The Huxley Letters: Part 13 - New Beginnings

15th September 1889

Dawsbury Manor, The Levick Estate, Dawsbury, England

Dearest Rachel,

I have married my beloved Kit. Our wedding took place on August 17th in the local parish church where my brother and parents were wed – St. Thomas'. Rather than alter my dress from my much less romantic first wedding, I had a new one created – snowy white satin, adorned with lace and pearls. My veil was fixed into place with a diamond tiara once owned by my mother.

Kit looked simply immaculate in his tailored black suit and top hat: the medal of the Order of the Garter gleaming upon his chest. I smiled at him behind my veil as Montague walked me down the aisle in his military regalia. Kit asked Klaus Muurbloem to be his best man, whilst Mieke and Fiona were my bridesmaids – my poor, heavily pregnant sister-in-law endeavouring to cope with the summer heat. Pippin reprised her role as flowergirl, whilst the Masters Muurbloem were pageboys - carrying the rings between themselves on a cushion. Even Darwin was present – sat at my heels loyally with a floral corsage for a collar.

Band sizes aside, the rings were identical – a single gold band adorned with a golden cog, fixed in the centre with a heart-shaped diamond, but when the cogs are placed together, they interlock perfectly... a symbol of both our love of mechanics and our blissful loving union. In cursive engraved script are the initials "C" and "C"- cut into the band, one on either side of the cog. Clara and Christopher. I daresay that I needn't tell you that these were another of Kit's wonderful creations.

Rosie and Mrs. Chattoway both wept with joy during the ceremony, and I swear I spotted Montague passing a handkerchief to Jim - after dabbing at his own eyes with it first. Kit and I exchanged our vows, and entered our new married lives with the sweetest of kisses.

Outside of the church, I threw my bouquet, as is the tradition... and the catch was made, most unexpectedly, by Mrs. Chattoway! A widow of many years, she laughed off the notion... but then again, my brother was once certain he would never marry, and fate had other grander plans.

Kit and I rode together in a steam-powered carriage through Dawsbury village on our way back to the Manor – Darwin curled up sweetly in my lap, and my husband holding my hand as we watched the world go by.

Along the road, I saw a young, smartly-dressed couple walking together – both of whom seemed strangely familiar to me, although their clothes were several years out of fashion. The lady of the pair, I noticed, was wearing what one would presume to be a monogram pendant, formed of the initial "L." As we passed them, they smiled, and the gentleman tipped his hat to me: his eyes reminding of someone I still couldn't quite place. As I waved to the pair cheerfully, Kim whsipered in my ear.

"Why are you waving, love?" he asked me. "There's no-one there."

As I looked out again, the road was clear, just as Kit had said. Yet, I remain sure I saw them. A mirage induced by the hot August sun, perhaps?

During our lavish reception back home – the now-traditional Levick dinner and ball - Klaus asked us where we intended to go for our honeymoon. I informed him that adventures of various sorts had been planned - a sort of "Morland Expedition", as it were – but Kit and I had mutually agreed not to depart until after the imminent birth of my brother's child.

It turned out we hadn't long to wait. In the early hours of September 5th, Kit and I were awoken by Montague hammering his copper fist on our bedroom door. Fiona had gone into labour. As I ventured downstairs in my nightdress to telephone the village midwife, Kit powered up the Aurora and set off for Scotland - to collect Fiona's parents, Catriona and Alexander McDearmid, so they could attend their first grandchild's birth. I can only wish that mine and Montague's own parents were alive to witness the same, as well as our recent happy nuptials, and to meet my brother's beloved ward.

Upon their arrival, Catriona joined the now-wailing Fiona and the midwife in the Master Bedroom, Kit took Pippin into the gardens to play with Darwin as a fun distraction from the tense ambience, whilst I waited for news in the parlour with everyone else. I sat beside a nervous Montague: he was frantically mumbling various bizarre remarks, trembling almost as badly as the time we had first arrived in the Aurora and he had mistook it for a spacecraft – that horrendous war that stole his limbs and happiness then still fresh in his memory.

"They have to live," he pleaded aloud for the Lord to hear. "I cannot lose her... or our baby..."

"Hush!" I whispered to him. "You won't, you wont!"

I said it without hesitation, although deep down, we both knew the risks childbirth carries. It is a fearful situation, and now, as a happy wife, with a consummated union, it is one I may come to face myself.

"What if the child hates me?" Montague went on. "This scarred, metallic structure of an incomplete body – what if they perceive me as a monster?"

"They won't!" I insisted. "They'll adore you, as Pippin does! Your body is that of a loyal soldier and brave hero. It is to be respected, not reviled."

Hours dragged by in a seemingly endless phase of confusing emptiness – no news forthcoming. We could do nothing but hope and wish for a good outcome. Then, Catriona hurried down to the parlour and bade Montague to come upstairs: Fiona was in the final throws of her trial, and she was calling for her husband.

As they departed, Kit entered, carrying a sleeping Pippin in his arms as Darwin wheeled alongside him. He lay Pippin down on a chaise longue, covering her with a blanket, and then sat beside me, offering me a weak smile. As Alexander clasped his hands together and began to recite the Lord's Prayer, we both chose to join him. As we reached the final "Amen", a piercing cry filled the air.

As the house again fell silent, Montague re-entered the parlour – beaming with joy as tears rolled down his cheeks, carrying a small, softly-mewing bundle in his arms. As we peeped inside, we beheld a peachy, cherub-like face, adorned with scarce strands of sandy hair.

"I present to you," he said proudly, "the Viscount Roewick – George William Levick. I... I have a son."

"And Fiona?" asked Alexander.

"Perfectly well," Montague assured him. "She is resting at the moment, but she'll be ready for visitors soon."

I awoke my niece with a gentle shake – Montague introducing her to her newborn brother as she yawned and stirred, before breaking out into a grin and eagerly asking to cradle him.

Soon enough, Mrs. Chattoway was bringing tea up to the Master Bedroom, where we had all gathered to visit Fiona, congratulate the new family, and take turns holding baby George. Even Darwin pounced onto the bed to greet the infant with a few licks of his little velvet tongue.

Last Sunday, it was back to St. Thomas' yet again for George's baptism. The priest has grown rather used to our presence as of late, I daresay! Perhaps it was the glass of sherry I treated myself to at the lunch afterwards, but that night, as I lay beside in bed beside Kit – having just enjoyed the benefits of wedlock - I had a most unusual dream. I was walking through the gardens of the Manor, and came upon Mr. Anhysbys quite unexpectedly. He offered me a bunch of gypsophila – a bloom that does not grow here – and spoke these words:

"Qualis pater et mater, talis filius."

I awoke with a start. Usually, my dreams are of travel and the Aurora. Perhaps my nephew's arrival inspired the vision? I pondered it for a while, before settling back down to sleep. I needed rest, as I had days of planning ahead... for tomorrow, the Morland Expedition will begin!

With best wishes, I sign, for the first time, under my new name,

Lady Clara Morland