Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  I nodded and swallowed to clear my constricted throat. “Very much. I have a cat I’m very fond of.”

  “Perfect. Think of your cat and I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” Smiling brilliantly, she turned around to face front and was soon engaged in a conversation with two other young ladies, who greeted her like a dear friend.

  Inhaling deeply, I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined playing with Puff, teasing her with a ball of yarn in my old bedroom at Kirkby Mallory, but the more I concentrated on not being sick or fainting or toppling over in my curtsey or getting tongue-tied in front of the king and queen, the more my imagination filled with precisely those heart-quaking scenes. “Puff,” I murmured, thinking of soft fur and gentle purrs.

  I swallowed hard and wished frantically for a glass of water. To steady my nerves, I opened my eyes, fixed my gaze on a point straight ahead of me, and began calculating cube roots of random numbers. A sudden motion drew my attention, and I shifted my gaze in time to observe the golden-haired goddess observing me, a sly smile playing on her lips as she whispered to her two companions. She looked away when she caught me watching her, but it was too late—I had figured out her scheme. I might not have enjoyed the company of other girls often in my childhood, but I had read a great deal about them. That wicked creature wanted me to embarrass myself, but I was determined not to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she had rattled my nerves.

  When she reached the top of the queue and was announced, I learned that she was called Miss Mariah Bettencourt, but the name was not familiar to me. Three other young ladies followed her, and then it was my turn. “Miss Augusta Ada Byron,” the yeoman called out in a voice that carried across the drawing room, and from the entrance I beheld a large, splendid chamber with floor-to-ceiling windows with curtains of crimson velvet on one long wall, enormous portraits of royals past and present displayed in gilded frames on the three others, a vast fireplace opposite the windows adorned with crests of arms, and a pair of grand gilded chandeliers and elaborate cornices high above it all. There were no chairs, for here no one sat in the presence of the king and queen, but the room was full of girls in white dresses who had preceded me and, in several times their number, ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finest silks and suits and costumes of foreign lands, glittering with jewels, fragrant with perfume and pomade.

  It was rather dizzying, and I took a quick breath to steady myself, but I did not pause after I heard my name but entered the drawing room, where I was greeted by a murmur of interest and more curious, intrigued glances than I could count. Unsettled, I nonetheless smiled serenely, glided across the floor to where His Majesty and Her Majesty were seated, and performed my curtsey without the slightest wobble. When I rose, Queen Adelaide said, “Welcome to court, Miss Byron. We are very fond of your father’s poetry.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “We believe ‘She Walks in Beauty’ is the most lyrical and beautiful of his poems.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It is my favorite of his works.” In truth, I preferred Don Juan, but my mother had told me to agree with everything the king and queen said, even if they misspoke my own name.

  They dismissed me pleasantly, and I backed away demurely without tangling my feet in my gown and falling on my backside. I felt hundreds of pairs of eyes upon me, but a sidelong glance told me that none of them were Miss Mariah Bettencourt’s, for she was looking deliberately away, as if I were so dull that she had already forgotten me.

  My mother quickly made her way to my side. “You acquitted yourself tolerably well,” she murmured, so no one would overhear.

  Coming from her, this was high praise indeed, and I flushed with pride. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Your expression was pleasant and dignified, and your curtsey was as graceful as we could have hoped.”

  “Our practice was rewarded.”

  “Indeed it was.”

  “Mama,” I said, inclining my head discreetly at Miss Bettencourt, “do you see that young lady across the way, the tall blonde next to the woman in the yellow gown?”

  “Yes, that’s Lord and Lady Bettencourt’s eldest daughter, Mariah. They have Mortimer Hall in Somerset. It’s said to be lovely, and Miss Bettencourt is reputed to be quite accomplished.”

  “Accomplished, perhaps, but not very nice.” I quickly related how she had tried to unsettle me just before I was announced.

  My mother’s self-possession was legendary, and only a slight pursing of her lips betrayed her vexation. “I’m pleased you did not lose your composure,” she said. “I warned you that you might be the envy of young ladies who resent that your fame eclipses their own.”

  “You mean my father’s fame,” I said. “I have won no accolades for myself. My only accomplishment thus far has been to cleverly arrange to be sired by the greatest poet of the age.”

  “And you managed that with aplomb,” she replied. “Forget Miss Bettencourt. Spite and beauty are all she has. It is rumored that her father is thousands of pounds in debt, and it is certain that Mortimer Hall is entailed and will pass to her father’s cousin upon his death. Her only hope is to enthrall a very wealthy man with her pretty face so he will forgive her lack of fortune and marry her. You have nothing to fear from her.”

  Were there people I did have something to fear from? “Mama—”

  “Come,” she interrupted, taking my arm. “There are people here far better than the Bettencourts whom you ought to know.”

  My mother introduced me to the Duke of Wellington, the Hero of Waterloo, whom I liked for his straightforward manner, and the Duke of Orléans, whom I found very gracious and sympathetic. I also met Talleyrand, the French elder statesman, but he seemed a bit distractible and rather reminded me of an old monkey. The many other dignitaries and foreign ministers I met that afternoon were all very proud and fine, and I believe that most of the ladies and gentlemen found me to be a pleasant, amiable young woman. At least, I hope they did. This I knew to be true: Of all the young ladies who had been presented that day, none had attracted more attention than myself, even though there were many others more beautiful, more graceful, and more deserving.

  Afterward, as we rode home, my mother told me that I had conducted myself like “a young lioness” and that she expected similar success at the Court Ball the following week. The ball was to be the highlight of the Season, and I was thrilled that she had decided I should attend. My mother did not enjoy Society as much as other ladies of her rank did, although she once had. At my age she had reveled in the pleasure of parties, balls, and the whole whirl of gaiety, but now she preferred the company of her intellectual friends, who like herself were devoted to good works and moral improvement. “I have no intention of spending the entire Season in London,” she had cautioned me before we had left Fordhook. “We will come and go as the occasion requires.”

  Knowing that she considered our appearances in Society to be an obligation of her rank and title as well as an undertaking essential to finding me a husband, I was glad that she had added the Court Ball to her list of necessary engagements. Remembering Miss Bettencourt’s malice, however, I felt the luster of my excitement dimming. It unsettled me to think that I might again be the center of attention at another glittering event where there were so many others more worthy, as well as more desirous, of meriting observation.

  “I don’t want you to occupy yourself with frivolities,” my mother told me the day after my presentation at court, “so I will choose your gown.” Relieved, I thanked her, but I resolved to learn more about fashion so that the next time, I could at least offer a few suggestions regarding the style and fabric of my attire. My mother chose an ashes-of-rose silk ball gown cut in a simple but elegant silhouette, embellished with pearlescent satin ribbons and a touch of lace trim at the wrists and neck. It fit me perfectly, emphasizing my slender waist and my long neck. For jewelry, she selected a lustrous, sparkling pearl-and-rub
y necklace with matching earrings to draw attention to my bosom and away from my strong chin, which reminded my father’s admirers fondly of him but did nothing to enhance my beauty. As it happened, my mother’s friend Miss Louisa Chaloner had been very wrong indeed when she had predicted that I would never be pretty. I was no Miss Bettencourt, but Wills had shown me that I was far from plain and had more than my fortune to recommend me.

  “When I was your age, balls at Saint James’s were astonishingly dull,” my mother remarked as she and her maid dressed me on the evening of 17 May. “The protocol for dancing was so restrictive it’s a wonder anyone danced at all. If one wished to dance a minuet, one was obliged to submit one’s name to the king’s chamberlain a day ahead of time, and at the ball he would summon the ladies and gentlemen forward to dance according to rank. Only one couple danced at a time, and since there were invariably more ladies than gentlemen, each lady danced one minuet, each gentleman two.” She stood lost in reflection for a moment before resuming her story and the task of getting me into my gown. “The dance floor was separated from the rest of the chamber by a wooden railing. Only the royal family, their particular companions, and the dancers were permitted there. Everyone else, including the band, was obliged to look on from a crowded gallery.”

  “It doesn’t sound very enjoyable,” I said.

  “I don’t believe enjoyment was the point. Oh, the country-dances that followed the minuets were more pleasurable, and not all balls were as formal as those at Saint James’s. Queen Charlotte gave a wonderful ball at Windsor one year, with country-dances set to sprightly Scottish reels. The supper was excellent as well.” As her maid fastened my last button, my mother looked me up and down and nodded approvingly. “Those days are gone. England has been changing so rapidly and London most of all. The young today expect pleasure in every occasion far more than my generation ever did, and those expectations are usually gratified.” She sighed. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

  She made it sound as if she would consider it an ethical lapse if I did. I resolved that I would enjoy the ball, if only for the sake of the music, which I had been looking forward to with great anticipation. Afterward, my mother would not have to know that I had felt anything more than satisfaction at fulfilling my duty.

  And for the most part, I did have a wonderful time at the ball. The music was excellent, fulfilling all my youthful expectations of pleasure, as was the dancing, whether I was participant or observer. While it was true that I was uncomfortably conscious of the curious glances and the voices that murmured, “Byron’s daughter, Byron’s daughter,” wherever I turned, I did not flee the ballroom in a panic or cower in the corner, head bowed, staring at the hem of my gown and praying no one would address me.

  Such prayers would have been futile, as I found myself besieged by a throng of handsome young gentlemen. They paid me the usual compliments, and I confess that after I deliberately forced thoughts of Wills and his dimple and his caresses from my mind, I enjoyed basking in their admiration and flirting back and forth. Oh, I realize that the enormous Wentworth estate I was expected to inherit from my mother, worth eight thousand pounds per annum, might have made me more attractive than if I had been poor, but the gentlemen would not have lingered so long to converse with me after we danced if my charms were limited to my fortune.

  The more attention the gentlemen paid me, the more alluring I felt, and I thought my delight had surely reached its summit when I spotted Miss Bettencourt among the dancers. She was offering a winsome smile to her partner, an older gentleman—not elderly, I don’t mean that, but closer to my mother’s age than to my own. He was quite distinguished, if not as richly dressed as many others present, although he was still attired according to protocol. It occurred to me that he was one of the few men who had not tried to arrange an introduction with me. Though it makes me look petty and jealous, I freely confess that I found myself very displeased that anyone could be blind to me because he was dazzled by the brilliance of Miss Bettencourt.

  Soon thereafter, I observed that Miss Bettencourt had left his side and her place had been usurped by Mrs. Dallas—the wife of the uncle of the seventh Baron Byron, Captain George Anson Byron. Although ours was not a particularly close family connection, I had met her on several occasions, and she and my mother exchanged occasional letters. Possessed by some mischief, as soon as Mrs. Dallas left the gentleman, I made my way through the crowd to her side.

  “Why, Miss Byron,” she greeted me, pleased. “How lovely it is to see you looking so well. How is your most excellent mother?”

  “She is very well, thank you,” I replied. “Dare I hope that your great-nephew George accompanied you here this evening?”

  “I’m sorry, dear, he did not.” The ostrich plumes in her headdress bobbed when she shook her head. “He will be very sad to hear that he missed seeing you.”

  “Not half as sad as I am.” I was sincere, but after catching up on all the family news, I quickly changed the subject to inquire about the gentleman with whom I had seen her speaking.

  “What gentleman?” She glanced back over her shoulder as if he might have remained there to refresh her memory. “You must mean Mr. Knight, Mr. Charles Murray Knight.”

  “Indeed?” I was surprised by the lack of title, as a young lady in Miss Bettencourt’s pecuniary circumstances surely needed to ensnare a lord or an admiral, at least. Perhaps he had earned his own fortune through diligence and cleverness; it had been known to happen. “I thought I recognized him as the father of one of my friends, but I was mistaken. Perhaps I should meet him anyway, if he is a friend of yours.”

  “Meet Mr. Knight? I don’t think that’s necessary, dear. He’s not really a friend of mine, more of an acquaintance of Lord Byron.”

  But I persisted, gently, and soon she dubiously acquiesced. After we exchanged the perfunctory greetings, he was courteous and charming, and he complimented my father’s poetry without being obsequious. Thus satisfied that I would come to no harm, Mrs. Dallas left us to converse.

  I soon learned that Mr. Knight was a railroad investor who also held various impressive posts within the government. “I have always had to make up for what I lack in titles and rank with my wits and hard work,” he said modestly, which I found refreshing.

  He knew London and its history very well, and when I mentioned my interest in science and mathematics, he told me of several places that I ought to visit. He described the red Time Ball recently installed on the roof of the Royal Observatory in Greenwich so earnestly that I thought he was about to invite me to accompany him on a trip to see it. Just as I was wondering how I would respond if he did, my gaze fell upon Miss Bettencourt, who was observing us from a rather close distance, her face expressionless.

  Immediately I brightened my smile and gazed more warmly at Mr. Knight, and when he made a humorous remark, I laughed as if I had never heard anything more clever or amusing. That pleased him, and as our conversation continued with even greater animation, Miss Bettencourt’s lovely face suddenly became crestfallen and weary, and she turned and disappeared into the throng.

  At once I felt a stinging jolt of shame. Although I did like Mr. Knight, I had sought his acquaintance only to see whether I could lure him away from Miss Bettencourt. I was successful, and the attention he paid me clearly wounded her.

  I thought of Wills and felt dizzy with self-loathing.

  I had never really wanted Mr. Knight, and although it was pleasant to chat with someone who shared my interest in science, I knew my mother would never allow me to marry him. Only the worst sort of conniving coquette would wedge herself between a rival and the man she admired out of pure spite, and I could never be that.

  Smiling and thanking him for the news about the Royal Observatory, I made my excuses and hurried off to find Mrs. Dallas again. I felt sick from the intoxicating draft of admiration and attention I had taken in too quickly, and I knew I needed a good
dose of maternal common sense and kindness to sober me up.

  I did not see Miss Bettencourt or Mr. Knight again that night, but the following day, when my mother and I attended a party at the home of her longtime friend Mary Acheson, Countess of Gosford, I saw Mr. Knight approaching me, but before I could hurry away pretending I had not seen him, he was at my side, smiling.

  “Miss Byron.” He bowed, and I curtseyed in turn. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. Do you know, I enjoyed our conversation about the Royal Observatory so much that as we parted, I thought of several other mathematical and scientific subjects I wanted to seek your opinion about.”

  “You wanted my opinion?” I echoed. I was seventeen, and he looked to be nearly forty. In my experience, people of his generation were more inclined to give me sermons than seek my opinion.

  “Certainly. First, have you read Mrs. Somerville’s book, Mechanism of the Heavens?”

  “Have I read it? Only so often that I have nearly worn off the cover.” Mrs. Mary Somerville was a renowned mathematician and astronomer, and I had long worshipped her from afar. Her mathematical papers revealed true genius, a marvelous insight and depth of understanding that rendered me awestruck. I absolutely revered her as the model of the sort of mathematician and scientist I hoped to become. “Her translation of Laplace’s Mécanique Céleste far surpasses the original.”

  “That was no mere translation,” said Mr. Knight. “She illuminated Laplace’s complex subject and made it comprehensible for the ordinary reader. I hear she’s working on a new book on the physical sciences.”

  “Is she?”

  “Rumor has it that it will be published next year.”

  “No sooner than that?” I lamented. “I cannot wait to read it.”

  “You should ask her about it. Likely she’d be willing to divulge a few secrets to a sister mathematician.”

  “Sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Somerville.”