Remarkable Creatures (25 page)

As I pulled open the heavy front door, I heard a sound behind me and froze. Having created such a clear excuse as a headache, what could I say to the servants or my sisters if they caught me now?

My nephew Johnny was staring at me from the stairs. After a moment I raised a finger to my lips. Johnny’s eyes widened, but he nodded. He crept down the rest of the stairs. “Where are you going, Auntie Elizabeth?” he whispered.

“I have an errand to run. A secret one. I will tell you about it later, Johnny. I promise to, as long as you promise not to tell the others I have gone out. Will you keep our secret?”

Johnny nodded.

“Good. Now, what are you doing down here?”

“I’m to give cook a message about the soup.”

“Go, then, and I’ll see you later.”

Johnny went to the stairs leading down to the kitchen, then stopped and watched as I slipped through the front door. I was not sure if he could keep the secret, but I would have to trust him.

I clicked the door shut behind me, tapped down the steps, and hurried away without looking back to see if anyone was at one of the windows. I did not slow down until I had turned the corner and my brother’s house was out of sight. Then I stopped, pressed my handkerchief to my mouth, and took a deep breath. I was free.

Or so I thought. As I started along Great Russell Street past the British Museum, I became aware of other women walking in clumps, in couples or groups, with maids or husbands or fathers or friends. Except for the occasional servant, only men walked on their own. While I did so often enough in Lyme, I had never actually walked down a London street alone: I had always been with my sisters or brother or friends or a servant. In Lyme there was less concern over such conventions, but here a lady of my station was expected to be accompanied. I found myself being stared at by men and women alike, as the odd one out. Suddenly I felt exposed, the air around me cold and still and empty, as if I were walking with my eyes shut and might bump into something. I passed a man who looked at me with glittering black eyes, and another who appeared eager to bid me good day until he saw my plain, middle-age face and backed away.

I had intended to walk to Bullock’s, but it became clear from the reception I received on a reasonably tame, familiar road such as Great Russell Street that I could not walk through Soho to Piccadilly on my own. I looked around for a passing cab, but there were none, or none stopped when I raised my hand. Perhaps they were not looking out for a lady to do such a thing.

I considered asking a man for help, but they all stared so much that I was put off. Finally I stopped a boy running along behind horses to pick up the dung, and promised him a penny to find me a cab. Waiting for him was almost worse than walking, though, for I drew even more attention by standing still. Men sidled past, eyeing me and whispering. One man asked if I were lost; another offered to share a carriage with me. Both may have genuinely meant to help, but by then they all seemed sinister. I have never hated being a lady and yet at the same time hated men as much as I did during those minutes alone on the London streets.

The boy returned at last with a cab, and I was so relieved I gave him two pennies. Inside it was stuffy and smelly, but it was also dark and quiet and empty; I sat back and closed my eyes. Now I did have a headache.

What with my late decision to go out and the delay in finding a cab, when I arrived at Bullock’s the auction was well under way. The room was packed, with all the seats taken and people standing two deep at the back. Now I benefited from my sex, for no man would sit and leave a lady standing. I was offered several seats and took one in the back row. The man I sat next to nodded at me congenially, acknowledging a shared interest. Though alone this time rather than accompanied by my brother, I felt less conspicuous, for everyone was intent on the front of the room, where the sale was taking place.

Mr. Bullock, a stocky man with a broad neck, stood at a lectern. He played the part of auctioneer as if it were a role on a stage, drawing out his words and accompanying them with theatrical flourishes of his arms. He stoked up the excitement in the room, even for Colonel Birch’s endless supply of pentacrinites. I had been surprised to see so many of them listed in the catalogue, for I knew Colonel Birch was keen on them. He must truly be deep in debt to part with them, as well as with the ichthyosaurus.

“You thought the last specimen was fine?” Mr. Bullock cried, holding up another pentacrinite. “Well, then, have a look at this beauty. See? Not a crack or chip anywhere, the form in all its mysterious perfection. Who can resist its feminine charms? Not I, ladies and gentlemen, not I. Indeed, I am going to do something highly unusual and start the bidding myself, at two guineas. For what is two guineas if I can give my wife and myself such a fine example of the beauty of nature? Will anyone deprive me of my beauty? What? You will, sir? How dare you! It will have to be for two pounds ten shillings, sir. It is? And yours is three pounds, sir? So be it. I cannot compete for such beauty as these gentlemen can. I can only hope my wife forgives me. At least we know it is for a worthy cause. Let us not forget why we are here.”

His auctioning approach was irregular—I was used to the smoother, quieter, understated tone of the auctioneers who came to sell the contents of Lyme houses. But then, they were auctioning off china plates and mahogany side tables, not the bones of ancient animals. Perhaps a different tone was necessary. And his style worked. Mr. Bullock sold every pentacrinite, every shark’s tooth, every ammonite for more than I’d expected. Indeed, bidders were surprisingly generous, especially when ichthyosaurus parts began to be sold—jaws, snouts, vertebrae. It was then that men I knew joined the bidding. Reverend Conybeare bought four large fused vertebrae. Charles Konig bought a jaw for the British Museum. William Buckland fulfilled his mission and bought part of an ichthyosaurus skull for Baron Cuvier’s collection at the Natural History Museum in Paris, as well as a femur. And the prices were quite high—two guineas, five guineas, ten pounds.

Twice more Mr. Bullock drew attention to the worthiness of the auction, making me shift in my seat. To call Colonel Birch’s pocket a worthy cause infuriated me, and the high regard in which he was held made me want to flee. However, standing up and pushing through the wall of men behind would have brought more attention than I could withstand, and it had taken so much effort to get here that I remained seated and fumed.

“Quite remarkable what Colonel Birch has done,” the man next to me whispered when there was a pause in the proceedings.

I nodded. Though I did not share his admiration, I did not want to argue with a stranger over Colonel Birch’s character.

“So generous of him,” the man continued.

“What do you mean, sir?” I asked, but my words were lost as Mr. Bullock bellowed like a circus ringmaster, “And now, the finest and most unusual specimen in all of Colonel Birch’s collection. A most mysterious animal has arrived at Bullock’s. Indeed, its brother graced Bullock’s Museum for several years to an enormous admiring audience. Then we called it a crocodile, but some of the finest British geologists have studied it carefully and confirmed it is a different animal, not yet found in the world. You have already seen parts of it sold today—vertebrae, ribs, jaws, skulls. Now you will see how all of those parts fit together, in one complete, perfect, glorious specimen. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the Birch ichthyosaurus!”

The crowd rose to its feet as the mounted specimen was carried in. Even I stood and craned my neck to look, though I had already thoroughly studied it in the Anning workshop. Such was the power of Mr. Bullock’s flagrant, effective showmanship. It was not just me. William Buckland craned his neck too, as did Charles Konig and Henry De La Beche and Reverend Conybeare. We were all drawn in by the spell the beast cast.

It did look very fine. As with the other specimens sold, the artificial London setting, in a brightly painted, finely furnished room so different from Lyme’s raw sea air and natural rough tones, made the ichthyosaurus look even odder and more out of place, as if from another world altogether—older and harsher and more alien. It was difficult to imagine such a creature ever having lived in the world of people, or even taking a place in Aristotle’s Great Chain of Being.

Bidding was brisk, and resulted in the Royal College of Surgeons buying it for £100. Mary would be pleased, I thought, if she weren’t more likely to be furious at being robbed of such a fee.

The ichthyosaurus was the final lot of the sale. I had been missing from Montague Street for an hour and a half; if I got a cab quickly I might yet manage to get back to my bedroom without anyone noticing my absence. I stood, preparing to slip out so that the men I knew in the room wouldn’t see me. It was at that moment, however, that Colonel Birch chose also to detach himself from the front row. He moved to the lectern and called out over the hubbub, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen—and ladies,” for he had spied me. I froze.

“I am overwhelmed by your interest and by your generosity. As I announced earlier,” he continued, his eyes reaching out and pinning me to my place so that I would at last listen to what he had to say. “I have auctioned off my collection to raise money for a very worthy Lyme family—the Annings.”

I shied like a nervous horse but managed not to gasp.

“You have kindly responded in a most generous fashion.” Colonel Birch kept his eyes on my face, as if to calm me. “What I did not tell you before, ladies and gentlemen, is that it was the daughter of this family—Mary Anning—who discovered the majority of the specimens that make up my collection, including the fine ichthyosaurus just sold. She is”—he paused—“possibly the most remarkable young woman I have had the privilege to meet in the fossil world. She has helped me, and she may well help you in future. When you admire the specimens you have bought today, remember it was she who found them. Thank you.”

As a wave of murmurs swept the room, Colonel Birch nodded at me, then stepped aside and was engulfed by a mob of coats and top hats. I began to push my way towards the exit. All about me men were looking me over—not as they had done on the street, but with a more cerebral curiosity. “Pardon me, are you Miss Anning?” asked one.

“Oh no, no.” I shook my head vigorously. “I’m not.”

He looked disappointed, and I felt a thread of anger tug at me. “I am Elizabeth Philpot,” I declared, “and I collect fossil fish.”

Not everyone heard my answer, for there were murmurs of “Mary Anning” all around me. Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I did not turn but shoved my way between the men in front of me until I reached the street. I managed to control myself until I was safe inside a cab heading up Piccadilly and no one could see me. Then I—who never cry—began to weep. Not for Mary, but for myself.

SEVEN

Like the tide making its highest mark on the beach and then retreating

I still remember the date his letter arrived: the 12th of May 1820. Joe wrote it in the catalogue, but I would have remembered anyway.

By then I weren’t expecting a letter anymore. It had been months since he’d left. I had begun to forget what he looked like, how his voice sounded, the way he walked, the things he said. I no longer talked to Margaret Philpot about him nor asked Miss Elizabeth if she had heard of him from the other fossil gentlemen. I didn’t wear the locket, but put it away and didn’t take it out to look at and finger the lock of his thick hair.

I didn’t go upon beach either. Something had happened to me. I couldn’t find curies. I went out and it was like I was blind. Nothing glittered; there were no tiny jolts of lightning, no pattern popping out from the random shapes.

They tried to help—Mam, Miss Philpot. Even Joe left his upholstering to come out hunting with me when I knew he’d rather be inside covering chairs. And when he come to Lyme, Mr. Buckland, who never noticed anything about other people, was gentle with me, guiding me to specimens he found, showing me where he thought we should look, staying at my side more than usual—in fact, doing all the things I normally done for him upon beach. He also entertained me with stories of his travels to the Continent with Reverend Conybeare and with his antics at Oxford, where he kept a tame bear as a pet and dressed it up and introduced it to the other Oxford dons. And how a friend brought back a crocodile in brine from a voyage, and Mr. Buckland got to add a new member of the animal kingdom to his tasting list. I couldn’t help smiling at his stories.

He was the only one who got through the fog even briefly. He begun talking to me about things we’d found over the years that didn’t seem to belong to the ichie: verteberries wider and chunk ier, paddle bones flatter than they should be. One day he showed me a verteberry with a piece of rib that was attached lower than on an ichie’s verteberry. “Do you know, Mary, I think there may be another creature out there,” he said. “Something with a spine and ribs and paddles like the ichthyosaurus, but with anatomy rather more like a crocodile’s. Wouldn’t that be something, to find another of God’s creatures?”