The Huxley Letters: Part 10 - Travellers from a Distant Land

21st April 1889

Dawsbury Manor, The Levick Estate, Dawsbury, England

Dearest Rachel,

I am thankful to hear that your own Christmas and New Year passed happily, even if it did cost you the use of your kitchen for a few days. Mrs. Chattoway has told me alcohol glazes can be frightfully tricky. I hope the fire department weren't too stern with you about the incident?

I myself have been up to Monsmere to meet Heer Muurbloem and family. Kit and Pippin joined me. Montague and Fiona elected to remain behind, as Fiona has felt somewhat unwell as of late. We are all adjusting well to living together, as the Manor is spacious enough to ensure we are not constantly in each other's way, but all the same, I daresay a break was appreciated by all. Kit, in truth, has probably struggled most with the change: he was caught heading out to the tool shed a few times in his very first few days there, until I delicately informed him that our lavatories were indoors. He wasn't being primal – that is simply the situation for many working-class folk here.

Anyway, back to Heer Muurbloem. We met the family at The Pheasant, the inn at Monsmere where they are currently lodging. Heer Muurbloem, or Klaus, as he insisted I call him, is a tall, stocky, barrel-chested fellow, with hair the colour of flame, a thick bush-like beard, an excessively jolly temperament, and a voice that can likely be heard in the next village over. His English is excellent, though naturally, it carries a strong Flemish accent.

Mevrouw Muurbloem is named Meike. In contrast, she is a pale, slender woman, akin to a porcelain statuette, and quite reserved and timid: her golden hair pulled back into a bun, and her dress plain and conservative. They seem the most unlikely couple, but in the time I spent with them, it became apparent that they are devoted to each other.

After dining together, I showed them around Huxley Hall. Pippin played in the garden with Darwin and the two Masters Muurbloem. The younger son, Johan, is a tall, boisterous boy with a mane of shaggy golden curls – one year younger than Pippin. His English is practically non-existent at the moment, but through gestures, he and Pippin got by. Through climbing trees to peering in ponds, he is clearly a born explorer. Caspar, the elder son and one year Pippin's senior, is strangely smaller and thinner than his brother, and struggled to keep up. He is a well-groomed boy, with a tamed mop of his father's flame-red hair. Meike delicately explained that he is prone to bouts of ill health, but that he is bookish and has a great intellect. His English is even better than his mother's – he politely asked me many questions about Darwin's construction, and when Pippin was finally exhausted by Johan's boundlessly energetic play, she was content to sit with Caspar and read a story together.

Klaus got on swimmingly well with Kit. As a factory owner, he took great interest in what ideas Kit (as a former mill worker) had in terms of invention and intuition to both increase productivity and improve workforce morale, and praised him highly. I, meanwhile, took tea on the veranda with Meike, and explained the circumstances of the Hall's sale and my widowhood.

"So, Heer Kit," she said. "He your lover is, ja?"

"Oh – no!" I exclaimed. "He is simply a very good friend."

"Oh, much pity!" she replied. "Great shame. Very handsome, he is. Think I he would be – how to say? - good at making the babies."

I choked on my tea.

By five o'clock, my mind was made up. I called my new friends into Lord Huxley's old study, and signed over the deed to the Hall. As Klaus handed me payment, he very well near crushed me in a bear hug, thanking me for giving his family a new home.

After boarding the Aurora – the chldren promising to write to one another, and Klaus insisting we could visit anytime – Kit and I took off, gave Pippin a light supper, and put her to bed. This left Kit and myself alone to chat and amuse ourselves in the living area.

Kit asked if being in the Hall again had raised any sad memories. I disclosed how lonely I had often felt there, and how now, even at Dawsbury Manor, the loneliness could creep up on me in the small hours of the night. To comfort me, Kit placed his arms around me... and before I knew it, our lips were joined in a tender kiss.

My first kiss.

"I love you, Clara," he whispered. "I've always loved you. You never have to be alone again."

"Oh, Kit, I..."

"It's all right," he went on. "I know we can't be together. Not yet. But one day, I'll become a gentlemen, and give you the life a noble lady deserves."

"I love you as you are, Kit!"

"Thank you. And for you, I'll never change – I promise. But for the sake of your honour, I have to go up in the world first."

He was right, of course. How liberating for you Americans to live in a land free of class boundaries. Alas, for my people, class is everything. Noble men, like my brother, can wed whoever they wish – their brides gain nobility through them. For women, it is not the same. True, I am forever The Honourable Clara through being born an earl's daughter, but it was Huxley who made me a Countess... which I retain as Dowager through widowhood. But were I to marry Kit, he would gain nothing and I would lose my honour in the eyes of many. Yet, I love him so. It is torture.

In that moment, however, I simply did not care. I would have given him my maidenhead right there and then, had he wished it – I wanted him so badly. Lord alone knows what would have happened had Pippin not appeared at the doorway asking for a cup of water. I fetched her one and put her back to bed. I can only pray that she didn't see anything – I've no clue how Montague would take it.

It was near breakfast time when we reached home: Montague and a much better looking Fiona rushed out to meet us. They said they had some joyous news to share, but before they could impart it, a horrific scream, a fierce roar and clanging rang out from the kitchen.

Immediately, we went to investigate – only to find a pale and shaking Mrs. Chattoway, and a well-dressed young stranger, removing a pair of goggles from over his eyes to look at us. He was sat on the chair that formed the saddle of some bizarre ridable contraption, which was clad in clocks and appeared to have badly malfunctioned: smoke spiralled from it, and parts had been strewn all about the place.

This youthful dark-haired stranger, probably not yet twenty years of age, gave his name as Mr. Anhysbys, and asked if he could stay here whilst he repaired his contraption. One cannot sake the strange feeling that he is oddly familiar...

Warmest regards,

Clara