The Huxley Letters: Part 9 - And Fit Us for Heaven

5th March 1889

Dawsbury Manor, The Levick Estate, Dawsbury, England

Dear Rachel,

Pardon me for not writing sooner, but I had cause. I pray this letter reaches you safely, and that your Yuletide season was filled with blessings rather than curses. News to the contrary would trouble me greatly, as these recent weeks have caused me enough grief already.

I feel that I should be direct about it, so I shall state it plainly. I am now a widow.

The event occurred on December 10th – a few days into our visit to Switzerland, Kit and I had taken Pippin on several excursions – building snowmen on the mountainside, visiting the shops, that sort of affair – to give my brother and his new bride some private time for honeymooning. It was while we were returning from one such escapade that Fiona, grave-faced, met me outside the Aurora, and ushered me swiftly to Huxley's bedside.

It was then she revealed what professional duty had forced her to conceal: Huxley's stomach malady was a cancer. It had now fully taken him, and as he lay there, rasping, pale and weak, he was entering his final moments. Having explained all, she left me alone with him.

Croaking his words, Huxley asked me to open an old trinket box he had in his possession. Inside was a photograph of a most handsome couple. This, Huxley revealed, was himself in his youth, and the young woman beside him, his fiancée – the "Lucy" he had spoken of before.

Lucy had been his one true love. The daughter of a mill owner, Huxley had desired nothing greater than to make her his Countess of Monsmere. Alas, soon after their betrothal, Lucy contracted tuberculosis, and was confined to a sanatorium.

Huxley never saw her again. She died there... and Huxley's love and happiness died with her.

He had intended to mourn her forever. It was only when my terminally ill father – who Huxley had befriended at their gentlemen's club, the Aloysius – pleaded with him to wed me and secure my future that he relented, as a favour to him. He had thought that, perhaps, in me, he would see something of Lucy, and come to love me in time. Alas, the homely timid wallflower he had lost was replaced by a strong-willed, curious explorer.

This in itself, Huxley added, was not a fault on my part: there was, no doubt, a man – if not several – in the world who could love me dearly, but that man was not he... for which he was sorry, but could not have changed. He thanked me for remaining his loyal wife, and thanked me also for forcing him to visit Switzerland. He and Lucy had once intended to honeymoon here, and it seemed fitting, as guilty as he had once felt, for this to be the place where he saw her again.

Huxley then asked, bizarrely, to speak with Kit alone - to which, despite my concerns, I consented. As I sat outside the cabin door, I anxiously expected to overhear raised voices, but none came. All stayed calm and civil. When Kit came out, he was folding a small piece of paper into his pocket, but said nothing of what transpired. It has remained his secret ever since.

As I re-entered the cabin, Huxley had grown too weak to speak or move. I simply held his hand in a silent, loyal vigil, until soon after, his grew limp in my grasp, and he breathed his last.

Immediately, we flew back to Monsmere: my dear crew staying with me in Huxley Hall whilst the funeral was arranged. In his will, Huxley had left the Hall and his entire estate and fortune to me, and asked to be laid to rest in St. Michael's churchyard... next to his beloved Lucy. Naturally, I granted him his last wish.

It was strange. I never thought I would lament Huxley's passing, but in the days that followed, I found myself in a sullen, sombre mood. Perhaps he had meant something to me, after all. In his final moments, I had seen a still-grieving man with good intentions, not a stern old tiresome fool.

Montague, sensing my sorrow, assured me that his own Swiss honeymoon had not been marred, and that we should return to Dawsbury Manor for the Christmas season. We could have a large family celebration, just as we did in our childhood. I agreed.

The night of our return, Monty and Kit ventured out, and returned with a ten-foot-tall pine tree. Lord knows where they found it, but I heard the park keeper was asking questions in the Penny Farthing the next morning. We adorned it with candles and baubles, and decked the parlour with paper chains.

For the day itself, my brother asked Kit if he wanted to invite his parents down to the Manor for dinner. He sent a wireless telegram to the Saltaire Post Office, and to my surprise, they accepted. (Most likely at Rosie's insistence, I suspected.) We flew them down in the Aurora – poor Jim clawing at the arms of his chair the whole way out of fear.

Rosie swiftly found a kindred spirit in Mrs. Chattoway. Although we all insisted she didn't have to, she helped her prepare Christmas dinner – chatting with her merrily the entire time. Pippin even helped them bake biscuits!

As for Jim, he was curious about Montague's prosthetics. Upon learning he had served in the Army, he looked at him with a newfound respect. After a few sherries, he, his son and my brother ended up sat in the parlour together, laughing and swapping stories. As I topped up his glass, Jim said, "You know, you and your family are all right, for rich folk." A compliment with a hint of insult, perhaps, but still meaning.

For a lark, Montague removed his copper arm, clasped a sprig of mistletoe in the fingertips, and hung it over the parlour door. Given their condition, this alone was enough to send him and Jim into hysterics, but when Kit and I met in the doorway, quite by chance, they demanded a kiss. Kit, ever the gentleman, merely kissed my cheek politely. I smiled, but said nothing – although I fear a telltale blush may have betrayed the secrets of my heart.

Speaking of Kit, his Christmas gift to me was most curious: a box of spare mechanical parts. He confessed that he knew little of ladies' things, but thought I might be able to build something of use. It was later, when I was reading Pippin a picture book about a mischievous puppy, that inspiration struck.

It took several days, but at New Year, I was ready to show everyone my new creation: a canine automaton. Wheels allowed it to move around, and it could bark, wag its tail, and even lick with a little velvet tongue, just like a real dog. Everyone adored it – Pippin above all – and my brother praised it highly.

"It looks like a beagle," he said jovially. "You should call it Char - "

Remembering my late husband's Christian name, he stopped himself short. But I wasn't upset or offended. In fact, I smiled.

"Darwin," I told him. "His name shall be Darwin."

As the Yuletide season ended, I realised that I dreaded having to move back to the vast and lonely Huxley Hall. After a great deal of thought, I asked my brother if I may live permanently at Dawsbury Manor instead. Laughing at my hesitation, he said he would love for me to stay.

I have been occupied in recent weeks with the trivial legalities of it all, but now, at last, Huxley Hall can be sold. I placed an advertisement in The Times. Of course, a regretful consequence of this is that my widowhood is now public knowledge: I have received several letters from gentlemen enquiring not about the house, but my hand in marriage. These rats can smell a bereaved (and in their mind, fragile and simple) woman who has just come into money a whole continent away. Most of them are the age Huxley was. I am no fool – I have dismissed them all. One brazen cad even dared to ask for a photograph of my ankles: he received no reply.

However, I did receive one genuine enquiry from one Mr. Klaus Muurbloem: an entrepreneur from Flanders. He recently purchased a factory in Leathfield – the village nearest Monsmere – and is now seeking to move to England with his family. He is married, with two young sons. I am meeting him and the other Muurbloems at Huxley Hall in two weeks to show them around and discuss the matter. I hope my loss will be their gain.

With my warmest regards, and fondest wishes for the New Year,

Clara