Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Although my devotion to helping Mr. Babbage realize his dream had not diminished, I was mindful of the other duty that had brought me to London that spring. More anxious and yet more determined than I had been in my first two Seasons, I dressed for balls as if I were donning armor for battle, a reluctant soldier in the war upon spinsterhood. I was a bit taken aback to discover how many of the young gentlemen I had flirted with had become engaged to other young ladies since I had last seen them, and it was disconcerting to note how many fresh, bright, pretty young ladies clad in pure white dresses were making their first court curtseys to the king and queen.

  I do not mean to suggest that the Season was all drudgery and toil. I enjoyed concerts and dances, where the enchanting music swept all other concerns from my mind, but I preferred smaller gatherings, especially those at Mr. Babbage’s and Mrs. Somerville’s homes. I had become very good friends with Martha Somerville, who was close to my age, and her sister, Mary, two years younger, and of course I previously mentioned Woronzow Greig, the eldest son of the family, who was already becoming the steadfast confidant I would trust and depend upon later in life.

  One evening in the last week of April, the Somerville family invited me and my mother to a dinner party. The spring twilight was so lovely that after supper we all went out to wander the parklike grounds of the Royal Hospital. My mother walked ahead with Dr. and Mrs. Somerville, and the two sisters were laughing and chatting with a cousin visiting from Edinburgh. Other guests were dispersed here and there in pairs and small groups, and I found myself strolling beside Woronzow.

  He started to speak, then hesitated, then tried again. “Ada, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps you shouldn’t. That can lead to trouble.”

  He grinned and ducked his head. He never quite knew what to make of my jokes. “I have a friend—”

  “That’s not true,” I protested. “You have many.”

  “I have one friend in particular,” he said emphatically, “that I think you would like to know.”

  I understood the implication. “I’m listening.”

  “His name is William, Lord King, eighth Baron of Ockham,” Woronzow said. “We met as students at Trinity College, and we’ve been friends ever since.”

  “I know a Dr. William King, and a King William.” And a William Turner, I thought, but could not say. “How is it that I have never met William, Lord King?”

  “He has been abroad until recently.” As the light faded with the sunset, Woronzow offered me his arm. Lampposts lined the walking paths, but the flickering gaslight only faintly illuminated our way. “After Cambridge, he went overseas to pursue a career in the diplomatic service. As you would expect, he is very well traveled, and he most recently served in Greece as secretary to Lord Nugent, governor of the Ionian Islands.”

  “What would compel him to give up a prestigious post in such a beautiful part of the world?”

  “An unhappy impetus, I’m afraid. A little more than two years ago, his father passed away quite suddenly. William was obliged to return to England to take on the title and responsibilities as the eighth Lord King.” Woronzow gave my hand a little squeeze where it rested in the crook of his arm. “I think you and Lord King would be exceptionally well suited. His accomplishments speak for themselves, and he’s as well read as he is well traveled, conscientious, and intelligent. He’s particularly interested in science, engineering, and philosophy. I believe he inherited his interest in the latter from his father. He published John Locke’s Life and Letters.”

  “Did he indeed? My mother would approve.”

  “Lord King has many other virtues that would impress your mother even more.” His tone conveyed volumes; he knew my mother would be difficult to please, and he would not have bothered mentioning his friend if he considered Lord King in any way below the mark. “I confess I’ve taken the liberty of telling him about you.”

  “Oh, dear.” I kept my voice light, but I felt a nervous fluttering in my chest. “I shudder to think what you might have said.”

  “Only good things,” he assured me. “I have only good things to say.”

  “In that case, if we ever do meet, he will never recognize me.”

  Woronzow halted. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

  I needed only a moment to consider. “I would be delighted to meet any good friend of yours,” I said, “but I cannot allow you to play matchmaker under false pretenses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would like very much to tell you—” I took a breath to steel myself. “I cannot deceive you, or have you even unwittingly deceive a friend. May I have your promise that what I tell you now, you will share with no one?”

  His brow furrowed in concern, but he managed a reassuring smile. “Ada, as a barrister, I’m entrusted with important secrets every day. You have my solemn promise that I shall never betray yours.”

  I inclined my head to indicate that we should walk somewhat apart from the others, and when I was sure they would not overhear us, I quietly and straightforwardly told Woronzow about my affair with Wills. I omitted the most sordid details, and I did not divulge how much I had loved him, but I did not conceal that we had been intimate and that I had intended to elope with him.

  I could barely bring myself to look at Woronzow afterward, but to my relief, he looked shaken, but not disgusted or horrified. “Forgive me this impertinent question,” he said. “Think of me as a lawyer now, and not as your friend. Am I correct to understand that your liaison was . . . unconsummated?”

  “Yes.” Then I remembered my mother’s distinction between virginity and purity, and honesty compelled me to add, “But only just.”

  “You need say nothing more.” Woronzow regarded me with the same compassion and understanding that I had seen so often in his mother’s face. “This man was older than you, and in a position of authority. He took advantage of you.”

  “No,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “I will not foist the blame upon him. I was perfectly willing. It was I who packed a bag and went to him.”

  “You don’t want to condemn him, and I understand that, but that does not change the fact that you were only seventeen years old, and rather sheltered, from what you’ve told me. He was an adult, and he should have known better.”

  I blinked away tears. Woronzow was stating the facts but not the truth. It pained me to hear of my love for Wills dismissed as girlish infatuation, and worse yet, his love for me as something sordid and criminal. “My mother says that I am ruined.”

  “With all due respect to your mother, nonsense.”

  I was so startled that I laughed. I had never heard anyone dismiss my mother’s judgment so easily.

  “Ada, I have been one of Lord King’s closest friends for many years, and I can tell you with utmost certainty that this affair, as you call it, did not progress far enough that it would cause him any concern.” Glancing over his shoulder at the sound of laughter, he lowered his voice as his sisters and cousin wandered our way. “It in no way discourages me from recommending you to him. In fact, your honesty only increases my esteem for you.”

  I regarded him with no small measure of disbelief. “Knowing what you know, you would still want to introduce us?”

  “Do you still want to meet him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Woronzow smiled and promised to arrange for us to meet as soon as possible, and I promised not to get engaged to anyone else in the meantime. We strolled on, and when the party reunited, I said nothing of our conversation to my mother. If I did eventually meet William, Lord King, and found him ghastly, I did not want her to know he existed.

  In early May, my mother accepted an invitation for us to visit the family of her friend Sir George Philips at their estate in Warwickshire about ninety miles northwest of our London residence. His father, the first Baronet Philips, had earne
d a fortune in the textile industry and had constructed a magnificent new country house to reflect his successes. Weston House had been completed only two years before, and a veritable stone fortress indeed it seemed to me as I glimpsed it through the windows of our carriage, with its numerous round turrets, tall pinnacles topped by stone finials, and massive columns flanking the front entrance.

  Both the elder and the younger George Philips had invited other friends for the week, and so there were many guests whom my mother and I did not know. One of the first to whom the younger George introduced us was his good friend William, Lord King.

  I was so startled by the name that I could barely murmur a reply. Lord King was tall, with a strong, lean build and broad shoulders, hooded brown eyes that were both piercing and ineffably kind, wavy light brown hair, and a cleft chin. Woronzow had neglected to mention how handsome his friend was, and when Lord King smiled somewhat shyly down upon me as we were introduced, I felt unmistakable delight and anticipation.

  “I believe we have a mutual friend,” Lord King said to me at dinner, for we had been seated next to each other, an arrangement too fortuitous to be dismissed as coincidence.

  “Yes, two, in fact, Sir George and his son,” I said, feigning innocence as I inclined my head to indicate our two hosts.

  Lord King colored slightly. “Of course, but I was referring to Mr. Woronzow Greig.”

  “Oh, really? Do you know Mr. Greig?”

  “Yes, we’ve been great friends ever since our Cambridge days.” Now he looked endearingly confounded. “I beg your pardon, Miss Byron, but he led me to believe that he had spoken to you about me.”

  I took pity on him. “He has, Lord King. I confess I’ve been teasing you.”

  “Ah, yes. He warned me that you might.” He smiled, and I found myself smiling back. “He also told me that if I wanted you to speak to me, I had only to ask you about Mr. Babbage’s Difference Engine and you would go on at length.”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “He did. Don’t tell him I told you.” When he smiled at me, I was struck by the way his earnest, attentive manner made him seem even more handsome than upon first glance. “So? Have you seen this remarkable engine everyone is talking about?”

  Naturally I had much to say on that subject, and Lord King impressed me with his thoughtful, intelligent questions, which I did my best to answer. The conversation eventually turned to other subjects; architecture in particular fascinated him, and he shared several intriguing stories of his travels in the Near East. It was a thoroughly enjoyable dinner, and I could not help noticing that my mother looked on with great interest from her place near the head of the table.

  Whether by chance or by design, Lord King and I found ourselves together often during the three days of our visit. He asked me about my mathematical studies and my music, and we discovered a mutual love of horses. In turn I learned quite a lot about him—the taciturn nature that concealed a scholarly mind; his fluency in Greek, French, Italian, and Spanish; his political aspirations, which he seemed more than capable of achieving; and his keen interest in applying new scientific discoveries to farming and animal husbandry. He was Woronzow’s age, which meant that he was nearly eleven years older than I. He revered Mrs. Somerville, whom he had known since he and Woronzow had met at university, and he denounced it as “an outrage and a travesty” that the Royal Society proudly celebrated—and tacitly laid claim to—her scientific accomplishments by displaying her bust by Chantrey in their Great Hall, and yet would not allow her to become a member or use their library because she was a woman.

  I think it was this passionate denunciation of the injustice done to my friend that transformed my growing interest into warm admiration.

  Too soon our visit came to an end. As my mother and I prepared to depart, Lord King asked if he might write to me, and I consented. “I hope to see you again soon,” he said as he helped me into the carriage. “Perhaps even before a letter would reach you.”

  “We’ll be in Town for the Season,” my mother assured him, and he bowed his thanks.

  As we rode back to London, my mother remarked that Lord King had impressed her with his sincere interest in her industrial schools and her philosophy of progressive education. “He does not readily draw others into conversation,” she acknowledged, “but I would not call him taciturn, because once he warms to a topic, he can be quite engaging.” That was the worst criticism she leveled at him, which spoke volumes in his favor.

  Unbeknownst to him, or to me, while I had been otherwise occupied with Lord King, my mother had busied herself making quiet inquiries of Lady Philips and other friends. Everyone she had spoken to at the party praised him as a sensible, rational gentleman who respected tradition and disdained frivolities. He owned two estates: his impressive ancestral seat of Ockham Park in Surrey, and Ashley Combe, a smaller but more picturesque estate at Porlock in Somerset, which boasted splendid views of the Somersetshire coast. He also owned a residence in the most fashionable neighborhood in London, 12 Saint James’s Square. His title had been created in 1725, comfortably older than the minimum age of a century my mother required, and his family commanded prestige, political influence, and immense wealth.

  “I hope you like him,” my mother said, shaking her head at my foolishness if I did not, “because he certainly seems to like you, and you could not do better.”

  “I do like him,” I admitted. What I did not say was that he excited my imagination the way no other gentleman I had met since Wills had done, and I thought that in time I could perhaps come to love him.

  As soon as we settled back in at 10 Wimpole Street, I began to watch for a letter from Lord King, but before any arrived, I met him at a party in Whitehall. His obvious delight at seeing me warmed my heart, and although we were not seated next to each other at dinner, we spent nearly every other moment of the party together, enough so that I have no doubt we attracted speculation.

  Lord King was somewhat reserved, as both my mother and I had noticed, but my teasing, playful manner drew him out as it had at Weston House, and soon we were conversing like old friends. I told him of my love for singing and playing the harp, and how I secretly hoped that one day I would be as renowned for my music as I expected to be for mathematics. He told me of the great pleasure he derived from improving his estates, not merely chatting with the gardener and architect and watching their men at work, but drawing up plans, removing trees, and building stone walls himself. I suspected, but was not bold enough to say, that this hardy labor out of doors surely accounted for his vigor, his well-muscled arms and back, and the hint of gold in his light brown hair.

  He told me that he had three sisters and a younger brother, and he confided that he and his mother were not on cordial terms, and that his relationship with his sister Emily and his brother, Locke, had ever been contentious. In turn I confided to him that my mother could be didactic, overbearing, and impossible to please, and yet I had an irrepressible compulsion to try. More hesitantly, I told him how I had struggled all my life as the child of the great poet Lord Byron, an unwilling celebrity from the day of my birth, and that I longed to know more about my father even as I feared what I might discover.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” I added at a sudden flash of terror that in the morning I would be greeted with a newspaper headline screeching, “Byron’s Daughter Laments Poet’s Legacy.”

  “I would never divulge any of your secrets, Miss Byron,” he said, shocked by the very idea. He took my hand, hesitated, and said, “I wonder if you could ask your mother if I might speak to her tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I will,” I said, a tremor in my voice. “I know she plans to be in to receive callers, but I’ll write to you all the same after I speak with her.”

  He smiled warmly, holding my gaze, and I felt again the delicious, happy, disconcerting flutter in my midsection that only one other man had ever evoked in me. I was
stunned by the sudden realization that perhaps I dared hope for more from marriage than a union with a steadfast partner committed to the mutual duty of producing heirs.

  As the party drew to a close, Lord King and I parted on the glad expectation of meeting again soon. Almost immediately afterward, my mother came looking for me, and she no doubt discerned from my bright eyes and flushed cheeks that something of great significance had happened. She promptly summoned our carriage, and as soon as we were seated within, I told her that Lord King wished to speak with her the following afternoon.

  “Of course I’ll be in,” she said, a little breathlessly. “If I had plans, I would cancel them. As soon as we get home, you must write to him and say I will be happy to receive him at two o’clock.”

  “He may only wish to speak to you about educating the poor,” I cautioned her. I confess that part of me, overwhelmed by the speed and suddenness of the apparently imminent change of my fate, hoped that this was true.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s coming to ask for your hand in marriage.” My mother’s face was flushed with elation. “This is wonderful, simply wonderful. How lucky it is that Lord King has been abroad all these years, or he would surely already be married.”

  “And how fortunate,” I retorted sharply, “that, if his father had to die, he arranged it perfectly so that his son would be obliged to return to England precisely when I would be seeking a husband.”

  “Ada! What a dreadful thing to say.” She studied me intently. “I assumed that you would welcome his proposal. Was I mistaken?”

  “Of course not,” I said, contrite. “If tomorrow Lord King asks to marry me . . . I will accept.”

  He arrived promptly at two o’clock the following afternoon, and by half past, it was decided.