Free The Darwin Conspiracy by John Darnton Page A

translation agreements, account ledgers, and the like. Hugh’s interest began to flag.
    For an hour, he sifted through the material. Then he picked up an account book and was confronted with long columns of numbers, neat and small in black ink—itemized expenses. He skipped ahead, holding 5 3
    the book by the spine and flipping the pages with his thumb. Soon the columns disappeared, blank pages flew by and then—suddenly, to his amazement—they came alive with writing. A fine script moved quickly across the pages. It was as if a movie had burst onto a white screen.
    He looked at the pages more closely. The writing was old; it was in a girlish hand but the penmanship was easy to read and elegant. It was an ocean of script. The a ’s and o ’s and e ’s crested forward gracefully, like waves headed for shore, the b ’s and l ’s and t ’s tall and slanting, like sails.
    The first entry began with a date.

CHAPTER 6

    4 January 1865
    Papa gave this book to me for the New Year to keep my accounts, a duty to be faithfully discharged. I shall record my expenditures (which are pitifully meagre) in columns and subtract as I proceed until I attain the magical tally of nought, at which time he will replenish my monthly sum. But this little book shall serve an additional purpose, one that is secret. I shall use it as a journal, setting down my most personal thoughts and observations when I deem them sufficiently interesting, and I shall pray it does not fall into the wrong hands, for that might prove an embarrassment.
    For I have many thoughts of a personal nature and no one to relate them to—certainly not to sweet Mamma, who cannot bear to think ill of anyone, nor to Etty, for though my sister is nearly four years older, she is not, to my thinking, four years wiser. I shall consign this personal journal to the rear of this account book and thus disguise it. My expectation is that it will remain at the bottom of my writing-desk unread by anyone other than myself. Deception, says Papa, is Nature’s art and we can all learn from it.
    Ever since Papa became famous, we have had a veritable flood of visitors to Down House, many of whom come from distant parts. I quite enjoy the company, and not simply because they tend to be people of noteworthy distinction, modern thinkers and various scientists whose nature makes them peculiar specimens in their own right, but also because they provide a distraction, which I sorely need.
    On the morning of a visit, everyone leaps into action in order to put his best face forward. We are like the army mobilising for the Crimea. Mamma organises the household with quiet command. Mrs Davies heaves pots hither   and yon on the fire with great urgency and much yelling, so that soon aromas of spiced lamb and baking potatoes fill the house all the way to the servants’  rooms. Parslow readies the wine in the butler’s pantry. The gardener, Comfort, harnesses the horses and drives the waggonette to Orpington to fetch the guest or guests (since there are likely to be more than one).
    Now that I am eighteen years of age, I am forced to wear one of my crinolines and endure the torture of tight lacing (twenty-four inches around the waist—not an inch more). I find I can hardly move nor breathe, I who love nothing better than to run unfettered in the fields and hide in the woods and clay-pits. Etty is permitted to forgo the corset owing to her delicate constitution.
    In short, all are busily occupied, with the exception of poor Papa who is usually confined to bed with stomach ailments in anticipation of the socialising to which he must needs submit himself.
    The bustle provides the impression, if only for the afternoon, that the Darwins are a normal and contented family. In some ways, we most certainly are, though at times I perceive a strangeness beneath the gaiety and manners.
    What it is that is amiss I do not know. But an astute observer sitting in our midst at the grand table might notice a forced