Galapagos Regained (5 page)

“Perhaps you should become a flower-seller like Nydia in
The Last Days of Pompeii
.”

“Nydia's business prospered only because she was blind. The condition is easy enough to feign, but I would rather be despised than pitied.”

“A seamstress? A laundress? A draper's assistant?”

“I have a better idea.”

And indeed she did. An aficionado of Miss Austen's novels, Chloe had long ago assimilated the universally acknowledged truth that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, and of late she'd deduced the logical corollary, that a wife married to a prosperous man yet burdened with a slew of children must be in want of a governess. To wit, she would tutor the progeny of the well-to-do, a vocation at which, though she had no particular fondness for either children or gentlefolk, she could imagine herself succeeding.

Shortly after sunrise each morning, Chloe slipped out of bed and purchased the
Times,
scrutinizing the tiny print under
SITUATIONS AVAILABLE: TUTORS AND GOVERNESSES
until her eyes crossed and the typography floated free of the page like a leaf fallen on still water. She responded by post to thirty such advertisements and subsequently secured a score of private interviews. Beaming a soft smile and assuming an equally dulcet voice, she began each such audience by informing the lady of the house that, owing to her theatrical experience, she was competent to teach not only elocution, singing, and French but also history, geography, and ethics, for the loftier dramas in which she'd appeared (or at least seen performed) had treated extensively of these subjects, most conspicuously Monsieur Crébillon's
Rhadamistus and Zenobia,
Herr Hebbel's
Maria Magdalena
, and Voltaire's
Alzire
.

“Ethics, you say?” snorted the prickly Lady Routledge. “Do you truly believe there's a moral lesson to be gleaned from a piece of thundering nonsense like
Rhadamistus and Zenobia
?”

“By populating his play with bestial kings, Crébillon shows us that authority knows nothing of virtue,” said Chloe. “The playwright assails the arrogance of those who imagine their blood is purer than that of the masses.”

Lady Routledge seemed to be experiencing an unpleasant odor. “A worthy theme, I'm sure, though not one to which His Lordship and I would expose our sons.”

“Then we have poor, trusting Clara in
Maria Magdalena,
seduced by her boorish fiancé, who deserts her for the mayor's daughter,” said Chloe (enduring a pang provoked by the memory of her liaisons with Mr. Parminter). “Ere the curtain falls, the unfortunate girl has drowned herself and Herr Hebbel has laid bare the foibles of bourgeois society.”

“My sons do not need anything laid bare for them, Miss Bathurst, and certainly not by you. As for the infamous Voltaire, I've heard he was a sworn enemy of God.”

“Not so much of God, My Lady, as of organized churches. In
Alzire
Voltaire reveals how the Christian army that destroyed the Inca Empire left little of value in its place.”

“Alas, Miss Bathurst, this interview should have ended before it began.”

*   *   *

Sad to say, Chloe's encounter with Lady Routledge was typical of the
pièces mal faites
in which she appeared that spring: an auspicious beginning, a wobbly second act, and a calamitous climax. Perhaps Fanny was right. Perhaps she should become a milliner or a seamstress.

When Chloe first clamped eyes on an advertisement indicating that on Sunday afternoon (between the hours of noon and four) a Mrs. Charles Darwin would be interviewing prospective governesses at her husband's estate in Down, County Kent, she decided to ignore it, having no reason to imagine the meeting should go better than its predecessors. But then she noticed the final line,
SYMPATHY WITH EDUCATIONAL THEORIES OF M. ROUSSEAU DESIRABLE
, and her hopes soared, for she'd once seen Ellen Tree portray Sophie in an adaptation of the philosopher's most acclaimed novel.

On the evidence of
Émile,
Jean-Jacques Rousseau believed that amongst every child's instincts were compassion, curiosity, and a love of adventure. The tutor's job was to nurture these virtues, forswearing all forms of coercion and restraint. Very well, thought Chloe, if it's amity Mrs. Darwin wants, I'll become the most genial governess ever to draw breath in Britain. If freedom is the order of the day, I'll let her offspring run wild as South Seas savages.

Although her liquidity was at low tide—shake her purse, and you would hear naught but a single farthing clink against a bereaved ha'penny—Chloe straightaway secured the steam-train fare in the form of yet another loan from Fanny. Upon arriving at Bromley Station (so ran her scheme) she would spare herself the hackney-coach fee by donning her calfskin boots, hoisting her parasol against the afternoon sun, and walking all five miles to Down Village, where she would change into her best clogs prior to the interview. A well-laid plan, to be sure, which proceeded to go spectacularly awry. Detraining, Chloe was thrown off balance by her portmanteau, accidentally wedging her foot between the last step and the station platform, thereby wrenching her ankle. The pain was implacable—knife-sharp when she moved at a normal pace, spasmodic when she shuffled—and, worse yet, a storm now arose, so she was obliged to trek through a downpour against which her little
parapluie
proved useless. At five o'clock she presented herself at the estate in the sorriest of conditions: cold, wet, muddy, exhausted—and one hour late.

Mrs. Darwin behaved with exemplary graciousness. Ignoring the raindrops cascading from Chloe's bonnet and sleeves, she ushered her into the drawing-room, a commodious space boasting a bay window offering a panorama of sodden pastureland punctuated by mulberry trees and a Spanish chestnut. Mrs. Darwin proposed to serve her visitor a cup of chamomile. Given her half-frozen state, this offer delighted Chloe, though she accepted it with a studied restraint that she imagined bespoke refinement.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” she said. “Alas, at some point during my railway journey, my purse fell prey to a pickpocket,” she added (knowing that the truth might suggest an inveterate clumsiness), “and so I couldn't hire a fly. If you and Mr. Darwin are about to have supper, I shall gladly wait here.”

“A pickpocket, Miss Bathurst?” said Mrs. Darwin. “Oh, dear.” She was a sweet-faced woman whose notable aspects included extravagant brown curls, pink cheeks, a pouty lower lip, and a pregnancy of perhaps six months' duration. “Mr. Darwin and I should be pleased to put you up and provide for your return to London.”

“Am I to infer the other candidates have come and gone?”

“One stayed behind, a Miss Catherine Thorley, to whom I awarded the situation ninety minutes ere you arrived.”

So often had Chloe's profession required her to sob on cue, she'd forgotten how it felt to weep spontaneously, but now such an episode was upon her, muffled cries breaking from her throat, fat tears welling in her eyes. Mrs. Darwin relieved Chloe of her cup and saucer, then placed a tender hand on her shoulder.

“I shall write to you the instant I learn that one of my relations requires a governess,” said Mrs. Darwin.

As if summoned by the din of Chloe's despair, a tall gentleman strode into the room bearing a terra-cotta flowerpot covered with a pie plate, his confident carriage marking him as master of the house. Beetle-browed and side-whiskered, with a nose suggesting a small but assertive potato, he was far from handsome, though Chloe found him attractive nonetheless—physically magnetic and also, by the evidence of his kind eyes and warm smile, a person of abiding benevolence.

“There, there, my dear,” he said, observing her tears, “it can't be as bad as all that,” a banality last spoken to Chloe by her gladiator lover in
The Last Days of Pompeii.
As articulated by Mr. Darwin, the platitude acquired a certain profundity—and he was right, she decided: it wasn't as bad as all that. “If you like,” he continued, setting the flowerpot on the piano stool, “I shall lend you a pound or two till you find employment elsewhere.”

“I fear I've run short of elsewheres, sir,” said Chloe. “My peers in the theatre have spurned me, and yours is the twenty-first household where I shan't become governess.”

“Miss Bathurst, meet Mr. Darwin, the county's most celebrated naturalist and geologist,” said the mistress of Down House. “Charles, this is Miss Bathurst.”

“Charmed,” said Mr. Darwin, then snapped his fingers so emphatically that Chloe half expected to see a spark. “I have an idea. Tonight, Miss Bathurst, you will sleep in the guest room.”

“The servants' quarters,” Mrs. Darwin corrected him.

“The servants' quarters,” he agreed. “After you awaken, exit by way of the veranda, then proceed to the vegetable garden and thence to the rear gate. You will find me up and about, rambling through the thicket and pondering some scientific problem or other. Before our stroll is done I shall have made my proposal, and you will have given me your answer.”

“Good heavens, Charles,” said Mrs. Darwin, pursing her lips in mock exasperation, “it sounds as if you mean to ask for our visitor's hand in marriage.”

“When a man has so marvelous a creature as you for a wife,” said Mr. Darwin, “he requires no additional brides. You are a harem unto yourself.”

Mrs. Darwin blushed and lowered her head. Her husband issued an affectionate laugh. These people, Chloe surmised, took every imaginable pleasure in each other. Happiness was a hobby that she, too, hoped to pursue one day, but for now she must attend to more practical matters.

Mr. Darwin removed the pie plate from the flowerpot and pointed into the cavity. “
Annelids
,” he announced.

“Earthworms, Mr. Darwin?” muttered his wife in a world-weary tone, as if crawlers on the piano stool were but one amongst many oddities that accrued to her husband's profession.

Saying nothing, he flipped back the piano lid. Gaze fixed intently on his worms, he struck the keys with both fists, filling the room with a distressing discordance. “Once again, they make no response.” He assaulted the keys a second time. “Not a wriggle, not a tremor, not a twitch. Yesterday they ignored Master Willy's flute, the day before that Miss Annie's tin whistle.”

“Our firstborn son and elder daughter,” Mrs. Darwin explained.

“I daresay, I've all but proved that earthworms are deaf.”

“My goodness, that finding must be as significant as Mr. Newton's universal gravitation—am I right, dear?” said Mrs. Darwin, her lips assuming a wry curve.

“How blithely we underestimate the humble earthworm,” Mr. Darwin persisted. “Were it not for this species's contributions to soil formation, agriculture would be at a standstill throughout the Empire and the rest of the world.”

Mrs. Darwin now summoned a willowy domestic named Mary, instructing her to find accommodation for Miss Bathurst. The servant bobbed her head deferentially, then guided her charge along a candlelit hall hung with pastoral landscapes, Chloe limping as inconspicuously as her ankle permitted. Suddenly a rambunctious band of children came spilling down the stairs. They brushed past Chloe and marched towards the drawing-room with its earthworms and its doting parents. The tall, serious boy was surely Master William (studiously ignoring his little brother), whilst the taller, giggling girl was certainly Miss Annie (casting a protective eye on a toddling sister). Near the end of the parade marched a young woman cradling a babe to her bosom, a nursemaid, no doubt, followed by a second lass holding a chalkboard on which she'd written, “In Adam's fall, we sinned all,” the capital letter
A
in “Adam” rendered in boldface, the lowercase
a
in “all” likewise enhanced.

For a fleeting instant Chloe endeavored to despise Miss Catherine Thorley, this person to whom she'd lost the coveted post. Her nemesis had at best eighteen years, exuded an air of rusticity, and evinced no obvious competence to cultivate Rousseauian curiosity in young minds. But then a sudden generosity took hold of Chloe, and she bestowed a smile on Miss Thorley, who smiled back. Blighted by workhouses, crippled by Parliamentary inertia, torn by Chartist unrest, the British nation in 1848 was not exactly Heaven on Earth—and yet by Chloe's lights Mother Albion always had certain perennial virtues on display, not the least of which was governesses for whom even Adam's lapse from grace could be turned to pedagogical advantage.

*   *   *

Hopes aloft, senses alive to the melodious larks and sun-soaked sky, Chloe stepped off the veranda and entered the grassy, clover-dotted back lawn of Down House, hobbling past an oval flower bed bursting with lilies and larkspur. Her ankle felt better, and she moved at a sprightly pace to the brick-walled vegetable garden. Gimping quickly through the arched entrance, she sauntered amidst patches of turnips, rhubarb, and runner beans, then lifted the rear-gate latch and crossed into the wild environs beyond.

True to his prediction, Mr. Darwin had reached the thicket ahead of her. “Welcome to my sandwalk,” he said, indicating a path of pulverized flint mottled along its entire course with medallions of sunlight, flanked on one side by a tangled woodland and on the other by a vacant field. “I laid it out myself, an ellipse fit for every sort of rumination.”

She drew abreast of the scientist, and they proceeded towards a cottage located at the far swerve of the path, Mr. Darwin smoking a cigarette whilst propelling himself forward with his walking-stick. “Down to business,” he said. “Beyond the invertebrates whose deafness I demonstrated yesterday, other species occupy these premises, and they all require care and feeding.”

Chloe cringed. A sour curd congealed in her stomach. She could imagine cultivating Mr. Darwin's roses or whitewashing the walls of his villa, but she had no desire to become his goose girl, milkmaid, or resident shepherdess. “I grew up in the streets of Wapping. I am ignorant of farm animals.”