Chapter Twenty-One
Abigail stared around the impressively grand chamber.
The very wallpaper was inlaid with gold and rich scarlet, and there was the faint expensive scent of bergamot and the faint scent of snuff lingering in the air.
She had been envisioning this interaction for years.
On occasion she had thought perhaps she had been picturing this for all of her life, and most of her father’s—when he realized he wasn’t going to have a son, and she was his best chance of success.
Glancing at her father’s friend, Mr. Buckhurst, she straightened her own shoulders, as the gentleman was looking nervous enough for the pair of them.
Most of the time Abigail could not fathom the emotions of wider circles of society, but the entire carriage over to Piccadilly to Burlington House, Buckhurst had stated and restated his nerves, so she could be in no doubt of his twisting hands and constant swallowing.
If she had to hear again, how this was ‘most unnatural’, or ‘not what was expected’ she might scream.
“I wish to thank Mr. Buckhurst for bringing me here today,” Abigail said as she looked around the assembled throng of men. It had taken over a week to convince Mr. Buckhurst to do so, but Abigail knew all too well how much these gentlemen, and men in general liked it if women seemed grateful.
Those assembled here today were at least a generation or even two older than Abigail.
Some of them wore glasses, others had thick whiskers down the side of their faces, however each and every one of them were frowning at her.
It was evident that they agreed with the sentiments that Mr. Buckhurst had expressed in the journey over here.
There was an outbreak of muttering, not dissimilar to catty remarks Abigail sometimes heard amongst Lyme’s worst gossips.
Much to her own annoyance, Abigail realized that her Robert—Captain Davenport as she should say—had once known her, knew her passion and ambition for this topic, and never doubted her abilities.
Why were these gathered gentlemen so reluctant?
Could they not see how excellent the treasure trove of ancient artifacts she had displayed before them?
Sucking in a breath, Abigail continued, “A great many discoveries have been made on the Dorset coastline.” She pointed to the sea urchins and ammonites that several of the gentlemen now held.
“My father discovered one of the most impressive finds of the ancient world. You have housed here in London, and as I understand it attracts a great number of tourists at the British Museum.” She tried to smile at the nearest gentleman, but the man’s stony response did not inspire much confidence.
The very darkness of the chamber, its dust and somber tone seemed to seep into everyone present. It took a minute for Abigail to find her momentum again, in that brief pause, someone stepped closer and made as if to usher her out of the room.
“If you wish to visit museums, Mrs…” this gentleman said. Her initial frustration switched to annoyance. Abigail knew she should have been used to being ignored or interrupted, but surely in the field of science, where all that mattered were facts, could they not see the logic of listening to her?
“Miss Fossey. My father was a respected member of this society,” Abigail said firmly.
Her single status seemed to generate a reaction and if she was not mistaken, she heard another man mumble, “These women will try anything to attract a man. Even interrupting him at his solitary retreat. Shocking behavior.”
Abigail turned toward the voice, but she could not pick out which of the gentlemen present had uttered such untruthful words.
How she would have loved to have screamed that she would never consider bedding, let alone marrying a single one of them.
There were not muscular, Irish liars, so of course she would not be attracted to them.
Was there not more important matters to think of?
But whilst they were entirely focused on this matter, it was she who was trying to steer the conversation toward a more scientific matter.
They were the ones gossiping about matrimony, topics they always accused women of doing.
The irony though would be lost on them, Abigail was sure.
Forcing herself to not linger on the stupidity of this utterance, she lifted her stack of papers high up into the air.
“It is thanks to my father that a great number of geological finds along the Dorset coastline were located. I have continued his work, after he died. Some of you here have written papers on his finds,” her eyes moved around the group.
“Well, I have another sea creature which I have found this very year and is most worthy of inclusion amongst your collection.” With slow deliberation, she revealed the elongated four-foot-long skull from its box.
“Perhaps once I am admitted amongst your number, I can bring up the rest of the finished discovery.” How often she had written to the president of the society, stating her desire to be admitted.
Adding to the desk before she placed out her rough sketches of the rest of its body.
Abigail was pleased that the throng of male bodies moved closer to reach the table where she spread the skull, as well as her sketches.
“I believe this skull, and the rest of the creature’s body, once it is completely extracted will help us rival whatever Georges Cuvier is writing about in Paris. We may even be able to challenge and develop his theories. What a wonder that will be.”
Excitement bubbled through Abigail and despite the darkness in the shady chamber of this Neo-Palladian mansion, hope swelled within her breast. No one could see the impressive skull, or sketches that hinted at the wonder of this recent geological find and not be similarly thrilled, of that she was certain.
*
The sight before appeared to blur as Abigail tried her best not to give into tears.
Mr. Buckhurst had remained indoors, promising he would retrieve the skull.
He had then escorted Abigail outside, before explaining he would need to return to make his own excuses, as he did not wish to lose his own place in the society.
The crowds of bodies bustled past Abigail, but she did not register them.
Their talk sounded a hundred miles off, the sounds of carriages and barouches adding to the din.
The distant noise of people who had other things to occupy them, who might still have hopes and dreams, and had not just set them all on fire.
The passersby might still hope to be valued by the family, to fall in love, to be accepted and recognized for their achievements—now Abigail wondered if she even stood a chance of being taken back in by her own mother, if Mrs. Fossey were to know it all.
Certainly, Judith would be crossed at the wasted opportunity of today.
Truthfully, Abigail could not blame her. She was furious with herself.
The back of her throat ached, and the unclear vision softened as Abigail realized she was crying.
Tears started to run down her face and into the collar of her newly bought dress.
She so rarely cried. Sniffling loudly, she turned to one side and sobbed into the nearest bench, her papers, in fact all of the ammonites she had brought with her today held against her chest, cradled there the same way another woman might hug a baby.
She was grateful to no longer be underfoot of the fast-paced Londoners, who rushed past uncaringly.
They had even seen fit to keep her sea creature’s skull, the braggards.
Anger and sadness swirled through her head, playing off against one another, until Abigail was not certain which emotion might win out.
“Excuse me.” The voice was soft, and familiar, that warmed Irish lilt comforting her despite how much Abigail wished it was not the case.
Despite how much she hoped and prayed to no longer be affected by the sound of her Robert, she was.
Deep in her soul. When she looked up and into his chiseled and handsome face, she could not help but be a little soothed by his presence.
In his outstretched hand, Captain Davenport held a handkerchief.
“Go away,” Abigail said. She didn’t know how he had found her, and frankly it did not matter.
No one, despite how desperately she wanted his presence, should see her like this.
Humiliated and rejected. If Robert was to see her again, it had to be in her moment of triumph.
It should not be crying in the middle of Town having been rejected from the place she had always wanted acceptance from.
What she had spent years working toward, only to have it snatched away in a moment.
But he didn’t go. Instead, Captain Davenport sank into the seat next to her, crossed one leg over the other, and said in the calmest voice imaginable, “What happened?”
And Abigail knew unlike her sisters, her mother and even if her father were still alive, no one would listen like Robert. The rest of them might judge her for losing her temper, but not him. “I showed them our discovery, the sea creature—well, I showed them the skull.”
The memories of their faces hurried before her eyes, their surprise, their greed perhaps even their jealousy—she knew of those feelings as she had seen similar emotions on the faces of the men who visited Lyme.
“I told them I would be able to rival the writings being drafted in France. That if they admitted me to their society, I could write papers that would…that would…” Her anger seemed to have fled, and been replaced with a sadness closer to grief.
A tear seeped out of her eyelid, and when Robert leaned closer and interlinked his gloved fingers through her hand, she did not push him away.
At least not yet. Instead, she looked up and locked her eyes on his fierce blue ones.
“They said they would never admit me. I was uneducated. I was a woman. I did not belong amongst them. They told me to leave.”