It is rare for anything reported in the Western Flying Post to surprise me. Most are predictable stories: a description of a livestock auction in Bridport, or an account of a public meeting on the widening of a Weymouth road, or warnings of pickpockets at the Frome Fair. Even the stories of more unusual events where lives are changed—a man transported for stealing a silver watch, a fire burning down half a village—I still read with a sense of distance, for they have little effect on me. Of course if the man had stolen my watch, or half of Lyme burned down, I would be more interested. Still, I read the paper dutifully, for it makes me at least aware of the wider region, rather than trapped in an inward-looking town.
Bessy brought me the paper as I rested by the fire one mid-December afternoon. I did not often fall ill, and my weakness irritated me so that I had become as grumpy as Bessy normally was. I sighed as she set it on a small table next to me along with a cup of tea. Still, it was some diversion, for my sisters were busy in the kitchen, making up a batch of Margaret’s salve to go in Christmas baskets, along with jars of rosehip jelly. I had wanted to include an ammonite in each basket, but Margaret felt they did not invoke a festive spirit and insisted on pretty shells instead. I forget sometimes that people see fossils as the bones of the dead. Indeed, they are, though I tend to view them more as works of art reminding us of what the world was once like.
I paid little attention to what I read until I came across a short notice, wedged between news of two fires, one burning down a barn, the other the premises of a pastry cook. It read:
On Wednesday evening Mary Anning, the well-known fossilist, whose labours have enriched the British and Bristol Museums, as well as the private collections of many geologists, found, east of town, and immediately under the celebrated Black Ven Cliff, some remains, which were removed on that night and the succeeding morning, to undergo an examination, the result of which is, that this specimen appears to differ widely from any which have before been discovered at Lyme, either of the Ichthyosaurus or Plesiosaurus, while it approaches nearly to the structure of the Turtle. The whole osteology has not yet been satisfactorily disclosed, owing to its very recent removal.
It will be for the great geologists to determine by what term this creature is to be known. The great Cuvier will be informed when the bones are completely disclosed, but probably it will be christened at Oxford or London, after an account has been accurately furnished. No doubt the Directors of the British or Bristol Museums will be anxious to possess this relic of the “great Herculaneum”.
Mary had found it at last. She had found the new monster that she and William Buckland had speculated must exist, and I had to find out about her discovery in the newspaper, as if I were just anyone and had no claim on her. Even the men producing the Western Flying Post knew about it before me.
It is difficult to have a falling-out in a town the size of Lyme Regis. I had first learned that when we Philpots stopped seeing Lord Henley: we then managed to run into him everywhere, so that it became almost a game dodging him on Broad Street, along the path by the river, at St Michael’s. We provided the town with years of gossip and amusement, for which we ought to have been thanked.
With Mary the severing was far more painful, because she was so close to my heart. After our fight in the churchyard, I regretted what I’d said to her almost immediately, wishing I had let her find out from Colonel Birch himself about the widow he might marry. I shall never forget the look of betrayal and despair on her face. On the other hand, I felt the sting of her comments about my jealousy and my sisters and my fish like a whipping that lingered.
I was too proud to go and apologise, though, and I expect she was too. I longed to have Bessy come into the parlour with a telltale grimace and announce that I had a visitor. But it didn’t happen, and once the time for such a rapprochement had passed, it became impossible to regain our old standing.
It is not easy to let someone go, even when they have said unforgivable things to you. For at least a year it cut me deeply to see her, out on the beach, or on Broad Street, or by the Cobb. I began to avoid Cockmoile Square, taking back-lanes to St Michael’s, and the path by the church to the beach. I no longer went to Black Ven, where Mary usually hunted, instead heading in the opposite direction, past the Cobb and onto Monmouth Beach. There were not so many fossil fish there, and so I collected less, but at least I was not so likely to run into her.
It was lonely, though. Over the years Mary and I had spent a great deal of time together out hunting. Some days we wouldn’t speak for hours, but her presence near by, bent over the ground, scrabbling in the mud or splitting open rocks, was a familiar comfort. Now I would glance around and still be surprised to find there was only me on the deserted beach. Such solitude brought on a self-indulgent melancholy that I detested, and I would make cutting remarks to jolt myself out of it. Margaret began to complain that I had grown more prickly, and Bessy threatened to give notice when I was sharp with her.
It wasn’t only on the beach that I missed Mary. I also longed for the company of her sitting at my dining table while I unpacked my basket and showed off what I had found. I could only do so the rare times when Henry De La Beche or William Buckland or Doctor Carpenter was about, or when someone occasionally came to see my collection and showed more than simply a fashionable interest in fossils. Without Mary’s knowledge and encouragement, I felt my own studies slacken.
At the same time I had to watch her become more popular with outsiders. They actively sought her out, and she began taking visitors on fossil walks to Black Ven. With Colonel Birch’s auction money and Mary’s growing fame, the Annings were at last freeing themselves from the debt Richard Anning had put them into many years before. Mary and Molly Anning had new dresses, and they bought proper furniture again, and coal to warm themselves. Molly Anning stopped taking in laundry and began running the fossil shop properly, and it became a busy place. I should have been glad for them. Instead I was envious.
For a short time I even considered leaving Lyme and going to live with my sister Frances and her family, who had recently moved to Brighton. When I casually mentioned the possibility to Louise and Margaret, they both reacted with horror. “How can you think of leaving us?” Margaret cried, and Louise was pale and silent. I even found Bessy sniffling into her pastry dough, and had to reassure them all that Morley Cottage would always remain my home.
It took a long time, but eventually I did grow used to not having Mary’s company or her friendship. It became as if she lived in Charmouth or Seatown or Eype. It was surprising that in such a small town she and I were able to avoid each other so well. But then, she was so busy with new collectors that I would have seen less of her even if I hadn’t been trying to. While I accommodated her absence, a dull ache in my heart remained, like a fracture that, though healed, ever after flares up during damp weather.
I did run into her once where I couldn’t get away. I was with my sisters, heading along the Walk, when Mary came from the opposite direction, a small black and white dog at her heels. It happened too quickly for me to duck aside. Mary started when she saw us, but continued towards us, as if determined not to be deterred. Margaret and Louise said hello to her, and she to them. She and I carefully avoided meeting each other’s eyes.
“What a lovely little dog!” Margaret cried, kneeling to pet it. “What is his name?”
“Tray.”
“Where did you get him?”
“A friend give him to me, to keep me company upon beach.” Mary turned red, which told us who the friend was. “If he likes you, he lets you pet him. If he don’t, he growls.”
Tray sniffed at Louise’s dress, then mine. I stiffened, expecting him to growl, but he looked up at me and panted. I had always assumed pets did not like those their owners did not like.
Other than that meeting, I was able to avoid her, though I sometimes saw her in the distance, Tray following, on the beach or in town.
There was one moment when I was briefly tempted to try to restore our friendship. A few months after our fight, I heard that Mary had discovered a loose jumble of bones, which she pieced together in a speculative fashion, though the specimen was without a skull. I wanted to see it, but the Annings sold it to Colonel Birch and shipped it to him before I got up the courage to visit Cockmoile Square. I was only able to read about it in papers Henry De La Beche and Reverend Conybeare published, in which they named this notional creature a plesiosaurus, a “near lizard”. It had a very long neck and huge paddles, and William Buckland likened it to a serpent threaded through the shell of a turtle.
Now, according to the newspaper, she had found another specimen, and I was once again being tempted to visit Cockmoile Square. After reading the brief notice, questions popped into my head that I wanted to ask Mary. What did she find first? How big was the specimen, and in what sort of condition? How complete? Did this one have a skull? Why did she stay out all night to work on it? Whom did they expect to sell it to: the British or Bristol Museums, or to Colonel Birch once more?
My desire to see it was so strong that I went so far as to get up to fetch my cloak. At that moment, however, Bessy appeared with another cup of tea for me. “What are you doing, Miss Elizabeth? Surely you’re not going out in the cold?”
“I—” As I looked into Bessy’s broad face, her cheeks red and accusing, I knew I couldn’t tell her where I wanted to go. Bessy had been pleased that Mary and I were no longer friends, and would now have plenty of opinions about my desire to visit Cockmoile Square which I didn’t have the energy to fight. Nor could I explain to Margaret and Louise, who had both encouraged me to make amends with Mary and then, when I wouldn’t, let the matter drop and never mentioned her.
“I was just going to the door to see if I could see the post coming,” I said. “But do you know, I’m feeling a little dizzy. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“You do that, Miss Elizabeth. You don’t want to go anywhere.”
It is rare that I feel Bessy’s caution is sound.
William Buckland arrived two days later. Margaret and Louise had gone to deliver the Christmas baskets to various deserving persons, but I was still ill enough to stay behind. Louise had looked envious as they left; such visits were tedious for her—as they were for me. Only Margaret enjoyed social calls.
It seemed I had only just allowed my eyes to close when Bessy came in to announce that a gentleman had arrived to see me. I sat up, rubbed my face and smoothed my hair.
William Buckland bounded in. “Miss Philpot!” he cried. “Don’t get up—you look so comfortable there by the fire. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I can come back.” He looked about him with every intention of remaining, however, and I got to my feet and gave him my hand. “Mr Buckland, what a pleasure to see you. It has been such a long time.” I waved at the chair opposite. “Please sit and tell me all of your news. Bessy, some tea for Mr Buckland, please. Have you just come from Oxford?”
“I arrived a few hours ago.” William Buckland sat. “Thankfully the term has just ended, and I was able to set out almost as soon as I received Mary’s letter.” He jumped up again—he was never good at sitting for long—and paced up and down. His forehead was growing larger as his hairline receded, and it gleamed in the firelight. “It really is remarkable, isn’t it? Bless Mary, she has found the most spectacular specimen! We have now incontrovertible evidence of another new creature without having to guess at its anatomy as we did before. How many more ancient animals might we find?” Mr Buckland picked up a sea urchin from the mantelpiece. “You are very quiet, Miss Philpot,” he said as he examined it. “What do you think? Is it not magnificent?”
“I have not seen the specimen,” I confessed. “I’ve only read about it—though there is little enough in the newspaper account.”
Mr Buckland stared at me. “What? You’ve not been to see it? Why ever not? I’ve just come like lightning all the way from Oxford, and yet you can simply stroll down the hill. Would you like to go now? I am going back again and can accompany you.” He set down the sea urchin and held out his elbow for me to take.
I sighed. It had been impossible to get Mr Buckland to understand that Mary and I no longer had anything to do with each other. Though I counted him as a friend, he was not the sort of man who was sensitive to others’ feelings. To Mr Buckland life was about the pursuit of knowledge rather than the expression of emotions. Almost forty years old, he showed no sign of marrying, to no one’s surprise, for what lady could put up with his erratic behaviour and profound interest in the dead rather than the living?
“I’m afraid I cannot go with you, Mr Buckland,” I said now. “I have a chesty cough and have been ordered by my sisters to stay by the fire.” This much at least was true.
“A pity!” Mr Buckland sat down again.
“The newspaper says Mary’s find is unlike either the ichthyosaurus or the plesiosaurus—what has been guessed at about the latter, anyway.”
“Oh no, it is a plesiosaurus,” Mr Buckland declared. “This one has a head, and it is just as we’d imagined—so small compared to the rest of the body. And the paddles! I have made Mary promise to clean them first. But I have not told you why I have come to see you, Miss Philpot. It is this: I want you to convince the Annings not to sell this specimen to Colonel Birch as they did the last one. He sold that on to the Royal College of Surgeons, and we would rather this one not go there as well.”
“He sold it on? Why would he do that?” I gripped the arms of my chair. Any mention of Colonel Birch made me tense with nerves.
Mr Buckland shrugged. “Perhaps he needed the money. It is no bad thing for it to be on public display, but the College is full of men keen to exploit plesiosauri without the intelligence behind it. Conybeare is much more reliable in studying the specimen. He may want it brought to the Geological Society so that he can lecture on it as he did previously. I should think such a meeting would be very well attended. Did you know, Miss Philpot, that I am to become the Society’s President in February? Perhaps I can combine his lecture with my inauguration.”
“According to the Post the Annings are considering the Bristol or the British Museums.” I was a little humiliated to be quoting the newspaper account to someone who had seen the specimen for himself. It was like describing London from a guidebook to someone who has lived there.
“That is an indication of the newspaper’s inclination rather than the Annings’,” William Buckland said. “No, Molly Anning mentioned Colonel Birch to me just now, and wouldn’t consider my suggestions.”
“Did you tell her that Colonel Birch sold on the first specimen, and probably for a pretty profit?”
“She wouldn’t listen to me. That is why I have come to you.”
I studied my hands. Despite my wearing fingerless gloves and applying Margaret’s salve daily, they were rough and scarred, with puckered fingers and a rim of blue clay under each nail. “I have little influence over the Annings and whom they choose to sell to. They run their own business now, and would not welcome my interference.”
“But will you try, Miss Philpot? Talk to her. She is certain to respect your judgement—as do we all.”
I sighed. “Really, Mr Buckland, if you want Molly Anning to sit up and take note, you must speak in the language she understands. Not museums and scientific papers, but money. Find her a collector who will pay her substantially more than Colonel Birch and she will gladly sell to them.”
Mr Buckland looked startled, as if the thought of money had not occurred to him.
“Now,” I continued, determined to change the subject, “I’ve a case of fish on the landing you haven’t seen before, including the dorsal fin of a Hybodus that will amaze you, for the ridges along the spine truly resemble teeth! Come, I’ll show you.”
When he was gone, I sat again by the fire and thought. Now William Buckland had enthused about the plesiosaurus, I wanted more than ever to see it. If I didn’t while it was still in Lyme, I might never get another chance, especially if he found a private buyer who would keep it in his house, inaccessible to someone like me.
Mary would be cleaning and preparing the specimen for the next several weeks, rarely leaving it, and not at predictable moments. I did not know how I could get to it without seeing her. However, I could not face her. I had grown used to not facing her, to not thinking about the superiority she felt to me. I did not want to open that wound again.
On Sunday, however, I got an unexpected chance. We were walking along Coombe Street towards St Michael’s when I saw ahead of us all three Annings enter the Congregationalist Chapel. I was used to seeing Mary in the distance. It no longer made me want to bolt, for she was doing her best to ignore me too.
Once inside St Michael’s, I sat with my sisters and Bessy, and while Reverend Jones led us in prayer, I thought about the Annings’ empty house just around the corner.
I began to cough, first a stray one here and there, then building up so that it sounded as if I had a persistent tickle in my throat I could not get rid of. Neighbours shifted in their seats and glanced around, and Margaret and Louise looked at me with concern.
“The cold is bothering my throat,” I whispered to Louise. “I’d best go home. But you stay—I’ll be fine.” I slipped into the aisle before she could argue. Reverend Jones gazed at me as I hurried away, and I swear he knew that I was putting fossils before church.
Outside, I discovered that Bessy had followed me. “Oh Bessy, you needn’t come with me,” I said. “Go back inside.” Bessy shook her head stubbornly. “No, ma’am, I has to relight the fire for you.”
“I am perfectly capable of lighting the fire myself. Some days I do, when I get up before you, as you well know.”
Bessy frowned, displeased to be reminded that I sometimes caught her out. “Miss Margaret told me to come with you,” she muttered.
“Well, go back in and tell Margaret I sent you back. Surely you’d rather stay so that you can say hello to your friends after?” Post-church gossip amongst servants was lively, I had noticed.
I could see Bessy was tempted, but her natural suspicion made her study me with narrowed eyes. “You ain’t going out on the beach, are you, Miss Elizabeth? I won’t allow it, not after your cold. And it’s Sunday!”
“Of course not. The tide is high.” I had no idea what the tide was doing.
“Oh.” Although she had now lived in Lyme almost twenty years, Bessy still had little sense of the tides. With a few more words of encouragement, I convinced her to return to the church.
Cockmoile Square and Bridge Street were deserted, as most of the town was at church or asleep. I could not hesitate or I would be caught or lose my nerve. Hurrying down the steps to Mary’s workshop, I got out the spare key I had seen Molly Anning hide under a loose stone, unlocked the door and let myself in. I knew I should not do it, that it was far worse than my sneaking out to the auction at Bullock’s in London. But I could not help it.
There was a whining, and Tray came up to me, sniffing my feet and wagging his tail. I hesitated, then reached down and petted him. His fur was coarse like coir, and he was covered in Blue Lias dust, a true Anning dog.
I stepped around him to look at the plesiosaurus laid out in slabs on the floor. It was about nine feet long, and half that width, which accommodated the span of its massive diamond-shaped paddles. Much of its length was made up of its swan-like neck, and at the end was a surprisingly small skull perhaps five inches long. The neck was so very long it didn’t make sense. Could an animal have a neck longer than the rest of its body? I wished I had my Cuvier volume on anatomy with me. The body was a barrel-shaped mass of ribs, completed by a tail far shorter than the neck. All in all it was as unlikely looking as the ichthyosaurus with its enormous eye had been. It made me shiver and smile all at once. It also made me enormously proud of Mary. Whatever anger there was between us, I was delighted that she had found something no one ever had before.
I walked around it, looking and looking, getting my fill, for I was unlikely to see it again. Then I looked around the workshop, which I had once spent so much time in and now hadn’t seen in a few years. It hadn’t changed. There was still little furniture, a great deal of dust, and crates overflowing with fossils that awaited attention. On top of one such pile there was a sheaf of papers in Mary’s hand. I glanced at the top sheet, then picked up the bundle and leafed through it. It was a copy of an article Reverend Conybeare had written for the Geological Society about Mary’s beasts. There were twenty-nine pages of text, as well as eight pages of illustrations, all of which Mary had painstakingly copied out. She must have spent weeks doing this, night after night. I myself had not seen the article, and found myself drawn in to reading parts of it and wishing I could borrow the copy from her.
I could not stand in the workshop all day reading it, however. I flipped to the end to read the conclusion, and there discovered a note in small writing at the bottom of the last page. It read: “When I write a paper there shall not be but one preface.”
It appeared Mary felt confident enough to criticise Reverend Conybeare’s wordiness. Moreover, she had plans to write her own scientific paper. Her boldness made me smile.
Then Tray yipped, and the door opened, and Joseph Anning stood in the entrance. It could have been worse. It could have been Molly Anning, whose initial suspicion of me would have been revived. Of course it could have been Mary, and I would never have been able to justify such an intrusion to her.
It was still terrible, however. People do not enter others’ homes unless they are thieves. Not even a harmless spinster can do such a thing. “Joseph, I—I—I am so sorry,” I stammered. “I wanted to see what Mary found. I knew I could not come when she was here—it would be too awkward for us both. But I should never have let myself in. It is unforgivable, and I am sorry.” I would have rushed out, but he was blocking the doorway, the light behind him throwing his face in shadow so that I could not see his expression—if he had one. Joseph Anning was not known for showing emotion.
He stood very still for a time. When he finally stepped forward he was not frowning or scowling, as one might have expected. Nor was he smiling. However, he was polite. “I’ve come back for another shawl for Mam. ‘Tis cold at Chapel.” How strange that Joseph should feel he owed me an explanation for being there. “What do you think of it, then, Miss Philpot?” he added, nodding at the plesiosaurus.
I had not expected him to be so reasonable. “It is truly extraordinary.”
“I hate it. It’s not natural. I’ll be glad when it’s gone.” That was Joseph through and through.
“Mr Buckland told me he has been in touch with the Duke of Buckingham, who wants to buy it.”
“Maybe. Mary has other ideas.”
I cleared my throat. “Not—Colonel Birch?” I couldn’t bear the answer.
But Joseph surprised me. “No, not him. Mary’s let that go- she knows he’ll never marry her.”
“Oh.” I was so relieved I almost laughed. “Who, then?”
“She won’t say, not even to Mam. Mary’s got a swollen head these days.” Joseph shook his head, clearly disapproving. “She sent off a letter and said we’ve to wait for the answer before we tell Mr Buckland.”
“How odd.”
Joseph shifted from one foot to the other. “I have to get back to Chapel, Miss Philpot. Mam’ll want her shawl.”
“Of course.” I glanced at the plesiosaurus once more, then set the paper Mary had copied back down on the pile of rocks in the crate. As I did so my eyes spied the tail of a fish. Then I saw a fin, and another tail, and realised the entire crate was full of fish fossils. A scrap of paper was stuck amongst them with “EP” in Mary’s hand. She was saving them for me. She must think that one day we would be friends again, that she would forgive me and want me to forgive her. The thought made my eyes brim.
Joseph stood aside so that I could go. I paused as I passed him. “Joseph, I should be very grateful if you didn’t tell Mary or your mother that I have been here. There is no need to upset them, is there?”
Joseph nodded. “I guess I owe you a favour anyway.”
“Why?”
“It were you suggested I become an apprentice after we sold the croc. That were the best thing ever happened to me. I thought once I started I wouldn’t never have to hunt curies again, but always something pulls me back into it. After this is sold—” he nodded at the plesiosaurus “—I’m done with curies for good. It’ll be upholstering and nothing else. I’ll be glad if I never have to go down upon beach again. So I will keep your secret for you, Miss Philpot.” Joseph smiled briefly—the only smile I had ever seen on his face. It brought out a touch of his father’s handsomeness.
“I hope you will be very happy,” I said, using the words I hadn’t been able to say to his sister.
The rapping on our front door interrupted us as we were eating. It was so sudden and loud that we all three jumped, and Margaret upset her watercress soup.
Normally we let Bessy go to the door in her own ponderous fashion, but the knocks were so urgent that Louise sprang up and hurried down the passage to answer it. Margaret and I could not see whom she let in, but we heard low voices in the passage. Then Louise put her head around the door. “Molly Anning is here to see us,” she said. “She has said she will wait until we have finished eating. I’ve left her to warm by the fire and will get Bessy to build it up.”
Margaret jumped up. “I’ll just get Mrs Anning some soup.”
I looked down at my own soup. I could not sit and eat it while an Anning waited in the other room. I got up as well, but stood uncertain in the doorway of the parlour.
Louise saved me, as she often does. “Brandy, perhaps,” she said as she brushed past with a grumbling Bessy in tow.
“Yes, yes.” I went and fetched the bottle and a glass.
Molly Anning was sitting motionless by the fire, the centre of all the activity around her, much as she had been when she came to see us with her letter to Colonel Birch. Bessy was poking the fire and glaring at our visitor’s legs, which she perceived to be in the way. Margaret was setting up a small table at her side for the soup, while Louise moved the coal scuttle. I hovered with the brandy bottle, but Molly Anning shook her head when I offered it. She said nothing while she ate her soup, sucking at it as if she didn’t like watercress and was eating it only to please us.
As she mopped her bowl with a chunk of bread, I felt my sisters’ eyes on me. They had played their parts with the visitor, and were now expecting me to play mine. My mouth felt glued shut, however. It had been a very long time since I had spoken either to Mary or to her mother.
I cleared my throat. “Is something wrong, Molly?” I managed at last. “Are Joseph and Mary all right?”
Molly Anning swallowed the last of her bread and ran her tongue around her mouth. “Mary’s taken to her bed,” she declared.
“Oh dear, is she ill?” Margaret asked.
“No, she’s just a fool, is all. Here.” Pulling a crumpled letter from her pocket, Molly Anning handed it to me. I opened it and smoothed it out. A glance told me it was from Paris. The words “plesiosaurus” and “Cuvier” popped out at me, but I hesitated to read the contents. However, as Molly seemed to expect me to, I had no choice.
Jardin du Roi
Musée National d’Histoire Naturelle
ParisDear Miss Anning,
Thank you for your letter to Baron Cuvier concerning a possible sale to the museum of the specimen you have discovered at Lyme Regis, and believe to be an almost compete skeleton of a plesiosaurus. Baron Cuvier has studied with interest the sketch you enclosed, and is of the opinon that you have joined together two separate individuals, perhaps that of the head of a sea serpent with the body of an ichthyosaurus. The jumbled state of the vertebrae just below the head seems to indicate the disjuncture between the two specimens.Baron Cuvier holds the view that the structure of the reported plesiosaurus deviates from some of the anatomical laws he has established. In particular, the number of cervical vertebrae is too great for such an individual. Most reptiles have between three and eight neck vertebrae; yet in your sketch the creature appears to have at least thirty.
Given Baron Cuvier’s concerns over the specimen, we will not consider purchasing it. In future, Mademoiselle, perhaps your family might take more care when collecting and presenting specimens.
Yours faithfully,
Joseph Pentland Esq.
Assistant to Baron Cuvier
I threw down the letter. “That is outrageous!”
“What is?” Margaret cried, caught up in the drama.
“Georges Cuvier has seen a drawing of Mary’s plesiosaurus and has accused the Annings of forgery. He thinks the anatomy of the animal is impossible, and says that Mary may have put together two different specimens.”
“The silly girl’s taken it as an insult to her,” Molly Anning said. “Says the Frenchman has ruined her reputation as a hunter. She’s gone to bed over it, says there’s no reason to get up and hunt curies now, as no one’ll buy them. She’s as bad as when she were waiting for Colonel Birch to write.” Molly Anning glanced sideways at me, gauging my reaction. “I come to ask you to help me get her out of bed.”
“But—” Why ask me, I wanted to say. Why not someone else? On the other hand, perhaps Mary had no other friends Molly could ask. I had never seen her with other Lyme people of her age and class. “The trouble is,” I began, “Mary may well be right. If Baron Cuvier believes the plesiosaurus is a fake, and makes public his view, it could cause people to question other specimens.” Molly Anning did not seem to respond to this idea, so I made it plainer. “You may find your sales will fall as people wonder whether Anning fossils are authentic.”
At last I got through to her, for Molly Anning glared at me as if I had suggested such a thing myself. “How dare that Frenchman threaten our business! You’ll have to sort him out.”
“Me?”
“You speak French, don’t you? You’ve had learning. I haven’t, you see, so you’ll have to write to him.”
“But it’s nothing to do with me.”
Molly Anning just looked at me, as did my sisters.
“Molly,” I said, “Mary and I have not had a great deal to do with each other these last few years—”
“What is all that about, then? Mary would never say.”
I looked around. Margaret was sitting forward, and Louise was giving me the Philpot gaze, both also waiting for me to explain, for I had never provided a sufficient reason for our break. “Mary and I…we did not see eye to eye on some things.”
“Well, you can make it up to her by sorting out this Frenchman,” Molly Anning declared.
“I am not sure I can do anything. Cuvier is a powerful, well-respected scientist, whilst you are just—” a poor, working family, I wanted to finish, but didn’t. I didn’t need to, for Molly Anning understood what I meant. “Anyway, he won’t listen to me either, whether I write in French or English. He doesn’t know who I am. Indeed, I am nobody to him.” To most people, I thought.
“One of the men could write to Cuvier,” Margaret suggested. “Mr Buckland, perhaps? He has met Cuvier, hasn’t he?”
“Maybe I should write to Colonel Birch and ask him to write,” Molly Anning said. “I’m sure he would do it.”
“Not Colonel Birch.” My tone was so sharp that all three women looked at me. “Does anyone else know that Mary wrote to Cuvier?”
Molly Anning shook her head.
“And so no one else knows of this response?”
“Only Joe, but he won’t say anything.”
“Well, that is something.”
“But people will find out. Eventually Mr Buckland and Reverend Conybeare and Mr Konig and all those men we sell to will know that the Frenchman thinks the Annings are frauds. The Duke of Buckingham might hear and not pay us!” Molly Anning’s mouth started to tremble, and I feared she might actually cry—a sight I didn’t think I could bear.
To stop her I said, “Molly, I am going to help you. Don’t cry, now. We will manage.”
I had no idea what I would do. But I was thinking of the crate full of fossil fish in Mary’s workshop, waiting for me to thaw, and knew I had to do something. I thought for a moment. “Where is the plesiosaurus now?”
“On board the Dispatch, heading for London, if it ain’t already arrived. Mr Buckland saw her off. And Reverend Conybeare is meeting it at the other end. He’s addressing the Geological Society later this month at their annual dinner.”
“Ah.” So it was gone already. The men had charge of it now. I would have to go to them.
Margaret and Louise thought I was mad. It was bad enough that I wanted to travel to London rather than simply write a forceful letter. But to go in winter, and by ship, was folly. However, the weather was so foul, the roads so muddy, that only mail coaches were getting through to London, and even they were being delayed, and were full besides. A ship might be quicker, and the weekly one was leaving when I needed it.
I knew too that the men I wanted to see would be blinded by their interest in the plesiosaurus and would not attend to my letter, no matter how eloquent or urgent. I must see them in person to convince them to help Mary immediately.
What I did not tell my sisters was that I was excited to go. Yes, I was fearful of the ship and of what the sea might do. It would be cold and rough, and I might feel sick much of the time, despite a tonic for seasickness that Margaret had concocted for me. As the only lady on board, I could not be sure of sympathy or comfort from the crew or other passengers.
I also had no idea if I could make any difference to Mary’s predicament. I only knew that when I read Joseph Pentland’s letter, I was consumed with anger. Mary had been so generous for so long, to so little gain—apart from Colonel Birch’s sudden, madcap auction—while others took what she found and made their names from it as natural philosophers. William Buckland lectured on the creatures at Oxford, Charles Konig brought them into the British Museum to acclaim, Reverend Conybeare and even our dear Henry De La Beche addressed the Geological Society and published papers about them. Konig had had the privilege of naming the ichthyosaurus, and Conybeare the plesiosaurus. Neither would have had anything to name without Mary. I could not stand by and watch suspicions grow about her skills when the men knew she outstripped them all in her abilities.
I was also making amends to Mary. I was at last asking her to forgive me my jealousy and disdain.
There was something else, though. This was also my chance for an adventure in an unadventurous life. I had never travelled alone, but was always with my sisters or brother or other relatives, or with friends. As secure as that had felt, it was a bind as well that sometimes threatened to smother me. I was rather proud now as I stood on the deck of the Unity—the same ship that had taken Colonel Birch’s ichthyosaurus to London—and watched Lyme and my sisters grow smaller until they disappeared and I was alone.
We sailed straight out to sea rather than hug the coast, for we had to clear the tricky isle of Portland. So I did not get to see up close the places I knew well—Golden Cap, Bridport, Chesil Beach, Weymouth. Once past Portland we remained out at sea until we had gone around the Isle of Wight, before finally coming closer to shore.
A sea voyage is very different from a coach trip to London, where Margaret, Louise and I were packed with several strangers into a stuffy, rattling, jolting box that stopped constantly to change horses. That was a communal event, uncomfortable in ways that as I grew older took days to recover from.
Being on board the Unity was much more solitary. I would sit on deck, tucked out of the way on a small keg, and watch the crew at work with their ropes and sails. I had no idea what they were doing, but their shouts to one another and their confident routines soothed my fears of being at sea. Moreover, the cares of daily life were taken out of my hands, and nothing was expected of me but to stay out of the men’s way. Not only did I not feel ill on board, even when it was rough; I was actually enjoying myself.
I had been anxious about being the only lady on the ship—the three other passengers were all men with business in London—but I was mostly ignored, though the Captain was kind enough, if taciturn, when I joined him to dine each night. No one seemed at all curious about me, though one of the passengers—a man from Honiton—was happy to talk about fossils when he heard of my interest. I did not tell him about the plesiosaurus, however, or of my intended visit to the Geological Society. He knew only about the obvious—ammonites, belemnites, crinoids, gryphaea—and had little of use to say, though he made sure to say every word of it. Luckily he could not bear the cold, and most often stayed belowdecks.
Until I boarded the Unity, I had always thought of the sea as a boundary keeping me in my place on land. Now, though, it became an opening. As I sat I occasionally saw another vessel, but most of the time there was nothing but sky and moving water. I often looked to the horizon, lulled into a wordless calm by the rhythm of the sea and by ship life. It was oddly satisfying to study that far-off line, reminding me that I spent much of my life in Lyme with my eyes fixed to the ground in search of fossils. Such hunting can limit a person’s perspective. On board the Unity I had no choice but to see the greater world, and my place in it. Sometimes I imagined being on shore and looking out at the ship, and seeing on deck a small, mauve figure caught between the light grey sky and dark grey sea, watching the world pass before her, alone and sturdy. I did not expect it, but I had never been so happy.
The winds were light, but we made steady if slow progress. The first I saw of land was on the second day when the chalk cliffs to the east of Brighton came blinking into view. When we made a brief stop there to unload cloth from Lyme’s factory, I considered asking Captain Pearce if I might go ashore to see my sister Frances. However, rather to my surprise, I felt no real urge to do so, or to send her a note saying I was there, but was content to remain on board and watch the residents of Brighton on land walking back and forth along the promenade. Even if Frances herself had appeared, I am not sure I would have called out to her. I preferred not to disturb the delicious anonymity of standing on deck with no one looking for me.
On the third day we had passed Dover with its stark white cliffs, and were coming around the headland by Ramsgate when we saw a ship off our port side run aground on a sandbar. As we drew nearer I heard one of the crew name it as the Dispatch, the ship carrying Mary’s plesiosaurus.
I sought out the Captain. “Oh yes, that be the Dispatch,” he confirmed, “run aground on Goodwin Sands. They’ll have tried to turn too sharp.” He sounded disgusted and entirely without sympathy, even as he called for the men to cast anchor. Soon two sailors set out in a boat to cross over to the listing vessel, where they met with a few men who had by now appeared on deck. The sailors talked to them for just a few minutes before rowing back. I leaned forward and strained to hear what they shouted to the Captain. “Cargo was taken to shore yesterday!” one called. “They’re taking it overland to London.”
At this the crew jeered, for they had little respect for travel by land, I had learned during the trip. They saw it as slow, rough and muddy. Others—coachmen, for instance—might retort that the sea was slow, rough and wet.
Whoever was right, Mary’s plesiosaurus was now somewhere in a long, slow train of carts grinding through Kent towards London. Having left a week before me, the specimen would now probably arrive in London after me, too late for the Geological Society meeting.
We reached London in the early hours of the fourth day, docking at a wharf on Tooley Street. After the relative calm on board, all now became a chaos of unloading by torchlight, of shouts and whistles, of coaches and carts clattering away full of people and cargo. It was a shock to the senses after four days of Nature providing her own constant rhythms. The people and the noise and the lights reminded me too that I had come to London for a reason, not to enjoy anonymity and solitude whilst eyeing the wider horizon.
I stood on deck and looked out for my brother at the quayside, but he was not there. The letter I had posted at the same time as I left must have got stuck in the mud en route and lost its race with me. Though I had never been before, I had heard about London’s docks, how crowded and dirty and dangerous they were, especially for a lady on her own with no one expecting her. Perhaps it was because the darkness made everything more mysterious, but the men unloading the Unity, even the sailors I had got to know on board, now appeared much rougher and harder.
I hesitated to disembark. There was no one to turn to for help, though: the other passengers—even the cocksure man from Honiton—had hurried away in ungentleman-like haste. I could have panicked. Before the journey I might have. But something had shifted in me while I spent all that time on deck watching the horizon: I was responsible for myself. I was Elizabeth Philpot, and I collected fossil fish. Fish are not always beautiful, but they have pleasing shapes, they are practical, and they lead with their eyes. There is nothing shamful about them
I picked up my bag and stepped off the boat amidst a score of bustling men, many of whom whistled and shouted at me. Before anyone could do more than call out, I walked quickly to the Customs House, despite swaying with the shock of being on land again. “I would like a cab, please,” I said to a surprised clerk, interrupting him as he ticked items on a list. He had a moustache that fluttered like a moth over his mouth. “I shall wait here until you fetch me one,” I added, setting down my bag. I did not stick out my chin and sharpen my jaw, but gazed steadily at him with my Philpot eyes.
He found me a cab.
The Geological Society’s offices in Covent Garden were not far from my brother’s house, but to get there one had to pass through St Giles and Seven Dials, with its beggars and thieves, and I was not keen to do so on foot. Thus on the evening of the 20th February, 1824, I waited in a cab across from 20 Bedford Street, my nephew Johnny beside me. There was snow on the street, and we huddled under our cloaks against the cold.
My brother was horrified that I had come all the way to London on a ship because of Mary. When he was woken in the middle of the night to find me at the door, he looked so ill with surprise that I almost regretted I had come. Being quietly tucked away in Lyme, my sisters and I had rarely given him cause to worry, and I did not like to do so now.
John did everything he could to persuade me not to go to the Geological Society, bar expressly forbidding me. It seemed he was only willing to indulge me in unusual behaviour just the once, when he had escorted me to Bullock’s to view Colonel Birch’s auction preview. Mercifully he had never found out I attended the auction itself. He would not help me with something so odd and risky again. “They will not let you in, for you are a lady, and their charter does not allow it,” he began, using first the legal argument. We were in his study, the door closed, as if John were trying to protect his family from me, his erratic sister. “Even if they let you in they would not listen to you, for you are not a member. Then,” he added, holding up a hand as I tried to interrupt, “you have no business discussing and defending Mary. It is not your place to.”
“She is my friend,” I replied, “and no one else will take her part if I don’t.”
John looked at me as if I were a small child trying to convince my nurse I could have another helping of pudding. “You have been very foolish, Elizabeth. You have come all this way, making yourself ill en route—”
“It is just a cold, nothing more.”
“—ill en route, and worrying us unnecessarily.” Now he was using guilt. “And to no purpose, for you will gain no audience.”
“I can at least try. It is truly foolish to come all this way and then not even try.”
“What exactly do you want from these men?”
“I want to remind them of Mary’s careful methods of finding and preserving fossils, and to convince them to agree to defend her publicly against Cuvier’s attack on her character.”
“They will never do that,” John said, running his finger along the spiral of his nautilus paperweight. “Though they may defend the plesiosaurus, they will not discuss Mary. She is only the hunter.”
“Only the hunter!” I stopped myself. John was a London solicitor, with a certain way of thinking. I was a stubborn Lyme spinster, with my own mind. We were not going to agree, nor either of us convince the other. And he was not my target anyway; I must save my words for more important men.
John would not agree to accompany me to the meeting, and so I did not ask, but turned to an alternative—my nephew. Johnny was now a tall, lanky youth who led with his feet, had a residual fondness for his aunt and an active fondness for mischief. He had never told his parents about discovering me sneaking out of the house to go to the auction at Bullock’s, and this shared secret bound us. It was this closeness I now relied on to help me.
I was lucky, for John and my sister-in-law were dining out on the Friday evening of the Geological Society meeting. I had not told him when the meeting was to take place, but allowed him to believe it was the following week. The afternoon of the supper I took to bed, saying my cold was worse. My sister-in-law pursed her lips in clear disapproval of my folly. She did not like unexpected visitors, or the sort of problems that, for all my quiet life at Lyme, I seemed to trail behind me. She hated fossils, and disorder, and unanswered questions. Whenever I brought up topics like the possible age of the earth, she twisted her hands in her lap and changed the subject as soon as it was polite to.
When she and my brother had gone out for the evening, I crept from my room and went to find Johnny and explain what I needed from him. He rose to the occasion admirably, coming up with an excuse for his departure to satisfy the servants, fetching a cab and hurrying me into it without anyone in the house discovering. It was absurd that I had to go to such lengths to take any sort of action out of the ordinary.
However, it was also a relief to have company. Now we sat in the cab on Bedford Street across from the Geological Society house, Johnny having gone in to check and found that the members were still dining in rooms on the first floor. Through the front windows we could see lights there and the occasional head bobbing about. The formal meeting would begin in half an hour or so.
“What shall we do, Aunt Elizabeth?” he demanded. “Storm the citadel?”
“No, we wait. They will all stand so that the meal can be cleared away. At that moment I will go in and seek out Mr Buckland. He is about to become President of the Society, and I am sure he will listen to me.”
Johnny sat back and propped his feet up on the seat across from him. If I had been his mother I would have told him to put his feet down, but the pleasure of being an aunt is that you can enjoy your nephew’s company without having to concern yourself with his behaviour. “Aunt Elizabeth, you haven’t said why this plesiosaur is so important,” he began. “That is, I understand that you want to defend Miss Anning. But why is everyone so excited about the creature itself?”
I straightened my gloves and rearranged my cloak around me. “Do you remember when you were a small boy and we took you to the Egyptian Hall to see all the animals?”
“Yes, I recall the elephant and the hippo.”
“Do you remember the stone crocodile you found, and I was so upset by? The one that is now in the British Museum and they call an ichthyosaurus?”
“I’ve seen it at the British Museum, of course, and you’ve told me about it,” Johnny answered. “But I confess I remember the elephant better. Why?”
“Well, when Mary discovered that ichthyosaurus, she did not know it at the time, but she was contributing to a new way of thinking about the world. Here was a creature that had never been seen before, that did not seem to exist any longer, but was extinct—the species had died out. Such a phenomenon made people think that perhaps the world is changing, however slowly, rather than being a constant, as had been previously thought.
“At the same time, geologists were studying the different layers of rock, and thinking about how the world was formed, and wondering about its age. For some time now men have wondered if the world isn’t older than the 6000 years calculated by Bishop Ussher. A learned Scotsman called James Hutton even suggested that the world is so old it has ‘neither a beginning nor an end,’ and that it is impossible for us to measure it.” I paused. “Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t mention any of what I’m saying to your mother. She doesn’t like to hear me talk of such things.”
“I won’t. Carry on.”
“Hutton thought the world is being sculpted by volcanic action. Others have suggested it has been formed by water. Lately some geologists have taken elements of both and said a series of catastrophes has shaped the world, with Noah’s Flood being the latest.”
“What does this have to do with the plesiosaurus?”
“It is concrete evidence that the ichthyosaurus was not a unique instance of extinction, but that there are others—maybe many extinct creatures. That in turn supports the argument that the earth is in flux.” I looked at my nephew. Johnny was frowning at the light snowflakes swirling about outside. Perhaps he was more like his mother than I realised. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you with such talk.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s fascinating. I was just wondering why none of my tutors discuss this in lessons.”
“It is too frightening for many, for it challenges our belief in an all-knowing, all-powerful God, and raises questions about His intentions.”
“What do you believe, Aunt Elizabeth?”
“I believe…” Few had ever asked me what I believed. It was refreshing. “I am comfortable with reading the Bible figuratively rather than literally. For instance, I think the six days in Genesis are not literal days, but different periods of creation, so that it took many thousands—or hundreds of thousands of years—to create. It does not demean God; it simply gives Him more time to build this extraordinary world.”
“And the ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus?”
“They are creatures from long, long ago. They remind us that the world is changing. Of course it is. I can see it change when there are landslips at Lyme that alter the shoreline. It changes when there are earthquakes and volcanic eruptions and floods. And why shouldn’t it?”
Johnny nodded. It was a relief to say such things to a sympathetic ear and not be judged either ignorant or blasphemous. Perhaps he could be so open-minded because he was young.
“Look.” He pointed at the windows of the Geological Society house. Figures were blocking the light as the men got up from their tables. It was time for me to lead with my eyes. I took a deep breath and opened the cab door. Johnny leaped out and helped me down, excited to be acting at last. He strode to the door and knocked boldly. The same man answered as had the first time, but Johnny treated him as if he had never spoken to him before. “Miss Philpot here to see Professor Buckland,” he announced. Perhaps he thought such confidence would open all doors.
The doorman, however, was not taken in by youthful assuredness. “Women are not allowed in the Society,” he replied, not even glancing at me. It was as if I did not exist.
He began to shut the door, but Johnny stuck his foot on the jamb so that it wouldn’t close. “Well, then, John Philpot Esquire here to see Professor Buckland.”
The doorman looked him up and down. “What business?”
“It’s to do with the plesiosaurus.”
The doorman frowned. The word meant nothing to him, but it sounded complicated and possibly important. “I’ll take up a message.”
“I can only speak to Professor Buckland,” Johnny replied in a haughty tone, enjoying every moment.
The doorman appeared unmoved. I had to step forward, forcing him at last to look at me and acknowledge my presence. “As it is to do with the very subject of the meeting that is about to start, it would be wise of you to inform Professor Buckland that we are waiting to speak to him.” I looked him straight in the eye, with all of the steadiness and resolve I had discovered in myself on board the Unity.
It had its effect: after a moment the doorman dropped his eyes and gave me the briefest of nods. “Wait here,” he said, and shut the door in our faces. Clearly my success was limited, for it did not overcome the rule that women were not allowed inside, but must stand out in the cold. As we waited, snowflakes dusted my hat and cloak.
A few minutes later we heard footsteps clattering down the stairs, and the door opened to reveal the excited faces of Mr Buckland and Reverend Conybeare. I was disappointed to see the latter; Reverend Conybeare was not nearly as easy and welcoming as Mr Buckland.
I think they were a little disappointed to see us as well. “Miss Philpot!” Mr Buckland cried. “What a surprise. I did not know you were in town.”
“I only arrived two days ago, Mr Buckland. Reverend Conybeare.” I nodded at them both. “This is my nephew, John. May we come in? It is very cold outside.”
“Of course, of course!” As Mr Buckland ushered us in, Reverend Conybeare pursed his lips, clearly unhappy that a lady was being allowed across the threshold of the Geological Society. But he was not President—Mr Buckland would become so in a moment—and so he said nothing, but bowed to us both. His long narrow nose was red, whether from wine, a seat close to the fire, or temper, I couldn’t guess.
The entrance to the house was simple, with an elegant black-and-white tiled floor and solemn portraits hanging of George Greenough, John MacCulloch, and other Society Presidents. Soon a portrait of William Babington, the retiring President, would join the others. I expected to see something displayed that would indicate the Society’s interest: fossils, of course, or rocks. But there was nothing. The interesting things were hidden away.
“Tell me, Miss Philpot, do you have news of the plesiosaurus?” Reverend Conybeare asked. “The doorman said you might. Will its presence yet grace our meeting?”
Now I understood their excitement: it was not the Philpot name but mention of the missing specimen that had brought them racing down the stairs.
“I passed the grounded Dispatch three days ago.” I tried to sound knowledgeable. “Its cargo is now being brought by land, and will arrive as quickly as the roads allow.”
Both men looked discouraged at hearing what was not news to them. “Why, then, Miss Philpot, are you here?” Reverend Conybeare said. For a vicar he was quite tart.
I drew myself up straight and tried to look them in the eye as confidently as I had the clerk at the wharf and the Geological Society’s doorman. It was more difficult, however, as there were two of them gazing at me—and Johnny too. Then, too, they were more learned, and con?dent. I might hold some power over a clerk and a doorman, but not over one of my own class. Instead of fixing my attention on Mr Buckland—who as future President of the Society was the more important of the two—I stupidly looked at my nephew as I said, “I wanted to discuss Miss Anning with you.”
“Has something happened to Mary?” William Buckland asked.
“No, no, she is well.”
Reverend Conybeare frowned, and even Mr Buckland, who was not a frowner, wrinkled his brow. “Miss Philpot,” Reverend Conybeare began, “we are about to hold our meeting at which both Mr Buckland and I will be giving important—nay, even history-making—addresses to the Society. Surely your query about Miss Anning can wait until another day while we concentrate on these more pressing matters. Now, if you will excuse me, I am just going to review my notes.” Without waiting to hear my response, he turned and padded up the carpeted stairs.
Mr Buckland looked as if he might do the same, but he was slower and kinder, and he took a moment to say, “I should be delighted to talk with you another time, Miss Philpot. Perhaps I could call around one day next week?”
“But sir,” Johnny broke in, “Monsieur Cuvier thinks the plesiosaurus is a fake!”
That stopped Reverend Conybeare’s retreating back. He turned on the stairs. “What did you say?”
Johnny, the clever boy, had said just the right thing. Of course the men did not want to hear about Mary. It was Cuvier’s opinion of the plesiosaurus that would concern them.
“Baron Cuvier believes that the plesiosaurus Mary found cannot be real,” I explained as Reverend Conybeare descended the stairs and rejoined us, his face grim. “The neck has too many vertebrae, and he believes it violates the fundamental laws that govern the anatomy of vertebrates.”
Reverend Conybeare and Mr Buckland exchanged glances.
“Cuvier has suggested the Annings created a false animal by adding a sea serpent’s skull to the body of an ichthyosaurus. He claims they are forgers,” I added, bringing the discussion to what concerned me most.
Then I wished I hadn’t, for seeing the expressions my words ignited on the men’s faces. Both registered surprise, giving way to a degree of suspicion, more prominent in Reverend Conybeare’s case, but also apparent even in Mr Buckland’s benign features.
“Of course you know that Mary would never do such a thing,” I reminded them. “She is an honest soul, and trained—by your good selves, I might add—in the importance of preserving specimens as they are found. She knows they are of little use if tampered with.”
“Of course,” Mr Buckland agreed, his face clearing, as if all he needed was a prompt from a sensible mind.
Reverend Conybeare was still frowning, however. Clearly my reminder had tapped into a seam of doubt. “Who told Cuvier about the specimen?” he demanded.
I hesitated, but there was no way around revealing the truth. “Mary herself wrote to him. I believe she sent along a drawing.”
Reverend Conybeare snorted. “Mary wrote? I dread to think what such a letter would be like. The girl is practically illiterate! It would have been much better if Cuvier had learned of it after tonight’s lecture. Buckland, we must present our case to him ourselves, with drawings and a detailed description. You and I should write, and perhaps someone else as well, so Cuvier will hear about it from several angles. Johnson in Bristol, perhaps. He was very keen when I mentioned the plesiosaurus at the Institution at the beginning of the month, and I know he has corresponded with Cuvier in the past.” As he spoke, Reverend Conybeare ran his hand up and down the mahogany banister, still rattled by the news. If he hadn’t irritated me with his suspicion of Mary, I might have felt sorry for him.
Mr Buckland also noted his friend’s nerves. “Conybeare, you are not going to withdraw your address now, are you? Many guests have come expressly to hear you: Babbage, Gordon, Drummond, Rudge, even McDownell. You’ve seen the room: it’s packed, the best attendance I’ve ever seen. Of course I can entertain them with my musings on the megalosaurus, but how much more powerful if we both speak of these creatures of the past. Together we will give them an evening they will never forget!”
I tutted. “This is not the theatre, Mr Buckland.”
“Ah, but in a way it is, Miss Philpot. And what wonderful entertainment we have prepared for them! We are in the midst of opening their eyes to incontrovertible evidence of a wondrous past world, to the most magnificent creatures God has created—apart from man, of course.” Mr Buckland was warming to his theme.
“Perhaps you should save your thoughts for the meeting,” I suggested.
“Of course, of course. Now, Conybeare, are you with me?”
“Yes.” Reverend Conybeare visibly donned a more confident air. “In my paper I have already addressed some of Cuvier’s concerns about the number of vertebrae. Besides, you have seen the creature, Buckland. You believe in it.”
Mr Buckland nodded.
“Then you believe in Mary Anning as well,” I interjected. “And you will defend her from Cuvier’s unjust charges.”
“I do not see what that has to do with this meeting,” Reverend Conybeare countered. “I mentioned Mary when I spoke about the plesiosaurus at the Bristol Institution. Buckland and I will write to Cuvier. Is that not enough?”
“Every geologist of note as well as other interested parties are upstairs in that room right now. One announcement from you, that you have complete confidence in Mary’s abilities as a fossil hunter, will counter any comments from Baron Cuvier that they might hear of later.”
“Why should I want to cast doubt in public on Miss Anning’s abilities, and indeed—and more importantly, I might add—doubt on the very specimen I am just preparing to speak about?”
“A woman’s good name is at stake, as well as her livelihood—a livelihood that provides you with the specimens you need to further your theories and your own good name. Surely that must matter to you enough to speak out?”
Reverend Conybeare and I glared at each other, our eyes locked. We might have remained like that all evening if it weren’t for Johnny, who had become impatient with all of the talk and wanted more action. He ducked behind Reverend Conybeare and leapt onto the stairs above him. “If you don’t agree to clear Miss Anning’s name, I shall go and tell the roomful of gentlemen upstairs what Cuvier has said,” he called down to us. “How would you like that?”
Reverend Conybeare made a move to grab him, but Johnny leaped up several more steps to remain out of reach. I should have scolded my nephew for his bad behaviour, but instead found myself snorting to hide laughter. I turned to Mr Buckland, the more reasonable of the two. “Mr Buckland, I know how fond you are of Mary, and that you recognise how much in debt we all are to her for her immense skill in finding fossils. I understand too that this evening is very important to you, and I would not want to ruin that. But surely somewhere in the meeting there is room for you to express your support of Mary? Perhaps you could simply acknowledge her efforts without mentioning Baron Cuvier specifically. And when his remarks are at last made public, the men upstairs will understand the deeper meaning of your declaration of confidence. That way we will all be satisfied. Would that be acceptable?”
Mr Buckland pondered this suggestion. “It could not be recorded in the Society’s minutes,” he said at last, “but I am certainly willing to say something off the record if that will please you, Miss Philpot.”
“It will, thank you.”
He and Reverend Conybeare looked up at Johnny. “That will do, lad,” Reverend Conybeare muttered. “Come down, now.”
“Is that all, Aunt Elizabeth? Shall I come down?” Johnny seemed disappointed that he could not carry out his threat.
“There is one more thing,” I said. Reverend Conybeare groaned. “I should like to hear what you have to say at the meeting about the plesiosaurus.”
“I’m afraid women are not allowed in to the Society meetings.” Mr Buckland sounded almost sorry.
“Perhaps I could sit out in the corridor to listen? No one but you need know I am there.”
Mr Buckland thought for a moment. “There is a staircase at the back of the room leading down to one of the kitchens. The servants use it to bring dishes and food and such up and down. You might sit out on the landing. From there you should be able to hear us without being seen.”
“That would be very kind, thank you.”
Mr Buckland gestured to the doorman, who had been listening impassively. “Would you show this lady and young man up to the landing at the back, please. Come, Conybeare, we have kept them waiting long enough. They’ll think we’ve gone to Lyme and back!”
The two men hurried up the stairs, leaving Johnny and me with the doorman. I will not forget the venomous look Reverend Conybeare threw me over his shoulder as he reached the top and turned to go into the meeting room.
Johnny chuckled. “You have not made a friend there, Aunt Elizabeth!”
“It doesn’t matter to me, but I fear I have put him off his stride. Well, we shall hear in a moment.”
I did not put off Reverend Conybeare. As a vicar he was used to speaking in public, and he was able to draw on that well of experience to recover his equanimity. By the time William Buckland had got through the procedural parts of the meeting—approving the minutes of the previous meeting, proposing new members, enumerating the various journals and specimens donated to the Society since the last meeting—Reverend Conybeare would have looked over his notes and reassured himself about the particulars of his claims, and when he began speaking his voice was steady and grounded in authority.
I could only judge his delivery by his voice. Johnny and I were tucked away on chairs on the landing, which led off of the back of the room. Although we kept the door ajar so that we could hear, we could not see beyond the gentlemen standing in front of the door in the crowded room. I felt trapped behind a wall of men that separated me from the main event.
Luckily Reverend Conybeare’s public speaking voice penetrated even to us. “I am highly gratified,” he began, “in being able to lay before the Society an account of an almost perfect skeleton of Plesiosaurus, a new fossil genus, which, from the consideration of several fragments found only in a disjointed state, I felt myself authorised to propound in the year 1821. It is through the kind liberality of its possessor, the Duke of Buckingham, that this new specimen has been placed for a time at the disposal of my friend Professor Buckland for the purpose of scientific investigation. The magnificent specimen recently discovered at Lyme has confirmed the justice of my former conclusions in every essential point connected with the organisation of the skeleton.”
While the men were warmed by two coal fires and the collective bodily heat of sixty souls, Johnny and I sat frozen on the landing. I pulled my woollen cloak close about me, but I knew sitting back there was doing my weakened chest no good. Still, I could not leave at such an important moment.
Reverend Conybeare immediately addressed the plesiosaurus’ most surprising feature—its extremely long neck. “The neck is fully equal in length to the body and tail united,” he explained. “Surpassing in the number of its vertebrae that of the longest necked birds, even the swan, it deviates from the laws which were heretofore regarded as universal in quadrupedal animals. I mention this circumstance thus early, as forming the most prominent and interesting feature of the recent discovery, and that which in effect renders this animal one of the most curious and important additions which geology has yet made to comparative anatomy.”
He then went on to describe the beast in detail. By this point I was stifling coughs, and Johnny went down to the kitchen to fetch me some wine. He must have liked what he saw down there better than what he could hear on the landing, for after handing me a glass of claret he disappeared down the back staircase again, probably to sit by the fire and practise flirting with the serving girls brought in for the evening.
Reverend Conybeare delineated the head and the vertebrae, dwelling for a time on the number in different sorts of animals, just as Monsieur Cuvier had done in his criticism of Mary. Indeed, he mentioned Cuvier in passing a few times; the great anatomist’s influence was emphasised throughout the talk. No wonder that Reverend Conybeare had been so horrified by Cuvier’s response to Mary’s letter. However, whatever its impossible anatomy, the plesiosaurus had existed. If Conybeare believed in the creature, he must believe in what Mary found too, and the best way to convince Cuvier was to support her. It seemed obvious to me.
It didn’t to him, however. Indeed, he did just the opposite. In the middle of a description of the plesiosaurus’ paddles, Reverend Conybeare added, “I must acknowledge that originally I wrongly depicted the edges of the paddles as being formed of rounded bones, when they are not. However, when the first specimen was found in 1821, the bones in question were loose, and had been subsequently glued into their present situation, in consequence of a conjecture of the proprietor.”
It took me a moment to realise he was referring to Mary as proprietor, and suggesting she had made mistakes in putting together the bones of the first plesiosaurus. Reverend Conybeare only bothered to refer to her—still unnamed—when there was criticism to lay at her feet. “How ungentlemanly!” I muttered, more loudly than I had intended, for a number of the row of heads in front of me shifted and turned, as if trying to locate the source of this outburst.
I shrank back in my seat, then listened numbly as Reverend Conybeare compared the plesiosaurus to a turtle without its shell and speculated on its awkwardness both on land and in the sea. “May it not therefore be concluded that it swam upon or near the surface, arching back its long neck like the swan, and occasionally darting it down at the fish which happened to float within its reach? It may perhaps have lurked in shoal water along the coast, concealed among the sea-weed and, raising its nostrils to a level with the surface from a considerable depth, may have found a secure retreat from the assaults of dangerous enemies.”
He finished with a strategic flourish I suspected he’d thought up during the earlier part of the meeting. “I cannot but congratulate the scientific public that the discovery of this animal has been made at the very moment when the illustrious Cuvier is engaged in, and on the eve of publishing, his researches on the fossil ovipara: from him the subject will derive all that lucid order which he never has yet failed to introduce into the most obscure and intricate departments of comparative anatomy. Thank you.”
In so saying, Reverend Conybeare linked himself favourably with Baron Cuvier, so that whatever criticism arose from the Frenchman would not seem to be directed at him. I did not join in with the clapping. My chest had become so heavy that I was having difficulty breathing.
An animated discussion began, of which I did not follow every point, for I was feeling dizzy. However, I did hear Mr Buckland at last clear his throat. “I should just like to express my thanks to Miss Anning,” he said, “who discovered and extracted this magnificent specimen. It is a shame it did not arrive in time for this most illustrious and enlightening talk by Reverend Conybeare, but once it is installed here, Members and friends are welcome to inspect it. You will be amazed and delighted by this ground-breaking discovery.”
That is all she will get, I thought: a scrap of thanks crowded out by far more talk of glory for beast and man. Her name will never be recorded in scientific journals or books, but will be forgotten. So be it. A woman’s life is always a compromise.
I did not have to listen any longer. Instead, I fainted.