fingers, I was able to fold – stealth personified – a twist of paper into his hand.
Fordhook, Ealing
March 1833
The chapter which follows (one that exceeds the riches of even that worthy tome, The Ready Writer, in every imaginable way) takes place, appropriately, by moonlight. I have set the stage as best I could, and provided – in Lewisian shorthand, of course – the clearest directions possible.
The allotment shed.
Midnight tonight.
Will James be there, though? That is the question: when I gave him the slip of paper, there wasn’t the slightest chance of his being able to read it in front of me; I imagine that he waited until he had reached the end of the driveway, and was perfectly out of sight of the house and all its incumbent Furies. Then, only then, would he have read the note. Will he have understood it? The symbols themselves, yes. The meaning? Presumably. If he does not know where the allotments are, he has only to enquire casually as to the exact location of Lady Byron’s educational establishment. James Hopkins is not stupid. He will, I am sure, be able to find me.
The next question is: how I am to get there myself, undetected? Keeping myself awake in a fever of dry-throated anticipation, I burn a candle down to a waxy nub and wait for the rest of the house to go to sleep. For the first time, Fordhook takes on the aspect of something more than bricks and mortar: it is as though I am crouching in the grasp of some giant beast, and must wait until it finally succumbs to slumber before I can slither from its curved claws. I am patient. Midnight is a long way away. The sounds of a wakeful household dwindle – the occasional cough; water being poured away; a muffled bidding of goodnight from someone to someone else. Mamma is a solid sleeper, and her chamber is some way from mine. I’m more worried about the Furies. Will they, perhaps, be keeping watch?