I, Ada by Julia Gray

Author:Julia Gray [Gray, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Andersen Press Ltd
Published: 2020-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

Fordhook, Ealing

April 1833

Freedom. It’s something I think a good deal about. What makes a person free? What gives one person the right to exert any kind of direction over another? Why should a parent seek to control their own child with such overwhelming, unilateral dominance that the child’s every action is more or less predetermined? If they are acting out of love, out of genuine concern, does it make this control more justifiable?

This is the question that I ask myself, as Mr Hopkins takes me back to Fordhook in a borrowed carriage. The rain thrums aggressively on the roof; as we sit in embarrassed silence, I can practically hear the man’s thoughts, as uncomfortable as too-tight boots. What happened between this young lady and my son? Who was the instigator? What, oh what, will Lady Byron have to say? Several times, he clears his throat, reaching for words that never come. Rounding a bend, we roll onto the flat plain of the hilltop; if it wasn’t raining so heavily, we’d be able to see the metropolis below the trees, busy with its machineries, its engines, quite disinterested in whatever small, inconsequential drama might be taking place above it.

‘We are good people, you know,’ says Mr Hopkins, breaking the silence. His voice is very different to his son’s – coarser, lower. ‘We don’t want any scandal.’

At this, I look at him, levelling my gaze to his. ‘Are you thinking about my father?’ I say.

The question seems to jolt him; he opens his mouth, dumbly, like a herring. ‘I’m thinking about everyone,’ he says.

Part of me is angry. Two lovers have been forcibly separated, and all this man can think about is family reputation. Does he have no regard for the happiness of his own son? Could he and his wife not have supported our being together – rejoiced in it, even – rather than dispatching me back to Fordhook like a parcel that must post-haste be returned to its sender? Do they care nothing for the romance of our situation?

‘I would have gladly married him,’ I say.

‘That’s as may be, Miss Byron,’ he replies.

A vision swims into my imagination: we stand, James and I, in the Fordhook drawing room, before some designated officiant. We are demure; we are elated; our hands are, perhaps, just touching as we prepare to murmur our vows. Then the vision darkens and changes: the Fordhook drawing room vanishes, and in its place some unknown chapel appears. James is there – a little older, his hair a little darker, but otherwise no different – but now it is someone else by his side. She is un-Ada – tall and fair, perhaps, with an expression on her face of soft satisfaction. She has never visited a shed at midnight, and never will.

At the thought of James marrying someone else, a single tear wobbles down the side of my nose; I turn my face to the window, so that Hopkins Senior will not see it.

I am not present at whatever conversation takes place between James’ father and Mamma upon my return to Fordhook.

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