Daughters of Time

  Usually, my aunt guided the visitors around, wearing her best dress and silver brooch. She would show them the important objects, answering questions when she could, and telling polite tales.

  And, usually, I was kept at her side, in my one good dress – plain, with a neat lace-edged collar. I opened doors. I closed doors. I poured out the refreshment when required. I smiled prettily and would curtsey now and again. Such manners were important. If we pleased the visitors, they slid coins into Aunt Solveig’s aching, lace-mittened hands.

  The woman’s request arrived at Midsummer, when Scandinavian nights are almost as light as day and Aunt Solveig slept badly.

  “A single visitor is hardly worth the bother,” she snapped, fanning her face with the envelope. “Who is this Mrs Mary Imlay? I have not heard her name.”

  I scanned the letter. “She says she is a writer. A journalist.”

  “Anna, how can a woman be such a thing? What would she have to say? Who would listen? Perhaps the writer is a man she is bringing with her? Show me.”

  Aunt Solveig turned the sheet over but there was no post-script. She pursed her lips, displeased.

  So, on the day the unimportant woman was due, my aunt had already decided. “Anna, you will be Mrs Imlay’s guide today,” she told me. “I’m sure you know what to say and do.” She sighed dramatically. “I am feeling rather out of sorts.”

  I waited, ready. The carriage wheels crunched on the gravel outside and the footman opened the door. Mrs Imlay walked through, handing him her travelling cloak. She was alone.

  Immediately, she looked around the hall with great curiosity. She scribbled words down in a small notebook. I had thought only gentlemen did that.

  “Welcome, madam.” The words felt strange in my mouth.

  Mrs Imlay had a strange energy about her. She was not truly beautiful and she was no longer young, although her hair was glossy and her eyes dark and striking. Her dress was severe enough for a church service and she held herself most proudly.

  I explained as best I could. “The housekeeper is unwell, madam, although there is no infection and no cause for alarm. She sends her apologies and has instructed me to guide you, if you please.”

  “Instructed you, has she? Almost a child?” the woman said, vexed.

  I bit my lip nervously. Then her manner softened. For a moment she stared at me so intently that I blushed.

  “Perhaps it will please me,” she said with a smile. “There is intelligence in your face.” She spoke in French, which my mother had taught me, but she was English. “Your name?”

  “Anna.”

  “And you are…?”

  “The housekeeper’s niece,” I said. “My parents are dead.”

  “So you are a girl alone?” She narrowed her eyes and studied me. “Maybe your father believed you were a beauty? Maybe he expected you to marry well?”

  I shook my head. “No. I was to stay at home and look after him.”

  She sniffed. “In my opinion, fathers rarely see the true value of their daughters,” she commented coldly. Then she gave a shrug. “On the other hand, some girls cannot help being a burden, as my sisters showed me.”

  I kept silent. I was supposed to be talking about statues, not opinions on sisters.

  “Come, Anna, what’s through here?” she said, leading me into the long half-lit corridor.

  Around the walls, among ancient weapons, hung the hunting trophies. The heads of animals – bears, wild boars, badgers, huge antlered deer – all killed for sport. Their glass eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  The woman stopped, shuddered and put her hand to her heart.

  “Madam, are you well?” I asked.

  “Well enough.” Taking a breath, she nodded. “I cannot admire those trophies, child.”

  I was puzzled. The tour was not supposed to go like this. Now I should be pointing out the great bear that nearly killed the count’s father.

  But she had already continued. “For the last few years, I have been living in Paris—”

  I gasped. I couldn’t help it. “Paris? Where the people killed the king?”

  “Yes, Anna. Paris.” Her eyes blazed with passion. “Believe me, the people rose in good faith, in the name of freedom and liberty. Reason was on their side but the king and his court would not listen.”

  She turned away from the stuffed heads above.

  “Then trouble and terror did come. Heads, bad and good, began to roll from the guillotine. That I cannot forget.”

  “You saw that?” I was ashamed to sound so curious. “The deaths? The riots?”

  “Would you seek out such sights, child? No. I lived as quietly as I could. I wrote. I saw a few friends.”

  “And your husband, Mr Imlay?”

  She paused, brow furrowed “Ah! Mr Imlay, the American adventurer, abiding in London! The French believe all Americans are their brothers, fighting the English lion for independence. Mr Imlay’s nationality protects me,” she said, smiling grimly, “but I am still Mary Wollstonecraft.”

  Suddenly she reached inside her dress and drew out a locket on a long chain. “Look!”

  Inside, for me to admire, was a sketch of a one-year-old child. “My daughter is waiting at Gothenburg with her nurse,” she said and sighed. “How I miss the little creature!”

  Then off she went again, walking briskly to the gallery. I trotted alongside, guiding her towards the watercolours of the house and the small harbour.

  “Will the count develop the area?” she asked. “I saw the king’s salt-works along the coast. This is such an admirable country.”

  She turned, and seeing the large painting opposite, almost pushed past me to admire it.

  It was a wild landscape. Torrents cascaded down the mountainsides, storm clouds brooded around rocky precipices but, high in the sky, was a glorious sun.

  “Oh, Anna, what joy! I am so fond of such images. The sublime and the picturesque! Ah, men lock the world’s Great Power away inside churches and cathedrals and prayer books. It is all around us, if we only look.”

  I was glad my aunt had not heard such blasphemous words. She might have died from shock.

  “The family portraits are worth seeing, Mrs Imlay. Over here,” I said, anxiously.

  She laughed softly at the count and his family, dressed in their finest silks and brocades.

  “Why do these men always behave so importantly? And must all women be taught to simper so stupidly? What do you think, Anna? Should a woman act like a lapdog?”

  I did not know what I thought. But I did know that my heart was beating fast and that my mind was echoing with her words.

  She did not wait for an answer. She strode off again. “This must be the count’s library? May I see?”

  I pushed open the double doors. She entered. I waited outside in the corridor, as Aunt Solveig does.

  Mrs Imlay turned, surprised. “Come in too, child!”

  I took three steps forward, on to the carpet.

  “Have you not been inside here before?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “But you can read? Your father taught you that at least?”

  “Of course. He taught me to copy out his sermons too—”

  Swiftly she seized my hands and looked hard into my eyes. I was alarmed. Visitors did not behave like this.

  “Copy? Anna, copying makes a good beginning but a girl like you could write her own words. Why not write what you think about? Or what you discover?”

  I was unable to answer.

  “Sit,” she ordered, patting the chaise longue. I perched beside her. “You see these books?” She pointed along the shelves.

  “Yes.” There were rows and rows.

  “Read them, Anna. If a girl is not given an education then she must get one for herself. Learn how people think. Learn to think yourself. Learn about how people live, and how they should live as rational, sensible equals, women as well as men. That will be the new world.”

  How can I explain this mo
ment? When the woman spoke, it was as if she were on fire. I leaned back, afraid of being burned by her energy.

  “Anna, there are so many new ideas in the world just now. Papers, pamphlets… You must search. You must take hold of these new times and not be afraid. Nations are asking for independence everywhere – America, France, Ireland. Even back in England. Independence is the spirit of the future. And you, Anna, must make something better of yourself, not just as spinster, wife or widow. It is hard, but it is possible!”

  Then, as she stopped for breath, her mood changed. A deep sadness filled her eyes.

  “Do you need some refreshment, Mrs Imlay?” I said gently. “There is a tray in the hall.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  She set her glass back on the tray, smiling ruefully. “Anna, you must excuse me. Sometimes I am too passionate in my feelings. It causes trouble – I know it – even when what I am saying is right.”

  In the quiet, a far-off church bell rang.

  She sighed deeply. “I am weary, Anna. I’ve travelled up and down the coast, meeting this official or that official. I am on a quest, searching for the ship that holds Mr Imlay’s cargo of silver, and it is hard.”

  For a moment, I wondered why Mr Imlay had not come himself. Then I remembered how my brother had behaved. Money slips like water through some men’s hands.

  Then she hit her knee with her fist. “The clerks in the shipping offices don’t expect to answer a woman’s questions, but I persevere. I show them how determined I am. Every time.”

  She rose and asked me for her travelling cloak. “Anna, this afternoon has been a rest and a pleasure. Thank you.” And then she was gone.

  I handed the coins to my aunt. But the woman had given me something for my own, too. Before leaving, she had pressed a small book into my hands.

  “Begin your own education, Anna,” she had told me.

  “I hope that woman hasn’t been putting ideas into your head,” my aunt commented.

  That was exactly what the woman had done. The book was called A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Her own name was printed inside: Mary Wollstonecraft.

  I do not think she was unimportant.

  Why I Chose Mary Wollstonecraft

  I chose Mary because she called for girls to be well-educated, for men and women to live as equal partners, and for the rights of both men and women in an age when only a few men had the power to vote.

  I also admire Mary because, unlike many famous women, she was not aristocratic or wealthy. She came from a troubled, unsettled family. At a time when prettiness and wealth were essential for ‘a good marriage’, Mary had little fortune or great beauty. However, she was incredibly determined: given little formal schooling, she educated herself, gaining a reputation as an outspoken writer, intellectual and journalist. Even so, Mary’s headstrong, passionate personality did not make her life easy, happy or long.

  I based this story on a visit mentioned in Mary’s published letters about a trip to Scandinavia, trying to imagine how a young girl might feel on meeting the remarkable Mary at a certain moment in her own life.

  PENNY DOLAN

  Mary Wollstonecraft Facts

  Mary Wollstonecraft was born in Spitalfields, London, in 1759. She was the second of seven children. Her mother neglected her, and her father was violent and reckless with money.

  In 1784, Mary set up a school in Islington, London, with her two sisters and best friend, Fanny Blood, but it did not succeed. Two years later, in 1786, Mary went to Ireland to work as governess to Lord and Lady Kingsborough’s children. She was dismissed after just a year, for being too strong an influence on the two daughters.

  On her return to London, Mary began writing for the printer Joseph Johnson. He was the publisher of a radical magazine, the Analytical Review, and during this time, Mary met many free thinkers and reformers.

  In 1790, Mary wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Man in which she attacked the power of the aristocracy and supported republican ideals. This was followed in 1792 by her most famous book, A Vindication of the Rights of Women.

  The same year, Mary set off alone to live in Paris, France, so that she could write about the new republic. Just three years before, the downtrodden people had stormed the Bastille prison, beginning the French Revolution. There, in 1793, while France and England were at war, Mary met Gilbert Imlay, an American adventurer. She registered as his wife at the American Embassy in September of the same year. By October 1793, with one revolutionary party dominating, the ‘Terror’ began, a period of extreme violence during which tens of thousands of ‘enemies of the Revolution’ were executed. English people were arrested too, but as Imlay’s registered wife, Mary was safe, and had her first baby, Fanny, in 1794.

  Soon after, Imlay left for England. In 1795, Mary followed him but he did not want any reunion. Nevertheless, that June, on behalf of Imlay’s business, Mary sailed to Scandinavia. Her letters home, describing these travels, were published a year later. Imlay soon disappeared, leaving Mary and his daughter and perhaps returning to America.

  In 1797, in London, Mary was officially married to a philosopher, William Godwin. That August, Mary gave birth to her second daughter, who became famous as Mary Shelley, the author of the novel Frankenstein.

  Sadly, Mary Wollstonecraft died soon after her daughter’s birth, on 10th September 1797. Her life had been dramatic, unconventional and bold.

  Best After

  Storms

  A story of Mary Anning

  (1799–1847)

  BY JOAN LENNON

  OUTSIDE THE WINDOW, lightning ripped across the blackness of the night. Thunder battered their ears, and when it faded, they could hear the roaring of the ocean, flinging itself hungrily at the cliffs.

  Peggy trembled, thinking thoughts of peril on the sea, but Mrs Lark paid no attention. She was a local woman, and used to storms. Her hands were steady as she shielded the candle flame and bent down to check on the figure lying so still in the bed.

  “Do you think she’s frightened?” whispered Peggy.

  Peggy’s real name was Margaret, but nobody called her that. She’d lately come to Lyme Regis and was learning how to be a nurse. Mrs Lark said she’d do well enough once she stopped being so fanciful. But it was hard, trying not to imagine herself in the place of every patient.

  “Frightened of a storm?” said Mrs Lark. “Mary Anning? Not a bit of it. Look – she’s smiling.”

  Peggy looked, and it was true. The sick woman in the bed had the sweetest smile on her face.

  What do you suppose she’s thinking about? Peggy wondered but, reminding herself to act like a proper nurse, she didn’t say it out loud.

  Of course I’m not frightened of a storm! I’ve lived my whole life within the sound of the sea. I remember so many wild nights, over the years – and one in particular.

  Such a storm that was! I’d been awake for hours, wondering what was being washed away while I was stuck in my bed, waiting for the daylight to come and the wind to drop. Sometimes the waves would batter the coast for days and you would get to the point where you’d give anything for a bit of peace. The wailing of the wind could get to sound like nails on slate or mad people, rattling the windows and trying to get in.

  “Please don’t be a storm like that,” I whispered to the darkness.

  And, for a wonder, it wasn’t! The morning came, washed clean, with a blue sky and flying white clouds and a salt sea tang in the air. Perfect for hunting monsters.

  It’s always best after storms.

  But first there were the chores. I riddled the fire, brought in fresh coal, water from the pump. The chickens never liked it when the wind was up, but Belinda the old brown hen always obliged. I was in such a hurry I almost dropped her warm speckled egg on to the cobblestones. Caught it just in time!

  My dear dog Tray was excited too. He pressed himself up against my leg as I laid out the breakfast things and I could feel his warm little
body trembling.

  “Soon, boy. Chores almost done and then, we’ll go. I promise!”

  A weak voice called down from upstairs, “Mary? Bring me back some laudanum from the shop before you go to the shore. Will you? There’s a good girl…”

  Tray whimpered. I sighed.

  “Never mind,” I told him. “We’ll run the whole way.”

  But of course we didn’t. Too many eyes watching. Too many wagging tongues and judging frowns. Running wasn’t proper behaviour for a girl. Neither was hunting monsters!

  As I came into Mr Lloyd’s shop I was glad I’d walked so demurely, for I saw that Mrs Crouch was there, talking to a stranger. Mrs Crouch was the worst gossip in a town full of gossips. She had such an edge to her tongue it’s a miracle she didn’t cut her own mouth. I did my best to school my face.

  “A penny’s worth of laudanum, and put it on the slate, if you please, Mr Lloyd,” I said.

  And then I just had to stand there and wait for him to slowly, carefully, measure out the medicine.

  Mrs Crouch rents out her upstairs rooms to poorly souls sent to Lyme Regis for the bracing sea air. Even if she didn’t need the income, I think she would have them anyway – a never-ending audience for her tale-telling and slanders.

  I could hear her whispering about me now.

  “That’s Mary Anning, you know. She was hit by lightning when she was a baby. It killed three women standing there – including the one holding her! – but didn’t damage a hair of her head. Was the making of her, in fact, for I remember what a scrawny hopeless little scrap she was before it happened and afterwards she was as pink and round as a healthy piglet!”

  A piglet? Thank you VERY much!

  Whisper, whisper.

  “Well, they do say she can see things that other folk can’t… No, not like a witch. I’m quite sure… Bones. Not people’s bones, no…”

  Mutter, murmur.

  “Well, I’m a God-fearing woman. You’ll not find anyone who’ll tell you any different. But they do say…”

  I didn’t need to be hearing the rest. Nobody tells anyone they’re God-fearing unless they’re meaning that someone else isn’t.