Tunbridge Wells
April 1834

Tunbridge Wells, a town to the south-east of London, is Mamma’s latest discovery; it has replaced Leamington Spa as her preferred destination for relaxation and the treatment of minor ailments. We are strolling down the colonnaded walkway known as the Pantiles, enjoying the spring sunlight. At the moment, we are getting along rather better, Mamma and I; I think it is because I am so much enjoying my work with Mary Somerville, and I am grateful to Mamma for her support in this regard.

‘Did you know, Mamma, that they have come up with a new word: scientist?’ I say.

‘Who, Ada? Be specific.’

‘William Whewell – he studied with Mr Babbage, you know – in an article about Mrs Somerville.’

I am delighted that I know something that my mother does not.

‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if I like it. Scientist: it has a harsh, almost reductive quality to it. I prefer the term “natural philosopher”.’

‘But someone who does art is an artist; why should someone who does science not be a scientist?’ I argue. ‘It makes sense.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ says Mamma.

We have reached the porticoed building, known as the Bath House, that stands at the end of the Pantiles. Here we sit in the courtyard, under the canopy, and before long we are brought some spring water to drink in tall glasses. One sip is enough for me – I want to spit it out, but manage not to – but Mamma drinks it down almost greedily, with the satisfaction of one tapping the wellspring of eternal knowledge. All around us are elegantly-clad women engaged in similar activity.

Mamma sets her glass down. ‘The Bath House is built on the Chalybeate spring,’ she says. ‘The water is rich in iron. Very good for you. You ought to drink it, Ada. Even a few sips a day will make a difference, I assure you.’

‘I dislike it,’ I say.

‘It doesn’t matter whether you like or dislike it; what is good for you isn’t always what you want.’

Changing the subject, I say: ‘Mr Babbage is thinking of designing a new machine.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘The Difference Engine can only perform operations using the method of finite differences – in other words, they are all forms of addition of one kind or another. But Mr Babbage now envisages a machine that can do far more complex calculations...’

‘Hmm,’ says Mamma. She looks at me in a contemplative way that I struggle to understand. ‘Why is he changing his aim in this manner – wanting to build something new before even his first idea has come to fruition?’

‘Because he has had a better idea,’ I say, remembering my Flyology experiments, and how a steam-powered airborne passenger horse easily supplanted a pair of wings as my primary objective. ‘Ideas can change, can’t they, Mamma?’

‘The best minds,’ says Mamma firmly, ‘see things through to their conclusions. I worry, frankly, that Mr Babbage’s ideas and approach are fundamentally unsound.’

‘They cannot be judged unsound before they have been tested—’

‘They remain untested because he has shown himself unable to find the resources to construct his designs!’

We stare at each other – her eyes darker than mine, and bluer than my blue-grey, but each of us just as resolute. All around is a gentle sheep-like chorus of oh-my-dears and didn’t-you-knows; with our matching frowns and lowered brows, we make for a startling contrast to the other Bath House occupants.

‘You took me to visit Mr Babbage in the first place,’ I say, more gently. ‘You thought it was interesting—’

‘I like to see things for myself, and to judge for myself. He is not uninteresting, I admit. But I noticed, just now, a kind of nervous excitement, as you were speaking. It is most worrisome.’

‘I do not consider myself to be unduly preoccupied by Mr Babbage’s designs for his machines,’ I say, conscious as I am speaking that a tone has crept into my voice that I can’t quite control; I sound just as excitable as Mamma is implying. ‘It is not my fault that Mary Somerville is quite often a guest at his house, and that she quite often takes me with her—’

I stop myself.

‘You think me unreasonable, I know,’ says Mamma, looking about for an attendant to bring her another glass of water. ‘It seems to me quite clear, however, that your health is directly related to the matters with which you tax your mind. That, indeed, is why I have always encouraged you to learn mathematics. Remember what happened when you wanted to design your flying machine: you were ill – incapacitated – for months, Ada!’

I sit, shoulders slumped, in mulish silence, not certain that I deserve this telling-off, and sure that she is now going to mention Dr Combe.

‘Dr Combe was really most interesting in his description of your head,’ she goes on. A glass is set down at her elbow and she reaches for it.

‘I don’t know why you felt it necessary for him to read my skull a second time,’ I say. ‘People do not change in a year – and certainly the shape of their heads does not change!’

She must, I realise, have been hoping for the good Dr Combe to revise his opinion of me somewhat.

‘Yes,’ she goes on. ‘You are too easily stimulated by the things that take your interest. He advises that it is a good idea for you to spend time away from London, and I concur. We shall take a tour, perhaps, of some northern towns, this summer. I shall arrange it.’

‘And what shall we do in these northern towns?’ I enquire.

‘For one thing, there are factories worth visiting. Perhaps, if you are to witness machines within their actual, working environments, it will enable you to evaluate Mr Babbage’s designs in a less... fanciful manner.’

The matter settled, she drains her glass of iron-rich water from the Chalybeate spring with relish.