Free Galapagos Regained by James Morrow Page B

favorite creatures with rational intellects.
    Of course, she had no intention of simply stealing her employer’s theory. That would be wrong. Also, it might not work. After all, she’d comprehended barely half of what Mr. Darwin had told his guests, so it was likely that, unless she received instruction from the master transmutationist himself, the Anglican judges at Alastor Hall would succeed in befuddling her. No, the ideal scheme would find her traveling to Oxford only after Mr. Darwin had endorsed her project and tutored her in the nuances of his disproof.
    Entering the study, she found the manuscript in the specified location, nestled beneath the crumpled, tea-stained, thirty-five-page sketch from which it had descended. She snatched up Towards a Theory of Natural Selection and scurried away, leaving “An Essay Concerning Descent with Modification” in place. By the time she was back in the vivarium, Mr. Darwin had dispensed with blending, time, and Man. Now he was talking about crustaceans.
    â€œThat’s right, Joseph. The male of the Chonos Isles barnacle has two organs of procreation.”
    â€œTwo?” said Mr. Hooker. “I find it difficult enough maintaining one.”
    Catching sight of Chloe, Mr. Darwin cut the conversation short with an embarrassed laugh. “Ah, Miss Bathurst, there you are. Kindly deliver my theory to our botanist.”
    She quirked Mr. Hooker a smile and placed the pages in his grasp.
    â€œImpressive,” he said, leafing through the manuscript. “But I shan’t have time to read it ere I embark for India.”
    â€œTake it with you, Joseph,” said Mr. Darwin. “Last month I paid a scrivener to transcribe a fair copy, which I keep under lock and key. I’ve instructed Emma to publish it upon my death. Were you to mislay these pages, I shouldn’t count the loss a tragedy.”
    â€œNevertheless, I shall endeavor to protect them,” said Hooker.
    â€œCharles, you’ve found a convert,” said Gould.
    â€œI’m scarcely converted,” said Hooker. “Merely curious.”
    â€œMiss Bathurst, I suspect you found our scientific chatter impossibly tedious,” said Mr. Darwin.
    â€œ Au contraire, I thought the conversation entrancing,” she said.
    â€œSuch a sweet girl you’ve hired, Charles,” said Lyell in a treacly tone. “I’ll wager she’s intelligent, too. I pray you, Miss Bathurst, give us your opinion of this Tree of Life business.”
    â€œMay I speak freely, sir?”
    â€œOf course,” said Lyell.
    â€œI think Mr. Darwin’s idea makes a ripping good yarn,” said Chloe, acting the part of a person who understood transmutationism. “As to its truth or falsity, I am not competent to venture a conclusion—but I must say I shan’t ever look at a finch’s beak, a mockingbird’s bill, a tortoise’s shell, or a lizard’s tail in quite the same way again.”
    And with that the four gentlemen issued merry guffaws and returned to their pudding, though Professor Lyell laughed last and ate least.

 
    3
    We Meet the Reverend Malcolm Chadwick, a Man of Limber Frame and Nimble Mind, Before Whom Atheists Quake and Skeptics Grow Dyspeptic
    In the weeks that followed her accidental encounter with the theory of natural selection, Chloe performed her Down House duties with particular diligence, scrupulously nourishing, nurturing, and mucking up after Mr. Darwin’s menagerie—but she worked even harder on her days off. Every Tuesday afternoon she slipped into the village, entered the Queens Head Inn, and culled through discarded copies of the Evening Standard, eager to learn the latest exploits of the Percy Bysshe Shelley Society. According to Jasper Popplewell, the journalist who regularly reported on the Great God Contest, “the Almighty has been neither vanquished nor validated at Alastor Hall,” and the £10,000 remained