Enchantress of Numbers

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  My mother had no better luck, so I resigned myself to a long wait, and in the meantime, I hired a second governess to assist Mrs. Grimes and continued to study on my own.

  Occasionally I encountered a particular concept in trigonometry or calculus that drew my thoughts back to Mr. Babbage’s Difference Engine, as well as his Analytical Engine, which as far as I knew still existed only on paper and in its inventor’s remarkable mind. Some deep instinct told me that both machines were capable of far more complex calculations than Mr. Babbage had mentioned yet.

  “Have you ever seen a game, or rather puzzle, called Solitaire?” I wrote to him on a frigid afternoon in mid-February 1840. “There is an octagonal board, like the enclosed drawing, with thirty-seven holes in the positions I have marked. Thirty-six small pegs are inserted, filling in all the holes but one, and the remaining pegs must hop over, capture, and remove one another as in Draughts. The object is to leave only one peg on the board, but people may try thousands of times and not succeed. I have mastered the puzzle by trial and observation, but I want to know if the problem admits of being put into a mathematical Formula. There must be a definite principle, a compound of numerical and geometrical properties, on which the solution depends, and which can be put into symbolic language.”

  If it could be put into symbolic language, could it not be put into an engine? Mr. Babbage’s guests were enthralled by the Silver Lady as she danced. What, I wondered, would they make of a machine that could play a game or solve a logic puzzle?

  When I contemplated Mr. Babbage’s Difference Engine and its successor, and all that I believed they could accomplish, I felt as if I looked through an immeasurable vista, and though I could see nothing but vague and cloudy uncertainty in the foreground, I fancied that I discerned a very bright light a good way farther on, and this made me worry less about the cloudiness and obscurity nearer to me.

  I supposed such thoughts were dangerously poetical, which was probably why I did not share them with anyone but Mr. Babbage.

  My search for a tutor continued throughout the winter and into the spring, until at last, in early summer, the renowned mathematician and logistician Augustus De Morgan accepted the challenge. Like my father, my husband, Woronzow Greig, and Mr. Babbage, he, too, had studied at Trinity College at Cambridge, and he and Mr. Babbage were quite good friends. Mr. De Morgan was even better acquainted with my mother, for he had married Miss Sophia Frend, who had been one of her closest and most trusted friends for longer than I could remember. Most of our instruction took place through correspondence, a system of learning I was quite accustomed to, but we also met once a fortnight to discuss concepts, problem-solving techniques, and complex theories more easily imparted in person than through the post.

  With Mr. De Morgan’s guidance, I made great progress through differential and integral calculus, with such astonishing speed that he worried that I was studying too vigorously, and that it might prove injurious to my health. With unfortunate timing, I did happen to fall ill in late July, and he promptly wrote to my mother and to William expressing his concern that my constitution might not be robust enough to endure the study of mathematics. When they assured him that he was quite mistaken, he reminded them that he, not they, was the expert in this matter, and that he was deeply worried about my “voracious attack” on mathematics. A lady should sit demurely and take instruction respectfully, he wrote, but I questioned him relentlessly, wanting to understand not only how something functioned as it did, but why.

  “I feel bound to tell you,” he wrote to my mother, “that the power of thinking on these matters which Lady L. has always shown from the beginning of my correspondence with her, has been something so utterly out of the common way for any beginner, man or woman, that this power must be duly considered by her friends with reference to the question whether they should urge or check her obvious determination to try not only to reach but to get beyond the present bound of knowledge.”

  In other words, I should strive to master only what was already known. I must not under any circumstances attempt to discover something new.

  The questions I asked, Mr. De Morgan patiently explained, were simply not appropriate for any woman to ponder, not even Mary Somerville, whose books he used in his teaching. The sixteenth-century mathematician Maria Agnesi, who had been appointed to the University of Bologna by Pope Benedict XIV, might have been—might have been—one remarkable exception, but otherwise such advanced studies were dangerous to the fragile female form. “No other female mathematician throughout history had wrestled with difficulties and shown a man’s strength in getting over them,” he explained. “The reason is obvious: The very great tension of mind which they require is beyond the strength of a woman’s physical power of application.”

  I was not present when my mother read Mr. De Morgan’s missive, but when she showed it to me afterward, I could well imagine her bristling as she discovered his opinion of women’s intellectual limitations. When William received his copy, he burst into laughter, which I overheard from another room and wondered at; when he found me in my study afterward, he handed me the letter and declared that Mr. De Morgan might know mathematics, but he obviously did not know me. He and my mother were in confident agreement that, as always, mathematics was a steadying influence upon me, indeed, that it was my salvation. They both promised to respond to Mr. De Morgan with firm assurances that my studies should proceed at whatever pace I chose, and since he continued on as my tutor, they evidently persuaded him.

  I suppose I make him sound like an odious, pedantic person, and one might wonder why I would want him to remain as my tutor if he lived in fear that I would collapse beneath the weight of too much laborious cogitation. On the contrary, he was a very good instructor, and when I wasn’t worrying about his worry, I learned a great deal from him. I had never felt more intellectually satisfied in all my life.

  Fortunately, the conflict was more or less resolved before my mother departed for France in August, where she had been compelled to go on a matter of great urgency regarding my cousin Medora.

  Elizabeth Medora Leigh, as I have mentioned before, was the fourth eldest of my aunt Augusta’s seven children. I scarcely knew her, or any of my cousins, since my mother had vigilantly shielded me from their family, going so far as to forbid my aunt Augusta to approach me in Society after I came out. I had heard almost nothing of my Leigh cousins since shortly before my mother and I had embarked on our tour of the Continent, when my mother had permitted Augusta’s eldest daughter, Georgiana, and her husband, Henry Trevanion, to take up residence at Bifrons in our absence. Georgiana had been expecting her first child, and Medora had joined her sister and brother-in-law in our former home to attend to Georgiana in her confinement.

  That time was now ten years past, but throughout the spring and summer of 1840, my mother’s letters hinted at trouble within the Leigh family, ominous glimpses of scandals and conflicts that she had apparently been drawn into after receiving a letter from Medora’s lawyer in July. Medora was living in France in poverty and precarious health, and her lawyer begged my mother to help relieve her suffering.

  I knew my mother had made some arrangements to provide for Medora—what, precisely, I had not known—but eventually she had determined that she must go to France and see for herself how her niece was faring.

  A few days before her departure, my mother had written to me to say that she wanted to see her grandchildren before she sailed. Since she was very busy packing and preparing for her trip, she could not spare time to come to Ockham Park, so we must go to her at Fordhook. Dutifully I packed our bags and loaded the three children, their nurses, and myself into a carriage and made the twenty-mile journey north to my former home, enduring the children’s howls of complaint at being confined and jostled for so long.

  Naturally they transformed into darling little angels the moment they crossed the threshold of their grandmother’s house and ran into her w
elcoming embrace, which gave me, Mrs. Grimes, and her new assistant, Mrs. Green, a blessed moment to catch our breath and wipe our brows. While we settled ourselves and the children into our rooms, my mother kept the children happily occupied, and I even found a moment to rest in my old bedchamber.

  I did not suspect any other purpose for my mother’s summons until, after the children went to bed, she invited me to join her in the drawing room for a glass of claret and a chat. “I’m sure you believe I am acting upon a whim in going to France,” she said, raising her glass to her lips.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “You canceled your plans to go abroad after my wedding and never rescheduled. To me this holiday doesn’t seem impulsive, but long overdue.”

  “This is no holiday, but rather a rescue mission.” She hesitated, grimacing, and instinctively I braced myself for whatever would come next. “God willing this story will never make it into the papers, but in case it does, I want you to be forewarned.”

  The trouble had begun long ago, she told me, when fifteen-year-old Medora had gone to live with Georgiana and Henry at Bifrons. Henry, a man of questionable character and judgment, had never been considered a good match for Georgiana, and he proved his unworthiness a few months later when the formerly innocent Medora was discovered to be pregnant. A clergyman and his wife, friends of the family, learned the distressing secret, which they reported to George Anson Byron, whom my mother had entrusted with her affairs while we were abroad. With her approval, Lord Byron arranged for Henry and Medora to be sent abroad, and after Medora gave birth in Calais, the infant was placed in the care of a local doctor and Medora was sent home to her mother, who remained utterly ignorant of what had transpired.

  “The baby arrived earlier than expected,” my mother added, “and caught me unprepared. As soon as word reached me, I tried to discover his whereabouts, but my searches were fruitless.”

  “Were you sure the child was still living?” I asked tentatively.

  “No, not at all. Under such circumstances, I fear it was far more likely that he perished soon after he was born. I suppose I’ll never know.”

  Meanwhile my aunt Augusta was preparing for Medora to come out in Society, unaware that she had resumed relations with her brother-in-law, this time beneath her mother’s own roof. When she became pregnant a second time, Medora confessed the whole truth to her mother, who became frantic, not only for her daughter’s sake, but because she feared Colonel Leigh would murder Henry. Quickly she arranged to send Medora, Georgiana, and Henry away to Bath, but distance proved no deterrent to Colonel Leigh, who erupted in a violent rage and stormed off to Bath to retrieve his ruined daughter. To keep her out of Henry’s clutches, instead of bringing her home, he placed her in a home for wayward girls near Regent’s Park. The matron, a strict, watchful woman, kept Medora virtually imprisoned in her house, where before long she delivered a stillborn child. Within a fortnight Henry discovered her whereabouts, contrived to liberate her, and fled with her to the Continent, abandoning Georgiana and their three children.

  “For two years they lived in Normandy, calling themselves Monsieur and Mademoiselle Aubin,” my mother said. “They pretended to be brother and sister.”

  “They had eloped,” I said, bewildered. “At that point, why pretend to be brother and sister instead of husband and wife?”

  She gave a little shrug. “You should not expect rational behavior from impulsive and irrational people. In any event, the ruse, such as it was, lasted only as long as their money did. In desperation, Henry tried unsuccessfully to wring an income out of some sympathetic relatives, while Medora converted to Catholicism and contemplated leaving him to become a nun.”

  I could not help it; I laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said, a trifle sharply. “As ridiculous as it was, her plan had no chance of success, for soon she was expecting another child. She gave birth to a daughter in May of 1834, whom she called Marie, and they settled into something resembling family life in Brittany. That lasted until Henry sold his marriage settlement for eight thousand pounds, grew tired of Medora, and brought a new mistress into the household. Medora was forced to become their servant or be put out into the street.”

  “How dreadful,” I gasped. “The whole sad, sordid tale—and the poor little girl. None of this was her fault.”

  “No, indeed. After a time, Medora did leave Henry, unable to bear the degradation any longer. She and her daughter are presently living in Tours, utterly destitute, and now her lawyer informs me that Medora is dangerously ill.” My mother sighed and sipped her claret. “Now you understand why I must go and see what I can do for them.”

  “Why does this task fall to you?” I asked. “It is good of you, of course, but why does my aunt Augusta not provide for her?”

  “Mrs. Leigh can barely provide for herself and her other children.” My mother hesitated. “And I understand that she and Medora are fiercely estranged. Medora prefers me.”

  I thought I detected a tiny note of satisfaction in her voice, but I hoped I was mistaken. “Of course you must go to her,” I declared. “How fortunate she is to have such a generous aunt! Please let me know how William and I might help too.”

  “Of course, although I wish William might be spared knowledge of this shameful chapter in your family history.” She frowned and fell silent for a moment, brooding. “There is more to it, something I hesitate to tell you.”

  I managed a small, tremulous laugh. “After all that you’ve already told me, if you hesitate to say more, I hesitate to hear it.”

  She gave me a searching look. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “No, do go on,” I urged. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me, only that—”

  “Another time, perhaps. I think we’ve had enough wretchedness and heartbreak for one evening.”

  I nodded acquiescence, and I could not have said whether I was more disappointed or relieved that she did not continue.

  My mother did not pick up the thread of her story during the few days we remained at Fordhook, and soon after I took the children home, she departed for France. At the end of August, she wrote to tell me that she had found Medora and Marie in Tours and had convinced her niece to entrust herself and her daughter to her care. Taking up her alias anew and masquerading as a widow, Medora agreed to accompany my mother to Fontainebleau, where my mother arranged for comfortable lodgings and proceeded to scrutinize all the letters my aunt Augusta had sent Medora throughout her ordeal.

  Medora had some hope of an income, my mother soon reported, a deed that my aunt had written up in 1839 to provide three thousand pounds for Marie upon my aunt’s death. If Medora could sell this deed, she and Marie could live modestly off the interest—but it would be no small feat to wrest the deed from Augusta’s control.

  My mother did not say so, but I was certain she intended to lead the charge.

  As summer flared and faded into autumn, my thoughts churned ceaselessly, turning first upon mathematics and science—electricity, magnetism, and mesmerism particularly interested me—and then upon my mother and her story of Medora’s sad history, and then back again, and forth, and back. I pored over my mother’s letters with the same intensity with which I studied calculus, for although she complained of various illnesses of the lungs and heart, she sounded inexplicably content, as if caring for Medora and Marie had given her new purpose. “I am particularly happy at present,” she wrote to William, but of course he shared his letter with me, as she must have known he would. “Feelings that have long lain, like buried forests, beneath the moss of years, are called forth and seem to give happiness to one for whom I have something like a Mother’s affection. I must not attempt to justify the affection I feel for her. Other sentiments strengthened by a decided resemblance have endeared her to me and made her my adopted child.”

  “How delightful that her maternal feelings have
shaken off their moss and sprung to life at last,” I said tightly, thrusting the letter back at William.

  “Don’t be jealous, darling,” he replied, folding it carefully and tucking it into a pocket. “Medora needs all the love and maternal affection she can get.”

  And I did not? I almost blurted, but I hated to seem selfish and petulant.

  I decided that I did not need my mother and Medora and the whole ugly drama of her ruin and redemption; I had my studies, I had my horses, and thankfully, I had my health. I had not felt so full of energy since before I had the cholera, since before I was married, as if electricity surged through my body, fueling my thoughts, my intuitive leaps, my comprehension. Sometimes due to overwork I experienced strange physical symptoms, such as the swelling of my face or tingling in my limbs, but without fail they troubled me for only a little while before fading. Despite those annoyances, I felt wonderfully altered as to courage. I was afraid of absolutely nothing. I had never been so bold and full of nerve at any time in my life.

  Before long my mother complained that my letters sounded as if I had been seized by a mania, but I dismissed that with a laugh, since she could do nothing about it, as the English Channel separated us and she could neither take my books away nor lock me in a closet to keep me from them. My mother had never understood my peculiar vivacity, and how could she, given her own serene nature and her nearly perpetual invalidism? She had always been suspicious of anything she had not herself experienced.

  From her lodgings at 24 Rue de Rivoli in Paris, she urged me to write to Dr. King or to be examined by my physician, Dr. Locock. She encouraged me to spend time away from my books in the company of friends, but William was often away at Ashley Combe, and even when his Birdie and Chicks joined him there, he was often called back to Ockham or to London on business. Recently Lord Melbourne had appointed him to the distinguished office of lord lieutenant of Surrey, a splendid honor that accorded him many new responsibilities, as well as certain delightful privileges, including a life ticket to drive through Constitution Hill. He was busier than ever, preoccupied with other duties, just as my mother was, toiling in Paris with my troubled cousin over the matter of the deed.