“Who’s that?” I said, but not loud enough. “Who’s that?” I repeated, as loud as I could. The finger moved. I was so happy not to be alone that I laughed aloud.
“Joe? Is it Joe?”
The finger didn’t move.
“Mam? Miss Philpot?”
No movement. I knew it wouldn’t have been any of them, for I would have known they were upon beach. But who else would be out in such weather? I supposed it could have been one of the children from Lyme, come to spy on Mary Anning and the man she attended, hoping to see something scandalous that they could report back on. But it seemed unlikely. We would have spotted them if they were upon beach. Unless they’d been up on the cliff—which meant they’d come down with the slip. It was a miracle they was alive.
It was thinking of the cliff and landslips that made me realize who it must be. “Captain Cury?” I remembered now that I had seen him earlier.
Even as the finger wriggled, I saw the handle of his spade, poking out of the clay that had buried him. I was so glad he was there that any spite I felt towards him vanished. “Captain Cury! Mr. Buckland’s gone to get help. They’ll be back to dig us out.”
The finger moved, but less than before.
“Was you up on the cliff and come down with the slip?”
The finger didn’t move.
“Captain Cury, can you hear me? Are your bones broke? Fanny’s leg is broke, I think. Mr. Buckland’s taken her with him. He’ll come back soon.” I was chattering on to mask my terror.
The finger stayed stiff, pointing up at the sky. I knew what that meant, and begun to cry. “Don’t go! Stay with me! Please stay, Captain Cury!”
Between me and Captain Cury the croc eye watched us both. Captain Cury and I are going to be like the croc, I thought. We will become fossils, trapped upon beach forever.
After a while I stopped looking at Captain Cury’s finger, now as still as any rock caught in the clay. I couldn’t bear to watch the tide steadily rising. Instead I gazed up into the flat white sky, a few pewter clouds swimming about in it. After spending so much of my life looking down at stones, it was strange to look up into emptiness. I spotted a gull circling high above. It seemed it would never get closer, but would always be a dot hovering far away. I kept my eyes fixed on it, and did not look at the finger or the croc again.
It was so quiet I wanted to make a noise to break the spell. I wanted the lightning to pass through me and jolt me into life, for I was feeling the opposite of that sensation—a slow darkness was creeping through my body.
There had been plenty of deaths in our family—Pa and all the children. I spent most of my time collecting what were dead bodies of animals. But I had not thought much of my own death before. Even when I had been visiting Lady Jackson I’d really thought more of her passing than mine, and treating death as a drama to revel in. But dying was no drama. Dying was cold and hard and painful, and dull. It went on too long. I was exhausted and growing bored with it. Now I had too much time to think about whether I was going to die from the tide coming in and drowning me like Lady Jackson, or the mud pressing the air out of me as it had Captain Cury, or a falling rock striking me. I couldn’t think for long or it hurt too much, like touching a piece of ice. I tried to think of God instead and how He would help me through it.
I never told anyone this, but thinking of Him then didn’t make me less scared.
It was hard to breathe now with the mud so heavy. My breathing got slower, and so did the beat of my heart, and I closed my eyes.
When I come to, someone was digging at the clay round me. I opened my eyes and smiled. “Thank you. I knew you would come. Oh, thank you for coming to me.”
SIX
A little in love with him myself
You might think saving someone’s life would bind you ever after. That is not what happened with Mary and me. I am not blaming her but digging her out of the landslip that day, using Captain Cury’s spade and racing against the tide and the rocks that rained down on either side of us, seemed to drive us apart rather than bring us closer.
It was a miracle Mary survived, and intact as well, especially given Captain Cury’s terrible suffocating death just a few feet from her. She had bad bruising up and down her body, but only a few broken bones—some ribs and her collarbone. This kept her in bed a few weeks—not long enough to satisfy Dr. Carpenter, but she refused to convalesce any longer, and soon reappeared on the beach, bound up tightly to keep the bones in place.
I was amazed she was willing to go out hunting again after what she’d been through. Not only that—she did not change her habits, but went back to pacing along the base of the cliffs, where landslips could come down. When I suggested that Molly and Joseph Anning would understand if she did not want to go back to hunting, Mary declared, “I been struck by lightning and buried in a landslip and survived both. God must have other plans for me. Besides,” she added, “I can’t afford to stop.”
On top of her father’s debts, which years later the family was still struggling to clear, they now owed Dr. Carpenter. He was fond of Mary because of their shared interest in fossils, as well as for the pleasure he took from knowing his advice had saved her from the lightning strike. However, he still had to be paid for his care of Mary and of Fanny Miller as well, as insisted on by her family. The Annings did not challenge this demand. More surprising, they did not expect William Buckland to pay for Fanny’s care; nor would Molly Anning let me write to him about it on their behalf. “He can afford it more than you,” I reasoned when I was visiting Mary to lend her a Bible she wanted to read while she was still in bed. “And it is because of him that Fanny was out on the beach at all.”
Molly Anning did not pause while she counted a pile of pennies from the fossil table sales. “If Mr. Buckland felt he ought to pay, he would have offered to before he went back to Oxford. I ain’t going to chase after him for his money.”
“I don’t think he has thought about it one way or the other,” I said. “He is a scholar, not a practical man. If put to him, though, I am sure he would honor the debt and pay Dr. Carpenter—for Mary’s treatment as well as Fanny’s.”
“No.” Molly Anning’s stubbornness revealed a certain pride I had not realized she possessed. She measured most things by the coins they represented and the distance they put between the Annings and the workhouse, but in this instance I believe she understood that money was not the issue. Whether or not William Buckland was involved, the Annings had placed an innocent girl in danger and effectively crippled her. Fanny could not now expect to marry well, or at all. Her fair looks might make up for a great deal, but most husbands at that working level of society would need a wife who was able to walk a mile. No amount of money could make up for what Fanny had lost. Molly Anning took on the debt as a sort of punishment.
Mary never talked about the half hour she was buried before I found her. But the experience changed her. I often caught in her eyes a faraway expression, as if she were listening to someone calling from the top of Black Ven, or a gull crying out at sea. Death had come and camped next to her on the beach, taking Captain Cury while sparing her, and reminding her of its presence and of her own limits. All of us begin to feel deeply our mortality at some time in our lives, but it is usually when we are older than Mary was then.
Mary’s contact with death came at a time when she was also maturing. One day I helped Molly Anning remove the bandages that had bound Mary’s broken bones and discovered that under her ill-fitting dress she had a womanly figure, with her waist and breasts and hips all in good proportion. Her shoulders were perhaps a little hunched from her fascination with the ground, and her knuckles were raw, her fingers rough and cracked from use. She was not graceful, as Margaret had been at that age. But she had a fresh, bold presence that could attract men.
She had begun to sense it as well. She took more care to wash her face and hands, and asked Margaret for some of the salve she had concocted to try to save my own hands from the drying force of Blu
e Lias clay. Made of beeswax, turpentine, lavender, and yarrow, it was useful for dressing wounds as well as chapped skin, but Mary wore it on her hands, elbows, and cheeks, and I began to associate her with that scent, a curious mixture of the medicinal and the floral.
Mary’s hair was always going to be a dull brown and scrubby from the wind rather than the curled ringlets that were the fashion. But she did at least comb her fringe daily and pull the rest into a bun that she covered with a cap and bonnet.
I am not sure how much good making an effort with her looks did, for her reputation was already much compromised by her time with Mr. Buckland, even with the ill-fated Fanny as companion. The landslip accident might normally have brought Mary some sympathy, but Fanny’s injuries caused much indignation amongst working people, creating sides that cast Mary as the villain. If she was trying to soften her elbows and tame her hair, it could not be for any Lyme man she fancied she could snare. She had too openly flouted the rules of what was expected from a girl in her position. Now that it had tangible consequences in the form of Fanny’s broken gait, vague impressions hardened into harsh opinions.
Mary paid little attention to what others said about her, a trait in her I both admired and despaired of. Perhaps I was a little jealous that she could be so free with her contempt for society’s workings in a way that a woman of my class could not. Even in a place as independent-minded as Lyme, I was all too aware of the judgments made if one stepped too far out of place.
Perhaps Mary did not care for the sort of life Lyme had decided for her. She had spent a great deal of time with people above her station—me most of all, but also William Buckland and various gentlemen who had made their way to Lyme, having heard of or seen the creatures Mary had found. It rather turned her head and raised her hopes that she might be able to move up in the world. I do not think she ever seriously considered any of the men as potential suitors; most gentlemen viewed her as little more than a knowledgeable servant. William Buckland was more appreciative of her talent but was too caught up in his own head to notice her as a woman. Such a man would be deeply frustrating, as I briefly allowed myself to discover.
For Mary’s interest in men piqued my own, which I had thought dead but discovered was merely dormant, a rosebush that needed but a little attention to attempt to flower.
Once I invited William Buckland to dine with us at Morley Cottage so that he might look at my specimen collection. He accepted with an enthusiasm I suspected was for my fossils, yet I allowed myself to think might be directed towards me as well. For a match between him and me was not such a mad idea. Granted I was several years older than he and too old to have many children. But it was not impossible. Molly Anning had borne her last child at the age of forty-six. William Buckland and I were of similar social standing and intellectually suited. Of course I was not educated to his degree, but I read widely. I knew enough about geology and fossils to be a supportive wife to him in his profession.
Margaret, always quick to spot romantic potential even for an aging spinster, encouraged these thoughts by going on about Mr. Buckland’s vivid eyes and nagging me about what I would wear to dinner. What began as genial interest grew to such a pitch of quiet excitement that by the appointed day my stomach was fizzing with nerves.
We waited for him for two hours, Bessy harrumphing and tossing pots about in the kitchen, before we gave in and sat down to a ruined meal that I forced myself to eat. If nothing else, I was obliged to Bessy for making the special effort. She was already on the verge of giving notice once more and certainly would if I refused to eat. I would also not display disappointment to my sisters, though every bite was lead in my mouth.
The next day I did not seek him out, but nonetheless came upon William Buckland on the beach, for once without Mary. He greeted me heartily, but when I mentioned being disappointed that we had not seen him the day before, he looked surprised. “Was I meant to dine with you, Miss Philpot? Are you sure? Because, you see, yesterday I heard a man had found part of a long sequence of vertebrae down at Seatown, and I had to go and see for myself. And do you know, I’m glad I did, for they are well preserved and yet quite different from Mary’s creature’s vertebrae. I am wondering if they might be from a different animal altogether.”
Unrepentant at his social error, he also did not sense that I was upset. To him it was perfectly normal that going to see a set of unusual vertebrae would take precedence over dining with ladies.
I said nothing but “Good day, sir,” and turned away. It was then I understood that only a woman beautiful enough to distract him or patient enough to put up with him would manage to marry William Buckland.
I thought that was the end of my new regard for men. I had never imagined there would be a Colonel Birch.
THE SUMMER COLONEL BIRCH arrived in Lyme, Mary was in a peculiar state, pulled this way and that. On the one hand, the creature she and Joseph had discovered had become quite famous. Charles Konig bought the original specimen from Bullock’s and put it on display at the British Museum. He named it ichthyosaurus, which means “fish lizard,” for its anatomy fell somewhere between the two. He and others studied it and published articles in which they speculated that the ichthyosaurus was a marine reptile, for it breathed in air like a mammal but swam like a fish. I read these papers, lent to me by William Buckland, with great curiosity, noting that none of them discussed the thorny questions of extinction or God’s hand in the creature’s disappearance. Indeed, they did not bring up religious issues at all. Perhaps they were copying Cuvier, who never mentioned God’s intentions in his writings. It was a relief to me to accept the ichthyosaurus as what it was—an ancient marine reptile with its own name.
Mary found it harder and often still called it a crocodile, as did most of the local residents, though eventually she settled on ichie. To her the new scientific name took her creature away from her even more effectively than its physical removal. Learned men were discussing it at meetings and writing about it, and Mary was excluded from their activity. She was relied upon to find the specimens but not to take part in studying them. And even that hunting was proving difficult—she had not found a complete ichthyosaurus in over a year, though she combed Church Cliffs and Black Ven every day.
One day I suggested we look for brittle stars and crinoids on the beach towards Seatown, several miles east of Charmouth. We did not usually go so far afield, but I thought a change of scene would do Mary good and suggested Seatown to get her away from her endless tramping up and down the same beach in search of an elusive monster. We chose a sunny day when the tides favored an early start. She left behind Church Cliffs and Black Ven willingly enough, but at Gabriel’s Ledge, just beyond Charmouth, she kept turning and looking behind us, as if the cliffs were calling her back. “There was a flash back there,” she insisted. “Didn’t you see it?”
I shook my head and continued along the beach, hoping she would follow.
“There it is again,” Mary said. “Oh, look, Miss Philpot, do you think he’s coming for us?”
A man was striding up the beach. Although there were other people out, taking advantage of the mild weather and the glorious morning light, he cut through them as if he knew exactly what his goal was, and it was us. He was tall and erect, and wore the high boots and long red coat of a soldier. The uniform’s brass buttons winked in the sun. I am not often moved by the sight of a man, but having this one make it his clear purpose to reach us was a thrill I will long remember.
He smiled as he approached. He was a striking figure of fifty or so, with the straight military bearing so pleasing in a man, trim and upright and confident. His face was weathered, his eyes slits against the sun and wind, but he was handsome with it. When he removed his cocked hat and bowed, I could see the parting in his bushy black hair, which was threaded with gray.
“Ladies,” he announced, “I have been searching all morning for you and am delighted to have found you at last.” He put his hat back on, making the white plumes it was trimmed
with waggle. His hair was so thick and wavy the hat was in danger of springing off.
I have never trusted a man who leads with his hair. Only a vain, overconfident man does that.
“I am Colonel Birch, late of the First Regiment of the Life Guards.” He paused, looking back and forth between us, then settled his attention on Mary. “And you must be the remarkable Mary Anning who has found several ichthyosaurus specimens, is that right?”
Mary nodded, unable to stop staring at him.
Of course, anyone who knew of Mary would also know that she was young and of a low background, and there could be no mistaking me for her, with my twenty extra years etched onto my face and my finer clothes and bearing. Yet I felt the sharp dart of jealousy pierce me, that a handsome man was not striding along the beach for me.
It made me spikier than I’d intended. “I suppose you’ll be wanting her to find you one, rather like commissioning a print dealer to find you a print to hang on a particular wall.”
Mary shot me an annoyed look, for such rudeness was unlike me, but Colonel Birch laughed. “As it happens, I do want Mary to help me find an ichthyosaurus, if she is willing.”
“Of course, sir!”
“You will have to ask her mother and brother for permission,” I said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate otherwise.” I couldn’t hold back barbed comments.
“Oh, that don’t matter—they’ll say yes,” Mary put in.
“Of course I will speak to your family,” Colonel Birch said. “You have nothing to fear from me, Mary—nor you, Miss—”
“Philpot.” Of course he assumed I was a spinster. Would a married lady be out on the beach, far from home, hunting for fossils? I stooped to pick up something from the sand. It was just a bit of beef shaped like one of the paddle bones of an ichthyosaurus, but I paid it more attention than it was due so that I wouldn’t have to look at Colonel Birch.