Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

I lifted my head warily and watched as she retrieved a book from a drawer and passed it across the desk to me. Dubious, I took it up, frowned at the blank spine where the title should have appeared, and opened the cover to find that all the pages were blank. “A journal?”

  My mother nodded. “One with a very specific purpose. Dr. King has been an excellent spiritual advisor, and he has shared with you many important moral precepts. I believe it would help to reinforce those principles in your mind if you wrote them down in a book. The act of transcribing his words will cause you to ponder them more deeply, and in the end you will have collected them in a reference you can refer to in moments of weakness or doubt.”

  It seemed too easy; I had expected a harsher punishment, or at least a more demanding exercise. “I think that’s a very good idea,” I said carefully, closing the book and holding it on my lap.

  When my mother advised Dr. King of her plan, he readily agreed that it was sound, and he promised to write to me even more frequently and to come to Fordhook to resume our old walks and chats when his schedule and the weather permitted. He also advised me to focus my studies on mathematics and science to keep my imagination in check and to fill up the void in my mind created in the absence of the stimulation of London. In particular, he recommended the “close and careful” study of Euclid’s geometry, which to me sounded like a delightful holiday.

  Never before had I been happier to accept corrective measures, and all winter I studied vigorously. Early in the New Year, I wrote to Dr. King to express how happy I was to follow his recommendation, that I felt its benefits already in helping me to discipline my disordered thoughts, and that I wanted to add a course of arithmetic and algebra to the program, as well as astronomy and optics as soon as I had mastered the requisite mathematics to comprehend them.

  How wonderful that the study of mathematics figured so prominently in Dr. King’s prescription for the mastery of my passions and imagination! Ardently I embraced Euclid’s geometry and algebra and all the rest, and it seemed that the more I learned, the more I discovered I had yet to learn. I feasted gloriously on knowledge, on formulae and proofs, and I thought how wonderful it was to live in an age when so many new scientific and mathematical concepts were being discovered every day.

  It must be Providence, I decided, that I had entered the world at precisely the right time. Or perhaps instead, this glorious wellspring of knowledge had waited for me to arrive before it began to surge and flow.

  “Ada, remember moderation,” Dr. King cautioned me. “Mathematics, self-improvement—even these can be practiced to excess. You must not allow a new mania to replace the old.”

  Mania, again. Always that word was banded about whenever I pursued my passions. Whatever my mother and her host of advisors did not understand or approve, they labeled an illness. I longed to return to London, to Mr. Babbage, Mr. Dickens, and the elusive Mrs. Somerville, where genius was celebrated and imagination encouraged, not regarded fearfully like a house fire that must be extinguished before it destroys the entire village.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Mind to Comprehend the Universe

  March–May 1834

  I had not yet achieved perfection by the time my second London Season began, and in hindsight I am heartily glad for it, for I would have become a very dull young woman indeed had I succeeded. The perfection I admired in Mr. Babbage’s Difference Engine was not only impossible for a human being to achieve, but also undesirable. I understood that at eight years of age, but I had forgotten it by eighteen. Fortunately, that crucial piece of wisdom I lost between childhood and womanhood was restored to me while I was still young and optimistic enough to make use of it.

  But that was yet ahead of me. When my second London Season began, I was still determined to become the sort of exemplary young woman my mother had been at my age. But even then, I could not dread my imagination as much as she and Dr. King thought I should. I understood its dangers, its seductive powers, and yet I hated to hear it maligned. When they exhorted me to quash it, to contain it, I felt myself taking my poor, disparaged imagination in my arms and bending over it protectively to shield it from the slings and arrows of outraged parents and those in loco parentis, as if it were a helpless newborn kitten.

  I suppose the very fact that I did imagine this proves how badly I failed to subdue my imagination.

  Although I strove for honesty and obedience, as my mother and I settled into new lodgings in Mayfair, I resisted confessing that my imagination thrived, more curious and exuberant than ever. I was secretly pleased that it had turned out to be the rare sort of wild creature that survived fairly well in captivity.

  Not long after we returned to Town, we attended another royal Drawing Room at Saint James’s Palace. This time I stood by my mother’s side attired in a beribboned silk gown of pale green while other young ladies in white satins and silks were presented to the king and queen. A few of the girls looked utterly terrified, some were a trifle unsteady in their full court curtseys, but not one committed any of the errors that would condemn her to the sort of eternal ignominy that Miss Bettencourt had warned me of, or rather, had wished upon me.

  Miss Bettencourt. I had not seen her or thought of her in months. I glanced around the drawing room, but I did not see her, and I wondered why she was absent. Perhaps, I thought, more curious than spiteful, she had not been invited.

  As I searched the room, my gaze fell upon a gentleman I recognized—Colonel Francis Doyle, my friend Fanny’s uncle, brother of the Fury Miss Selina Doyle, and one of my mother’s most trusted attorneys. He was chatting with a gentleman who looked to be a few years older than my mother, and as I studied him, I felt a strange sense of recognition. He had thin brown hair and features that, while not unpleasant, were not regular enough to be called handsome—full cheeks, an aquiline nose, and a small pursed mouth. As he felt my gaze upon him, he looked my way and froze, his face draining of color. Colonel Doyle, realizing he had lost his friend’s attention, looked along his line of sight to see what had distracted him, and found me. The two conversed briefly in quick, terse sentences; the strange gentleman nodded; and Colonel Doyle led him through the crowd toward me.

  Suddenly wary, I glanced around for Fanny, and when I did not see her I looked for my mother. Unfortunately, she was engrossed in a conversation with Sir Robert Peel and I knew she would not thank me for interrupting.

  “Miss Byron?” said Colonel Doyle, halting before me. His companion fixed me with a stare so intense that I could not hold his gaze.

  Ignoring the stranger, I offered the colonel a polite smile. “Yes, Colonel Doyle?”

  “My companion was a dear friend of your father’s since their school days, and he would very much like to meet you. Miss Byron, please allow me to introduce Sir John Cam Hobhouse. Sir John, this is Miss Augusta Ada Byron.”

  Hobhouse. I felt a jolt of recognition at the name, and I struggled to hide my sudden distress as we exchanged the usual pleasantries. The man who stood before me had been my father’s best friend, and I knew my mother despised him. She considered him the worst of the “Piccadilly crew,” as she called my father’s loyal friends and drinking companions who had led him into insobriety and degradation, undermining his marriage, contributing in no small way to the Separation.

  “What a true pleasure it is to see you again, Miss Byron,” said Hobhouse, smiling. “You will not remember me, of course. The last time I saw you, you were but six weeks old.”

  I felt my throat constrict and I swallowed hard. This man, who my mother had raised me to believe was the most vile and conniving of men, had known my father better than anyone. “I do not remember you,” I managed to say, “but I have heard of you.”

  He nodded sadly. “I suppose most of those stories have not been kind.”

  A flood of memories—not mine, but stories I had overheard, exchanged between my mother and her friends—crashed over me. “I trust you
do not mean to suggest that my mother has spoken untruthfully about you,” I said. My voice trembled and trailed off as if a hand had closed around my throat.

  “No, certainly not—”

  “Because that’s precisely how it sounded to me.” I nodded sharply to him and then to Colonel Doyle. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe my mother wants me.”

  I turned and strode away, losing myself in the crowd, gulping air, fighting back tears. It was inevitable that I should meet some of my father’s old friends once I entered Society, I told myself, fighting to regain my composure. I had grown accustomed to encounters with his loyal readers because they were legion, but someone who had known him intimately—that was completely different, somehow, although I would never have imagined it would have affected me so intensely—

  “Miss Byron?” I felt the touch of a woman’s hand on my arm. “Are you quite all right?”

  I halted, but in my distress I needed another moment before I could speak. “Good evening, Lady Byron.” Not my mother, but her successor, the wife of the seventh Baron Byron, Captain George Anson Byron. “How do you do?”

  “Quite well, my dear, but forgive me, your expression tells me you cannot say the same.” She put an arm around me and led me to a less crowded part of the drawing room, where we could speak with some measure of privacy. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to find your mother?”

  “Not just yet, please.” I inhaled deeply and forced my heart to stop racing. “I had . . . an unpleasant introduction to a dreadful man, an old acquaintance of my father, Sir John Cam Hobhouse.”

  “Sir John, a dreadful man?” Lady Byron shook her head, puzzled. “I’ve never heard him called that before. I can’t imagine what he might have done to deserve it, especially if you have only just met him.”

  “Well—” I hesitated, flustered. “He didn’t really do or say anything offensive, I suppose, but—well, his reputation precedes him.”

  “Oh. I see.” Lady Byron nodded knowingly. “My dear girl, I would not wish to contradict or criticize anyone to whom you owe your first and strongest loyalty, but let me say this.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I have always known Sir John Hobhouse to be a perfectly respectable and honorable gentleman, and while it is wise to consider the opinions of our elders, we must be careful not to absorb their prejudices along with their wisdom.”

  “Prejudices?”

  “There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she must learn to trust the evidence of her own senses, of her own experiences, if it does not confirm what she has heard from others.” She smiled and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I trust you will not get me in trouble with your elders for telling you that.”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Good.” She glanced past my shoulder. “I think I see your mother over there, if you need her.”

  We parted, and I made my way through the crowd to my mother’s side, my thoughts churning. I had left Hobhouse so abruptly that I had scarcely had a chance to gather any evidence of my own senses and experiences. If my mother’s own lawyer considered him a friend, if Lady Byron called him honorable—could it be that my mother was mistaken? I could not believe that she would deliberately deceive me, but perhaps she knew only his worst elements and none of the good.

  My heart sank when I realized how rude I had been to him, and to Colonel Doyle. I could only hope that they would excuse my behavior on the grounds of my youth, although I could not rely upon that excuse much longer. If only I had kept my composure and had reserved judgment, what fascinating stories about my father might I have learned from his dearest friend?

  Suddenly my imagination returned me to the shores of Lac Léman and to the stories my mother’s cousin Robert Noel had shared with me about my father, the castle of Chillon, and the Villa Diodati; to Genoa and the studio of the master painter Signor Isola, who had glimpsed signs of my father in me—the line of my jaw, the way I studied my subject, the motion of my hand as I sketched. These were precious glimpses into the past that my mother could not, or would not, have ever shared with me.

  What new stories might have been captivating my imagination at that very moment, if not for my presumptions? Silently I berated myself for squandering an opportunity that was unlikely to come again. All I could do was learn from it. I was no longer a child, and I needed to think for myself.

  I realized that these were dangerous, transgressive thoughts, but rather than drive them away, I resolved to hold on to them for a while and see where they led me.

  —

  SOON THEREAFTER, I HAD THE very different experience of meeting someone whom I was predisposed to like exceedingly well. The momentous occasion was at a dinner party I attended with Lord and Lady Byron and their son George, my honorary brother. My mother did not come, being indisposed, but soon after our arrival I discovered that my father’s publisher, Mr. John Murray, was also present.

  Although we had been introduced before, I did not know Mr. Murray well. He and my mother occasionally corresponded about my father’s work, but while they had a civil relationship, they were not friends. Through the years I had heard my mother make certain scathing remarks about him—most recently, a few years ago regarding a dispute about the publication of my father’s memoirs and the subsequent burning of the manuscript. A fortnight earlier, I might have shunned Mr. Murray as I had Hobhouse, but I had learned my lesson, and I resolved to be cordial.

  He greeted me warmly when I approached him, and he politely inquired after my mother. He courteously said nothing of my father’s memoir or any other potentially distressing subjects but instead offered several thoughtful, amusing reminiscences of working with my father.

  “There was another occasion, I recall, shortly before Christmas of 1822,” said Mr. Murray, his gaze faraway. “Lord Byron was in Genoa at the time, and he wrote me a letter of at least six pages berating me for a decision that I now regret.”

  “What decision, if I may ask?”

  “Of course you may ask. You may always ask.” Mr. Murray ran a hand over his jaw, his expression sheepish. “I confess I had found Lord Byron’s most recent cantos of Don Juan too shocking, and I had refused to publish any more of his work. In one letter, he urged me to continue to publish his poetry, claiming that he trusted no one else to do it properly—which, I admit, flattered me. He also assured me that he would compensate me for any financial losses I might suffer if the new volumes did not sell.” He smiled wryly. “The very next day, he wrote again to complain about my poor editing and to criticize me for cutting a dedication to Goethe from one of his poems.”

  “I imagine poets can be difficult to please,” I replied, amused.

  “Some more than others,” he acknowledged, and instinctively I knew that he would never say anything more critical than this about my father in my presence, and that endeared him to me. “Other authors are more congenial, as long as I print their books correctly and don’t omit essential facts or, heaven forfend, entire pages of the manuscript.”

  I smiled. “I think they would have a right to complain in such circumstances.”

  “I quite agree with you, which is one reason I endeavor to make no mistakes.” He frowned thoughtfully, tapping his chin with a forefinger. “I understand that you have an interest in mathematics and science, much like your mother. Is that so?”

  “Very much so, a keen interest.”

  “I think you’d enjoy a new book I’m publishing later this month. I’ll be sure to get you a copy. It’s about how the various branches of the sciences are actually closely connected. It’s called On the Connexion of the Physical Sciences, by Mrs. Mary Somerville. Are you familiar with her work?”

  “I surely am,” I exclaimed. “I’ve been looking forward to reading her new book ever since I heard a rumor about it almost a year ago. I’m delighted to hear that the wait is almost over.”

  “I’
m sure Mrs. Somerville would be pleased to know that. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Indeed, with all my heart,” I said, wistful. “I’ve long hoped that our paths will cross one of these days and some kind person will introduce me.”

  “Your paths could cross in about five minutes, if you like,” said Mr. Murray, smiling. “Mrs. Somerville is in the library, and I’d be very pleased to introduce you.”

  If I were the sort of young lady who swooned, I probably would have done so at that moment and would have missed the opportunity to meet my idol at long last. Fortunately, I was more levelheaded than that, despite all other evidence to the contrary, and I eagerly accepted Mr. Murray’s offer.

  He escorted me into the adjacent chamber, where I immediately felt at home, thanks to the walls lined with bookshelves and the pleasant, familiar smell of beeswax and old paper and leather bindings common to libraries everywhere. Several guests mingled here and there in the room, which was about twice as long as it was wide, but Mr. Murray led me past them all to a wide bay window on the far end, where two armchairs and a sofa were arranged to create a cozy reading nook. A woman in her midfifties was seated in one of the chairs. A gentleman and a lady a few years older sat together on the sofa across from her, and a younger man, perhaps about ten years older than myself, stood at the first woman’s side, one arm folded behind his back, the other resting upon the high top of her chair. He looked familiar, as if we might have been introduced at a ball or a party once but had not cultivated the acquaintance.

  The four guests were chatting when Mr. Murray and I entered the room, but as we approached, the couple rose, made their farewells, and strolled off, leaving the way clear for us. My heart pounded and my mouth went dry, but it was too late for second thoughts, because suddenly there I was, standing before the woman I had so yearned to meet.

  Mrs. Somerville had strong, pleasing features in an oval face, her eyes a clear hazel, her lips full with a hint of a smile. She wore her chestnut brown hair in an intricately braided knot on the back of her head, with graceful curls arranged on the sides. Though her gaze was piercing, her expression was calm, kind, and intelligent, and yet I was terrified.