by John Darnton
When the boat docked, Hugh strode up the long hill toward the Observatory and turned off to enter a long, low building with thick walls and marble floors. It was cool inside. The receptionist guided him to the research room and there he introduced himself to the chief archivist, a thin, reedy man with a broad forehead.
He listened patiently to Hugh’s request—to see material from the Beagle, in particular, the Captain’s log and the roster of crewmen and passengers. Hugh wanted to know the names of those who did not complete the voyage for one reason or other, those who left and those who died, and in particular whether FitzRoy had set down any unusual incidents that he hadn’t included in his book on the voyage.
The archivist shook his head in friendly discouragement and told Hugh to wait. Minutes later he was back with a sullied photocopy that he placed upon the counter. It contained bits and scraps of writing in FitzRoy’s hand that was hard to decipher, but mostly it was blank, a large hole in the center.
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” the archivist said, “but it was as I had anticipated. The Beagle, you understand . . . so many people have come here over the years, handling the documents, copying them. In those days our efforts at preservation were not up to today’s standards. This is all there is, I’m afraid. I have no record of the log whatsoever. Nor does the Admiralty. I realize this is not much help.”
Bridget’s place on Elgin Crescent was just what he had imagined, quaint and expensive—a four-story brick town house with cream-colored bay windows, a flagstone walk, and a yew tree near the front door.
Before he pushed the bell, he looked through a half-shaded window.
He saw a modern coffee table stacked with art books, a woman’s fleshy legs, and the darkened back of someone handing down a drink. The muffled chatter of friendly voices reached him. It seemed so cheery it made him feel lonely.
Just then the door flew open so violently he felt a breeze in his hair, and he was facing Bridget, in a cashmere sweater and slinky black skirt, all kisses and bustling enthusiasm.
“Hugh,” she said, pulling him across the threshold. “Glad you made it.”
He handed her a bottle of wine. She lifted it out of the bag, checked the label skeptically, and set it on a side table. Erik rushed into the hallway to join them. He was tall and handsome in an aristocratic English sort of way, with a mop of hair swooping nearly to his eyes. He rocked on the balls of his feet with delight as Bridget introduced them, and, as they gripped hands, Hugh’s vow to dislike him eroded on the spot.
The introductions in the drawing room were artful, enough snippets of information to make connections and keep a conversation going.
Hugh heard himself presented as “an old, old friend from the States and, incidentally, Cal’s brother—younger brother, isn’t it, Hugh?” Bridget’s casual air was a giveaway: they already knew who he was.
One guest—Neville Young, a ruddy-complexioned man in a baggy crimson sweater—looked at Hugh with an appraising eye.
Before dinner Hugh cornered Bridget in the kitchen and she told him that Neville was the one who had worked in the biology lab with Cal.
“But I’m afraid he’s not the one I really wanted you to meet. That’s Simon. He was Cal’s roommate at Oxford. At the last minute he couldn’t make it. Bad luck.”
She looked at him with moist eyes. “How’s your father?” she asked in an abrupt non sequitur.
“I don’t really know—okay, I guess.” The truth was Hugh’s father had written twice and even telephoned, but he hadn’t written or called him back.
“I think you’re too hard on him. He’s not such a bad guy, you know.”
Erik hurried in, his eyebrows adither. “Darling, they’re all sitting down.” He looked at Hugh, smiled awkwardly, and turned to Bridget.
“Sweetie, are you pissed?”
Hugh was relieved to sit at the table.
The meal passed amiably enough. Bridget and Erik kept the wineglasses filled and the conversational ball in the air; it bounced around the usual subjects—the latest outrage from the Tories, Israel’s venality in the Middle East, bits of gossip. A fluttery woman on Hugh’s left, having learned that he was interested in Darwin, wanted to talk about the rise of creationism in America.
The man on his right said: “I gather from Bridget you’re doing some sort of research project on Darwin.”
“Yes.”
“Amazing man, wasn’t he? Brilliant the way he held back his theory until he could nail it down completely, all those years studying barnacles, pigeons, whatnot.”
“I suppose.”
“Clearly a genius. But not like Newton or Einstein. Much more sympathetic, don’t you agree? I mean, they’re just so far above the rest of us. He seems more like a regular chap, if you know what I mean. You can almost imagine doing what he did, plodding along—he’s like us, only more dogged. ‘It’s dogged as does it,’ as Mr. Trollope wrote.”
Hugh nodded. He felt Neville’s eyes peering at him through the candlelight.
“And the beauty of the theory he came up with, the simplicity of it.
In retrospect, it seemed obvious. What was it Huxley remarked of himself? ‘How extremely stupid not to have thought of that.’ A brilliant quip, that.”
“Yes,” said Hugh.
“Did you ever wonder,” the man continued, “why Darwin didn’t write about the unobservable? I mean, for such a close student of human nature there were some subjects he never wrote about.”
“Like what?”
“The mind, for instance. Thought processes, questions of conscience and guilt. They never interested him—perhaps because they weren’t tangible. Either that or they were verboten to him. He was such a bundle of complexes, you know.”
“He was. And guilt-stricken on top of it all,” said Hugh. “But despite all that, he carried on.” He felt suddenly paternal toward Darwin. “He was the embodiment of courage.”
“That he was. That he most certainly was.”
Afterward, as they moved back into the drawing room for coffee and cognac, Hugh made up his mind to talk to Neville. He suggested that they “take some air.” It was more of an order than an offer, without even the pretense that it might be considered odd for two men who had just met to wander off by themselves.
They walked outside into the garden and through a wooden door in the back fence to the communal green, a hidden patch of rough grass and towering elms behind the twin rows of houses. Neville appeared ill at ease.
Finally Hugh said: “Bridget tells me you knew my brother.”
Neville replied quickly, as if he had been expecting the question:
“Yes. That’s true.”
Hugh waited to see if Neville would offer more and finally he did.
“We were reasonably close. We did see each other every day in the lab.”
“And what sort of work did you do in the lab?”
He was not prepared for the response he got.
“Look here. I know this is awkward for you—it certainly is for me.
Bridget told me you’d be interested in discussing Calvin, but quite frankly, it’s all a bit dicey.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you must have been upset. Bridget said you two were close.
But I hope you know how upsetting it was for me—for all of us—when we heard about his death. And I’m not sure I care to talk about it.”
Hugh didn’t know what to say.
“Well, I can understand, but surely a few harmless questions wouldn’t—”
“There’s no such thing as harmless questions in a case like this. A sudden death . . . you know . . . it really makes everyone feel horrible.
One goes back over old ground, reassessing everything. I need some time to think.”
Hugh was taken aback. Before he could decide what to say next, Neville broke the silence.
“We should be getting back.” He turned and started walking toward Bridget’s, then stopped. “Look, I don’t mean to b
e rude. I understand you’re on . . . something of a quest. I will think seriously about this and give you a call in two or three days’ time with my answer.” He looked deeply troubled.
“Fair enough.”
Hugh put his hand out to shake on it but Neville deterred him. “No need for that.” They went back in just as the others were preparing to leave. Hugh lingered behind as the guests said their goodbyes on the doorstep, a cacophony of kisses and exclamations. Bridget closed the door and turned to him.
“Well?”
“He didn’t answer any questions at all. Said he wanted to think about it. He acted like he had been bushwhacked.”
“Typical. In point of fact, I never liked him.”
“Do you know what happened at the lab?”
“No. I was counting on you to find out.”
On an impulse, he said: “That other man you mentioned—Simon—
do you have his number?”
“Yes.” She wrote it on a slip of paper, pushed it into his pocket, and walked him to the door.
“Thanks for coming and thanks for the wine. And remember: It’s important for you to know your brother better.” She looked him in the eye. “So you know he was human.”
“I know that. I know he was human.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure.
She didn’t try to kiss him but looked at him searchingly for a moment and then turned, adjusted her skirt with a tug, and walked back inside.
He returned to Twenty Windows just as it was starting to rain. He called Simon’s number; there was no answer but he left a message.
Then he looked around his room to see if Beth had left him a note.
There wasn’t one. He smiled when he saw she had made the bed and propped up the pillows. His glance caught the bottom of the bookcase where he kept Lizzie’s journal. It was lying on its side in its proper place, but the binding was facing out. That was not how he had left it. He felt a wave of disbelief, then anger. She read it!
He went out and flagged down a taxi. It didn’t stop. He ran to her house, getting soaked through by the time he arrived. The back door was answered by a young woman who introduced herself as Alice, gave him a searching look, and quickly guessed who he was—which, despite his anger, he took as a good sign. He dripped water on the kitchen floor.
“She’s upstairs. First room on the left. And here—” Alice reached into a drawer and threw a dish towel at him. He dried his head quickly and threw it back.
The bedroom door was open. Beth was inside, sitting at a desk, reading. She didn’t seem surprised to see him and looked up calmly as he walked in.
“How the hell could you do that?” he demanded.
“Read it, you mean?” A look flashed across her face that he couldn’t decipher—not guilt exactly, more like uncertainty.
“Yes, read it. Where the fuck do you get off?”
She stood up. She was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt that made her look slim.
“Let me see if I can explain.” She began to pace, her fingers jammed in her back pants pockets.
“You better.”
“I was looking around. I didn’t mean to go snooping but . . . in effect that’s what I was doing. I wanted to find out more about you. You know, left behind in a room belonging to somebody important to you.
Well, I hate to say it, but it’s an opportunity. Who would pass that up?”
He looked aghast.
“Okay, maybe you would. I couldn’t. I was just looking around and I found the journal. The moment I opened it and read the first page, I was hooked. I mean, Jesus Christ, what a find! It’s Darwin’s daughter—
Lizzie, right? Where did you get it?”
“Keep going.”
“So I read the whole thing. It’s amazing. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have. I was just interested in . . . whatever you had in your room. I didn’t expect to find anything to do with Lizzie. I thought, you know, that I might find something more about you.”
Hugh’s anger was subsiding.
“But you just put it back hoping I wouldn’t notice?”
“Not really. I turned it around. I figured you’d notice. I thought of writing a note but it was pretty hard to put it all down on paper.”
His anger had dissipated, replaced by something else—concern, primarily, that the secret was out and that she might make use of his find.
Still, it would be good to have someone to talk it over with.
“You know, you could have asked me,” he said.
“Ask you? How could I ask you? I didn’t know it existed.”
“I mean about the whole thing—my research.”
“And you could have asked me.”
She had a point there. “You’re looking into Lizzie too—right?”
“Right,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Because . . . because she was my great-great-grandmother—that is, if I’ve counted the generations right.”
Hugh dropped on the bed, his mouth open. “You mean that? You really mean that?”
“Yes. I’ve known for a while. My mother always told me that we were distantly related to Darwin. But I never really paid attention. I thought it was just one of those wild family rumors, you know, like somehow being related to royalty.”
“How did you finally find out?”
“When she died. The information was part of the estate. Here, take a look.”
She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. It was a letter from a London solicitor, the firm of Spenser, Jenkins & Hutchinson, dated May 20, 1982, and addressed to Dorothy Dulcimer of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
“That’s my mother,” said Beth, anticipating his question.
He read on. The letter stated that certain documents had been placed in trust with the firm in 1882 because it represented Charles Loring Brace, the founder of the Children’s Aid Society, with the proviso that they remain “confidential and undisclosed” for a period of one hundred years. These papers, it said, were left with the firm by Elizabeth Darwin, daughter of the famed naturalist, upon his death, and were believed to contain information that she deemed “important for history but too injurious to the reputations of persons still living or their descendants to be revealed in the intervening future.”
The letter continued:
Our files and a check of existing records lead us to believe that you are the closest living relative of the person for whom the package was left in trust—namely, one Emma Elizabeth Darwin, born out of wedlock on 1 April 1872, and given over for adoption that same month through the auspices of the Children’s Aid Society.
Kindly review the enclosed documents to ascertain your claim upon the papers in question. Should you care to pursue the claim, you are requested to present yourself in person to our offices. . . .
There was an address that Hugh recognized as being near the Old Bailey.
“This is amazing,” said Hugh. “Unbelievable.” He held it up:
“ ‘important for history but too injurious to the reputations of persons still living . . .’ What could that be?”
“Something Lizzie found. Or wrote. From reading the journal, I’d say she was on the trail of her father for some reason.”
“So your mother never went to get the papers?”
“No, she left that for me.”
Hugh kept shaking his head. “Nigel said you were related—do you remember? I asked you about it on the train and you denied it.”
“What I said was: don’t believe everything you hear. I stand by that as a general observation.”
He smiled. “I knew Lizzie had gotten pregnant but I never connected it to you.”
“No reason to.”
“And who is Charles Loring Brace?”
“A social reformer of the mid-nineteenth century. He founded the Children’s Aid Society to provide for homeless street urchins in New York. It sponsored the ‘orphan t
rains’ that sent them out west—some two hundred fifty thousand of them.”
“And he knew Darwin?”
“Yes. Darwin admired his book, The Dangerous Classes. In the summer of 1872, he invited Brace and his wife to Down House. That’s when they became friends.”
Beth handed over three other documents. One was an old birth certificate that listed the mother as Elizabeth Darwin and, in the space for the father’s name, said simply: “unrecognised.” The second were adoption papers, signed, in a shaky hand, by Lizzie. The third was a letter written to Brace by a Society member who accompanied an “orphan train” carrying sixty-eight homeless children from New York City to the Midwest in August 1872.
“You will be pleased to learn that I have successfully handed over baby Emma to the family from Minneapolis, according to the adoption arranged by you, this very day in Detroit. The new parents plan to call her Filipa.” The author of the letter went on to describe the “joy of seeing so many of our innocent charges wrapped in the bosom of new families.” She wrote:
They were taken in despite their condition, which, after a rough crossing on the steamer across Lake Erie from Buffalo resulting in all of them being seasick, together with the soil of excreta from the animals on deck and the long train ride to Detroit, left something to be desired. Indeed, they did smell something awful. At each stop, families gathered in churches and meeting-houses to take their pick of the youngsters gathered in a circle, some prospective parents moved almost to tears by their plight, others being more practical and hardened, squeezing their muscles or opening their mouths to check their teeth. By now, only a dozen or so of the least presentable children remain to be adopted.
Hugh handed the papers back.
“Any idea who the father was?”
“None. I don’t even know if Lizzie’s parents ever knew.”
“Oh, they knew all right. At least her mother did—I found a note from her chastising Lizzie in no uncertain terms.”
Beth was impressed. “Where do you keep finding this stuff?”
“Luck, mostly. The letter was in a book she owned. The journal you saw I found in Darwin’s old publishing house. You notice she disguised it.”
