Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier Page B

anything to do with it. But then, without a husband, she had to take on new tasks. Running a business appeared to be one of them.
    “I want to take this specimen, Mrs. Anning. If your daughter will allow it,” Lord Henley added with a touch of sarcasm. “But then, your daughter answers to you, does she not?”
    “Course.” Molly Anning barely glanced at the skull. “How much you want to pay, then?”
    “Three pounds.”
    “That—” I began.
    “I expect there be plenty of gentlemen prepared to pay more,” Molly Anning talked over me. “But we’ll take your money, if you like, as a deposit for the whole creature once Mary finds it.”
    “And if she doesn’t?”
    “Oh, she’ll find it all right. My Mary always finds things. She’s special like that—always has been, since she was struck by lightning. That were in your field, weren’t it, Lord Henley, where she was struck?”
    Several things astonished me: that Molly Anning was talking so confidently to a member of the gentry; that she had rather cleverly allowed him to name his price, throwing him off balance and getting an idea of the worth of an object whose value she didn’t know; that she had the cunning to make the lightning strike seem to be his responsibility. Most surprising, though, she had actually complimented her daughter just when Mary needed it. I’d heard people say that Molly Anning was an original; now I understood what they meant.
    Lord Henley hardly knew how to respond. I stepped in to help him out. “Of course, the Annings will give you the head for three pounds if the body isn’t found within, shall we say, two years?”
    Lord Henley glanced from Molly Anning to me. “All right,” he replied at length, placing his hand again on his prize.
     
     
     
    AFTER ENCOUNTERING THE SKULL, I found it difficult to sleep, dreaming of the eyes of animals I had looked into: horses, cats, seagulls, dogs. There was a flatness in them, the lack of a God-given spark that frightened me into wakefulness.
    On Sunday I remained behind after the service at St. Michael’s, waving on Bessy and my sisters. “I will catch you up,” I said, and stood at the back of the church, waiting for the vicar to finish his good-byes to the other parishioners. Reverend Jones was a plain man, with a boxy head and close-cropped hair, whose thin lips twisted and turned even when every other part of him was still. I had not spoken with him except to mouth pleasantries, for he was uninspiring during services, his voice reedy, his sermons lackluster. However, he was a man of God, and I hoped he might be able to give me guidance.
    At last only a girl remained behind, sweeping the floor. Reverend Jones was going up and down the pews, picking up hymn sheets and checking for gloves or prayer books left behind. He did not see me. Indeed, it felt as if he did not want to see me. His pastoral duties over for the day, he was doubtless thinking about the dinner he would soon sit down to and the sleep by the fire afterwards. When I cleared my throat and he looked up, he could not stop his mouth tightening into a brief grimace. “Miss Philpot, is this handkerchief yours?” He held out a ball of white cloth, probably hopeful that I could be easily dismissed.
    “I’m afraid not, Reverend Jones.”
    “Ah. You are looking for something else, perhaps? A purse? A button? A hairpin?”
    “No, I wished to discuss a matter with you.”
    “I see.” Reverend Jones pushed out his lips. “My dinner will be ready soon and I need to finish up here. You don’t mind . . . ?” He continued along the pews, straightening cushions as I trailed behind. All the while I could hear the scratch of the girl’s broom on the floor.
    “I wanted to ask you what you thought of fossils.” In trying to hold his attention, my voice came out louder than I had intended in the empty church.
    The sweeping stopped, but Reverend Jones continued up the aisle to the oak pulpit, where he picked up his own