The entrance to the house was simple, with an elegant black-and-white tiled floor and solemn portraits hanging of George Greenough, John MacCulloch, and other Society Presidents. Soon a portrait of William Babington, the retiring President, would join the others. I expected to see something displayed that would indicate the Society’s interest: fossils, of course, or rocks. But there was nothing. The interesting things were hidden away.
“Tell me, Miss Philpot, do you have news of the plesiosaurus?” Reverend Conybeare asked. “The doorman said you might. Will its presence yet grace our meeting?”
Now I understood their excitement: it was not the Philpot name but mention of the missing specimen that had brought them racing down the stairs.
“I passed the grounded Dispatch three days ago.” I tried to sound knowledgeable. “Its cargo is now being brought by land, and will arrive as quickly as the roads allow.”
Both men looked discouraged at hearing what was not news to them. “Why, then, Miss Philpot, are you here?” Reverend Conybeare said. For a vicar he was quite tart.
I drew myself up straight and tried to look them in the eye as confidently as I had the clerk at the wharf and the Geological Society’s doorman. It was more difficult, however, as there were two of them gazing at me-and Johnny too. Then, too, they were more learned, and con?dent. I might hold some power over a clerk and a doorman, but not over one of my own class. Instead of fixing my attention on Mr Buckland-who as future President of the Society was the more important of the two-I stupidly looked at my nephew as I said, “I wanted to discuss Miss Anning with you.”
“Has something happened to Mary?” William Buckland asked.
“No, no, she is well.”
Reverend Conybeare frowned, and even Mr Buckland, who was not a frowner, wrinkled his brow. “Miss Philpot,” Reverend Conybeare began, “we are about to hold our meeting at which both Mr Buckland and I will be giving important-nay, even history-making-addresses to the Society. Surely your query about Miss Anning can wait until another day while we concentrate on these more pressing matters. Now, if you will excuse me, I am just going to review my notes.” Without waiting to hear my response, he turned and padded up the carpeted stairs.
Mr Buckland looked as if he might do the same, but he was slower and kinder, and he took a moment to say, “I should be delighted to talk with you another time, Miss Philpot. Perhaps I could call around one day next week?”
“But sir,” Johnny broke in, “Monsieur Cuvier thinks the plesiosaurus is a fake!”
That stopped Reverend Conybeare’s retreating back. He turned on the stairs. “What did you say?”
Johnny, the clever boy, had said just the right thing. Of course the men did not want to hear about Mary. It was Cuvier’s opinion of the plesiosaurus that would concern them.
“Baron Cuvier believes that the plesiosaurus Mary found cannot be real,” I explained as Reverend Conybeare descended the stairs and rejoined us, his face grim. “The neck has too many vertebrae, and he believes it violates the fundamental laws that govern the anatomy of vertebrates.”
Reverend Conybeare and Mr Buckland exchanged glances.
“Cuvier has suggested the Annings created a false animal by adding a sea serpent’s skull to the body of an ichthyosaurus. He claims they are forgers,” I added, bringing the discussion to what concerned me most.
Then I wished I hadn’t, for seeing the expressions my words ignited on the men’s faces. Both registered surprise, giving way to a degree of suspicion, more prominent in Reverend Conybeare’s case, but also apparent even in Mr Buckland’s benign features.
“Of course you know that Mary would never do such a thing,” I reminded them. “She is an honest soul, and trained-by your good selves, I might add-in the importance of preserving specimens as they are found. She knows they are of little use if tampered with.”
“Of course,” Mr Buckland agreed, his face clearing, as if all he needed was a prompt from a sensible mind.
Reverend Conybeare was still frowning, however. Clearly my reminder had tapped into a seam of doubt. “Who told Cuvier about the specimen?” he demanded.
I hesitated, but there was no way around revealing the truth. “Mary herself wrote to him. I believe she sent along a drawing.”
Reverend Conybeare snorted. “Mary wrote? I dread to think what such a letter would be like. The girl is practically illiterate! It would have been much better if Cuvier had learned of it after tonight’s lecture. Buckland, we must present our case to him ourselves, with drawings and a detailed description. You and I should write, and perhaps someone else as well, so Cuvier will hear about it from several angles. Johnson in Bristol, perhaps. He was very keen when I mentioned the plesiosaurus at the Institution at the beginning of the month, and I know he has corresponded with Cuvier in the past.” As he spoke, Reverend Conybeare ran his hand up and down the mahogany banister, still rattled by the news. If he hadn’t irritated me with his suspicion of Mary, I might have felt sorry for him.
Mr Buckland also noted his friend’s nerves. “Conybeare, you are not going to withdraw your address now, are you? Many guests have come expressly to hear you: Babbage, Gordon, Drummond, Rudge, even McDownell. You’ve seen the room: it’s packed, the best attendance I’ve ever seen. Of course I can entertain them with my musings on the megalosaurus, but how much more powerful if we both speak of these creatures of the past. Together we will give them an evening they will never forget!”
I tutted. “This is not the theatre, Mr Buckland.”
“Ah, but in a way it is, Miss Philpot. And what wonderful entertainment we have prepared for them! We are in the midst of opening their eyes to incontrovertible evidence of a wondrous past world, to the most magnificent creatures God has created-apart from man, of course.” Mr Buckland was warming to his theme.
“Perhaps you should save your thoughts for the meeting,” I suggested.
“Of course, of course. Now, Conybeare, are you with me?”
“Yes.” Reverend Conybeare visibly donned a more confident air. “In my paper I have already addressed some of Cuvier’s concerns about the number of vertebrae. Besides, you have seen the creature, Buckland. You believe in it.”
Mr Buckland nodded.
“Then you believe in Mary Anning as well,” I interjected. “And you will defend her from Cuvier’s unjust charges.”
“I do not see what that has to do with this meeting,” Reverend Conybeare countered. “I mentioned Mary when I spoke about the plesiosaurus at the Bristol Institution. Buckland and I will write to Cuvier. Is that not enough?”
“Every geologist of note as well as other interested parties are upstairs in that room right now. One announcement from you, that you have complete confidence in Mary’s abilities as a fossil hunter, will counter any comments from Baron Cuvier that they might hear of later.”
“Why should I want to cast doubt in public on Miss Anning’s abilities, and indeed-and more importantly, I might add-doubt on the very specimen I am just preparing to speak about?”
“A woman’s good name is at stake, as well as her livelihood-a livelihood that provides you with the specimens you need to further your theories and your own good name. Surely that must matter to you enough to speak out?”
Reverend Conybeare and I glared at each other, our eyes locked. We might have remained like that all evening if it weren’t for Johnny, who had become impatient with all of the talk and wanted more action. He ducked behind Reverend Conybeare and leapt onto the stairs above him. “If you don’t agree to clear Miss Anning’s name, I shall go and tell the roomful of gentlemen upstairs what Cuvier has said,” he called down to us. “How would you like that?”
Reverend Conybeare made a move to grab him, but Johnny leaped up several more steps to remain out of reach. I should have scolded my nephew for his bad behaviour, but instead found myself snorting to hide laughter. I turned to Mr Buckland, the more reasonable of the two. “Mr Buckland, I know how fond you are of Mary, and that you recognise how much in debt we all are to her for her immense skill in finding fossils. I understand too that this evening is very important to you, and I would not want to ruin that. But surely somewhere in the meeting there is room for you to express your support of Mary? Perhaps you could simply acknowledge her efforts without mentioning Baron Cuvier specifically. And when his remarks are at last made public, the men upstairs will understand the deeper meaning of your declaration of confidence. That way we will all be satisfied. Would that be acceptable?”