Surrey Zoological Gardens,
May 1833

On another of her regular visits to Fordhook, Mary Montgomery sees that I am ill at heart and proposes an excursion to the newly-established Surrey Zoological Gardens.

‘It will take you out of yourself, Ada,’ she promises, as we begin the carriage journey, which will take the best part of an hour.

I am interested to see the Zoological Gardens, a place I’ve never been, and know little about. I am also glad of Mary’s company. I do need to be taken out of myself; it is six weeks since James Hopkins was banished from my life, and I feel that I have retreated inside the bubble of my own thoughts, simmering with resentment and confusion. On the surface, I have shown a good deal of contrition, offering my heartfelt apologies to all involved – the Furies, and Nanny Briggs, and, of course, Mamma. I deceived them, and deceitful behaviour is shameful.

I even allowed, last week, a physician friend of Mamma’s – Dr Combe – to examine my head. Dr Combe is a phrenologist, which is to say that he is devoted to the study of the appearance of the human skull. I sat perfectly still as he laid his hands on my head, allowing him to press the bumps and the bones, the plains and hollows, feeling all the while – rather irrationally – that he was trying to get at my secrets with his probing fingers.

The diagnosis the doctor gave Mamma was nothing I couldn’t have told her myself. ‘Ada is a young woman of unusual intelligence,’ he apparently said. ‘But she is very wilful.’

I can’t imagine this came as a surprise.

But in spite of my show of regret, I am still quite bereft, adrift with longing, unable to concentrate on any of my lessons. Every night I summon a memory of James’ face – the tilted nose, the burnt-butter hair – and each night I am saddened that the memory is growing fainter. After a few weeks, I am beginning to worry that my much-improved shorthand is the only thing that survives from the time I spent with James Hopkins.

Heartbreak is not my only concern. Two days ago, Mamma announced in her rather abrupt manner that I am to be presented at Court. It was framed not as a request, but as a command. When I was younger, I used to confide in my cat, but there is only so much that cats can offer in return, and I do feel as though I could do with some advice. I resolve to ask Mary what she thinks, at some appropriate moment. The carriage travels over Vauxhall Bridge, and I watch the water of the Thames, entranced by it, green-grey, both busy and tranquil in the May morning light.

‘Just think how useful this place would be for the student of botany or zoology,’ says Mary, as we disembark at the entrance to the Zoological Gardens.

I wasn’t, I confess, expecting such expanses of water – they cover an extraordinary portion of the gardens. I think at once of Lake Lucerne and Lake Geneva, mapping the memories of those places over the sight that is presently before me. There are more birds than I’ve ever seen before in one place – swans that glide across the glass surface of the water, stately as porcelain sugar-bowls; flamingos that stand one-legged in the shallows. We visit the elephant house – not, at present, home to any elephants, to my disappointment, but to a collection of wapiti deer – and the aviaries, where large birds of prey loom darkly in corners, ruffling feathers, while a flock of curassows (hailing, apparently, from South America), steals our attention for several minutes. There are trees from almost every part of the globe and each is labelled, to show where it originally came from. Mary tells me that a good many rare shrubs have recently been donated by the Duke of Devonshire; indeed, there is almost no square of land that is unadorned with some kind of plant.

‘Truly,’ says Mary, ‘it’s a treasure trove of knowledge. Don’t you think, Ada?’

I am about to agree that these gardens are indeed rich in learning opportunities, when something catches my attention. A young man and a young woman are leaning over the wall of the bear pits. While they are clearly supposed to be inspecting the bears – who have retreated, rather shyly, from view –
I can see that they have only really got eyes for each other. How well are they acquainted? I wonder. They are being chaperoned discreetly by a kind-faced middle-aged woman (not unlike Mary in appearance), who stands at a little distance, her gloved hands folded. Have they ever stolen away to an allotment shed in the middle of the night? Probably not. They don’t look as though they possess enough imagination for that kind of gesture. But I envy them all the same, for Mamma would never have allowed me to come here with James for a decorous stroll under watchful supervision. At the thought of Mamma, I sigh rather loudly, and Mary asks me what the matter is.

‘Mamma says I am to be presented at Court,’ I tell her.

‘Well?’ says Mary. ‘You are seventeen now. Do you not wish to be?’

‘Not especially,’ I say.

‘Why not?’

But I can’t quite explain why not. It is something to do with convention. Being presented at Court is the correct thing to do; somehow, this makes me not want to do it. ‘Why should I be like everyone else?’ I say, as much to myself as to Mary. ‘It seems such an obvious thing to do. A dull thing to do.’

‘It will make it far easier for you to find a husband,’ says Mary practically.

I open my mouth, and close it again. I did find a husband, I think, remembering that dear, fire-warmed room where James Hopkins’ family must still sit, every evening, singing songs and telling stories and uttering kind words. He just wasn’t the right husband. And so, given the fact that Mamma and I obviously disagree about what might make a suitable husband, why should her method meet with my approval?

‘Does it really matter so much whether I find a husband or not? You don’t have one.’

‘You are right, Ada. I am an old maid,’ says Mary. ‘Dependent on my own wits, and the kindness of others, and an invalid besides. Is that the sort of life that you want?’

I tell her truthfully that if I end up half as wise and perspicacious as she is then I will have been very lucky indeed. The lovers have moved on, and in their place are a mother and daughter, both rather overdressed for a walk in the gardens on a fine morning. They don’t seem to be much interested in bears, and instead are looking around at all and sundry, pointing out anything that catches their eye.

‘I hear that the Governor of Barbados has donated a pair of panthers to the zoo,’ says the mother. She has a strident voice, easily heard.

‘Oh, let us go and find them, Mamma!’ giggles the girl, who is, I think, a little older than me.

‘As you like, Clara,’ says her mother. They walk right past us, and for a moment the mother’s gaze travels over us – first me, then Mary, and then back to me again. I’ve seen that kind of look – half-lazy and half-alert – before. It means, sure as anything, that I’ve been recognised. Really, I don’t know why I am recognised so often. It’s not as though my portrait appears in the Morning Post every week, and I don’t bear much of a resemblance at all to my father, though I still, quite often, go to look at his portrait to check. And yet there is something about me that makes people take notice. They stop and stare, and nudge each other. People have been doing this for as long as I can remember.

‘Ada, what’s wrong?’ says Mary, when I hang back, turning on one heel.

I hold a hand up, as though to say: wait, please. Sure enough, a moment later the mother’s voice competes with the birdcalls of the gardens – impossible for us not to hear, and probably for many other bystanders too.

‘Clara, did you see that young woman? Very pale, with brown hair, just there by the bear pits? Why, that was Ada Byron. Oh, the things I’ve read about her lately – it would curl the hair on your head, it really would! It is said that she is the most vulgar woman in all England – some rumour, you know, about an affair... It’s been hushed up very nicely by Lady Byron. But frankly, I shall be amazed if anyone marries her now.’

Mary and I stare at each other. I say: ‘Is this... was that true, what she said?’

Mary Montgomery, who is always pale, has coloured like a boiled lobster. ‘Oh, that wretched, prurient woman! Idle gossip – really, it is the worst thing. Ada, don’t give it a thought.’

‘But... she mentioned a rumour. Something she’d read.’

‘I believe there was something in one of the papers,’ says Mary. ‘Your mother tried her best. But someone, somewhere, heard of the affair, and the newspapers got wind of it. That’s what happens in this country. They’ll print anything, and mostly lies... and people do believe what they read, unfortunately. Oh, Ada, don’t look so stricken.’

She clicks ahead, hoping that briskness will stir me. She is also, I think, implying that I really ought not to have stolen away to a shed at midnight and run off to the home of my tutor if I really minded what people would say about me. And, of course, she’s right. I didn’t realise how it would feel: the shame-dark unpleasantness of being read about by those who don’t know me. Which newspaper was it? Perhaps she doesn’t know; perhaps it doesn’t matter. But I can imagine that newspaper, spread open to the pages reserved for gossip and speculation, wedged beneath a saucer, sluiced by tea... a paragraph to be read out at breakfast, laughed over, shared...

Ada Byron is the most vulgar woman in all England.

I’ve always liked a superlative, but not that one, not for myself.

Mary has got some way ahead; I run to catch her up, my feet marking the pebbled pathway with urgent dimples.

‘Mary,’ I say carelessly. ‘I wonder if perhaps I should be presented to the King, after all.’

Mary Montgomery smiles. ‘Why not, Ada? I think it a very good idea indeed. And your mother will be delighted.’