London
October 1834

‘How are you finding London life?’ asks Mary Montgomery.

It is October now. We have just been to the Royal Institute, where we attended a lecture on chemistry. Since the weather is fine, we are walking now across St James’ Park, talking of the lecture at first, and then about London life in general.

‘I am glad to be in town,’ I tell her. ‘There is more to see, and more to do.’

‘But you must look on Fordhook as home, and miss it.’

I bite my lip, withholding a surge of bitterness. I don’t know that I think of anywhere as home nowadays; how can I? Sometimes I think about telling Mary how I feel – my theories about my mother, what happened between my parents, everything – but there is so much to tell, and for all that she is a mentor of mine, she is foremost my mother’s friend. It would not be safe to tell her, and I do not think that I would feel better if I did. Sometimes I feel as though there is so much feeling walled up inside me that it wouldn’t be safe for anyone around me if I were to let it out.

The worst of my theories – the one I hide inside the smallest, darkest compartment of my soul – is that my mother is actually responsible for the death of my father. The principle upon which this is based is the scientific one of cause and effect: she treated him with coldness and sought to control him; he was unable to live with her in those circumstances; wanting to be free to write his verses, he was forced to flee the country rather than subject her to a humiliating public separation with both parties living in England; with no one to look after him but a single valet, his health suffered, as anyone’s would if they were living alone abroad.

And then, as a consequence, he died...

No: I will not share this with Mary Montgomery. I blink, forcing the thoughts somewhere deep inside myself. Then I say: ‘Mr Babbage and Mrs Somerville are both in London, and I am glad to spend more time in their company. And yours too, of course, dearest Mary.’

The leaves are every shade between umber and gold. Fire colours. The sky is a warm pinkish orange in the late afternoon. Nature’s secrets are there to be discovered, if only one can find the key to open each little mother-of-pearl box. A carriage rattles by; three young men, all elongated elegance, nod to me and Mary as they pass. We are not walking quickly, and yet I suddenly find that I am breathless. Not wanting to let Mary know that anything is wrong, I press a hand to my side and hope that my energy will be renewed. But before long I have slowed to a halt. Mary urges me to sit down on a bench; I do so. My head is the weight of a planet; I let it fall into my hands, leaning my elbows on my knees.

‘Ada,’ says Mary Montgomery. ‘You are not well.’

‘I am as well as I ever have been,’ I say.

‘Your mother doesn’t think so.’

‘My mother,’ I say, ‘knows nothing about me. Nothing, nothing at all.’

I look sideways at Mary Montgomery, expecting her to react strongly to this statement. But instead she is looking ahead, perplexed. Then she reaches for my hand, helping me to my feet. ‘There’s something happening,’ she says. ‘Are you well enough to walk?’

Looking around, I realise that she is right – people are moving more rapidly past us than they should be, some streaming towards whatever is taking place beyond the park gates, and others streaming just as quickly away from it... I can hear shouts and screams, as though some kind of monster has risen out of the Thames.

‘Ada, no. It could be dangerous,’ says Mary.

‘I want to see,’ I protest, setting off in the same direction as the crowd. I look at the sky and realise that the colour is no mere sunset: something is on fire. Something big.

Mary calls to a tall gentleman who is coming the other way so fast that he is likely to knock someone over or trip in his haste. ‘What is happening, please?’

‘Fire! The Palace of Westminster is on fire,’ he shouts, already vanishing into the gathering shadows.

We emerge from the park into a glut of people that seems to be growing larger by the second, like a swarm of flies around rotting flesh. A chain of soldiers keeps them from getting too close. A rose glow – what I had mistaken for an early sunset – emanates from the top of the Palace of Westminster, where Parliament gathers. Slipping free of Mary, I move to join the crowd. Two ladies of middle age are clutching each other’s arms and wailing dramatically, like a Greek chorus. Little boys with grubby faces dart to and fro, trying to get past the soldiers, uttering exclamations of wonder and glee.

A chimney-sweep is chuckling to himself. ‘They’ll let us sweep it now, I’ll bet a guinea,’ he says.

‘Oh, what flames!’ says someone, bursting into half-hysterical laughter.

And suddenly I am laughing too – horribly, ecstatically – and the laugh that is falling from my throat sounds nothing at all like me, Ada. I am transformed, a fire-banshee, squealing with all the ecstasy of a demon that feeds on fire. I laugh so much that my ribs ache from it, and only when Mary reaches me and digs her fingers into my arm do I realise that I am also crying.

She propels me backwards, out of the crowd. ‘Ada! What are you thinking? People will notice you—’

‘They won’t notice anything but the fire,’ I say, but I am already feeling embarrassed and guilty; I shouldn’t have done that; I shouldn’t have allowed her to see me do it. But oh, those flames, those extraordinary flames... and the vault of heat that rose from the palace roof... I felt something – something indescribable – as I stared at those flames: it was as though a part of me were also on fire, and I felt all the pain of it, and the ecstasy also. I was Ada no longer; I was a phoenix, reborn, reforged... it was as though a little valve had been opened inside of me, releasing something that had been trapped for the longest time.

If my father had been there, surely, surely he would have laughed, just as I did, at the sight of it.

My lips move automatically, reciting another of his poems, one fit for the occasion:

‘The palaces of crowned kings – the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,

And men were gather’d round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other’s face.’