Chapter 14: Sonnet

After that extended discourse, William Cavendish, like many a man before him, formally proposed marriage. "My dearest cousin, Alicia," he addressed her directly, a rare intimacy, "will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife? I shall grant you all the freedom I have promised, shoulder the responsibilities and obligations befitting a husband, and devote my life to your care and respect." She extended a hand and accepted him. Cavendish was well aware that during the previous social season, she had been courted by numerous suitors, only to reject them all. Even the Duke and Duchess were baffled by her desires. She seemed utterly disinterested in the matter. Her agreement to marry him appeared to be merely a means to secure a stable life, a convenient escape from the incessant pestering of would-be husbands. Following the proposal, they sat in a companionable, if somewhat stilted, silence. They were cousins, so close that their being alone together would raise no eyebrows. A young lady, betrothed or otherwise, could not simply be alone with a man without a chaperone, lest her reputation be tarnished. They were now face to face with an awkward moment. Cavendish raised an eyebrow at that point. "Is that it, then? Allie, would you care to take some tea?" Her family called her Allie. Some had their own unique, more intimate nicknames for her, but he, following the general trend, or sometimes simply addressing her as "cousin." Alicia was ever so proper. She considered his question for a moment. "You haven't kissed me yet." A successful proposal, as any society miss could tell you, was traditionally sealed with a kiss. This would be the most intimate gesture they had shared thus far. Cavendish felt a bead of sweat form on his palm. "Ah?" He gazed upon her undeniably beautiful countenance, a beauty that seemed to radiate a chill despite its angelic perfection. She possessed the coloring of an angel, yet could wound more deeply than anyone he knew. She leaned in and bestowed a swift, fleeting kiss upon his lips, then promptly retreated. He had just closed his eyes, contemplating whether to take the initiative, when he felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of loss. There was no follow-up. After that kiss, however, he found himself utterly captivated, endlessly replaying the brief moment in his mind. He requested a portrait of her. It was customary for a betrothed woman to have a large portrait painted as a keepsake. He gazed at it, unable to imagine her as his newlywed wife. He realized then that he did not know her at all. There was a side to her life that was completely unknown to him. For instance, he could not fathom who the subject of the painting was, or how someone had managed to establish such an intimate connection with her. "Lemonade," Cavendish said, snapping back to the present. Alicia's cerulean eyes regarded him. He was reminded of the large, boxed sapphires he had collected during his time in Russia. He had fashioned them into an entire set of jewelry for her, complete with a tiara. She had not worn it, which he could understand. Marrying a man one did not love was undoubtedly like that. "What are you thinking about?" Alicia inquired, her brow furrowing slightly. "I said I wanted a drink of water," she repeated, having stated it twice already. Cavendish quickly handed it to her. This time, he was seated farther away, so she had to rise to take it. Hmph. There were a few days each month when Alicia experienced a rare fluctuation in her emotions, a peculiar urge to weep and yearn for home. Her mother had assured her it was perfectly normal, that she experienced the same. Was Cavendish also subject to such monthly tides? Alicia observed her husband with a perplexed expression. ... He had forgotten it was an odd-numbered day. When the realization struck, he felt a desperate urge for physical intimacy, even if it was just a hug. He was gripped by a sudden fear that the next step would be abandonment. "May I kiss you?" They embraced in the long gallery, his arms tightening around her. Step by step, he pressed her against the wall, kissing her with an almost desperate fervor. Alicia discovered, to her surprise, that she rather enjoyed it. He exuded a fresh, clean scent, and his embrace was broad and warm. His hand lifted her, roaming, caressing, until it reached her waist. Tongues. Her face flushed, and she pushed him away. Cavendish's eyes dimmed for a moment, and he looked at her, uncomprehending. She's already rejecting me. "I wish to sleep alone," Alicia stated plainly. She needed time to contemplate her rather uncharacteristic reactions. She did not wish to sleep with him tonight. His heart shattered a little more. Even Cavendish's final rights as a husband were stripped away. He did not protest, merely kissed her forehead and murmured "good night" several times. "Good night," she replied, her hand slipping from his grasp. ... He had never been treated with such indifference, such a complete lack of concern. Yet, he was also strangely happy. Only Alicia would behave this way. In these moments, he felt truly alive. Therefore, he would satisfy her every request. But as he gazed at the moonlit scene outside the window, he couldn't help but sniffle a little, resting his face against the pane. R.F.B. Who was that? Did she love him? ... Alicia completed her usual evening routine. She habitually read, wrote in her journal, and penned replies to letters before retiring. Lately, however, her cousin's presence had disrupted her evenings, leaving her with little accomplished. She carried out her tasks with her usual efficiency, then lay down, covered by a blanket. She gazed up at the classical painting on the ceiling, depicting angels, clouds, and golden light. Sometimes, she simply stared at it. Alicia turned over. Without her cousin's company, something felt amiss. An emptiness. He was very warm, and he held her close. It was quite cozy, in fact. She had rather enjoyed their activities of the previous evening; his lips and tongue were remarkably adept at providing pleasure. He was handsome, too. Perhaps his face was the one undeniable virtue he possessed, from head to toe. Flighty and beautiful. Alicia's thoughts wandered in a desultory fashion. But she soon drifted off to sleep. ... William Cavendish could not sleep. When sleep eluded him, he often turned to drink. Aristocrats, both men and women, were prone to excessive drinking. Alicia, however, was remarkably restrained, almost like a teetotaling evangelical. Her face possessed a certain austere, untouchable beauty, like that of a saint. Thus, since their engagement, he had abstained from overindulging, only partaking a little with his meals. Cavendish missed her terribly. He rose and rummaged through his drawer of trophies – a collection of beautiful lace, ribbons, and other items that had once been in intimate contact with her skin. He reminisced about their previous nights together. Where had he gone wrong? Was he not good enough? The additional album of portraits brought him an unprecedented sense of crisis. He suspected he had come between two lovers. He no longer felt as composed as before. Cavendish realized he had never written her a love letter. Her letters had always been polite and formal. He, on the other hand, had initially been effusive, addressing her as "my angel," "my dearest," and "the one I constantly long for." Only later did he adopt a more reserved tone, addressing her as "cousin." Alicia would read his letters aloud to her parents, in which he presented himself as a model of decorum and reliability. William Cavendish stared at the note he had hidden away. Sleep. No. He leaned over his desk and, almost out of spite, began to compose sonnets, pouring out his affections in verse. If it was love poems she wanted, he could write them, too. ... Alicia awoke the next morning, having forgotten the events of the previous day. She was surprised that her cousin did not come to disturb her. It was a fleeting thought, quickly dismissed, as she assumed he had finally learned some manners. Her reservations about their intimacy had vanished; she acknowledged and accepted that she very much enjoyed being close to him. Nothing could truly trouble Alicia. Emerging from her room, she found her cousin standing by the window, seemingly gazing at the scenery. Their bedroom was on the third floor; the first and second floors were customarily used for entertaining guests and leisure activities. She approached him. "What are you looking at?" "Ah, cousin, why, 'tis but that 'I saw an angel's form in earthly guise, a beauty beyond mortal compare.'" He turned, his tone laced with sarcasm. His dark hair, blue eyes, and thin lips created a striking contrast, giving him a rakish air. Alicia noticed the redness around his eyes. "Have you been crying?" Cavendish paused. "No." "Are you reading Petrarch?" Alicia inquired, perplexed. She couldn't understand why her cousin had suddenly developed an interest in the poet. "Hmph, everyone enjoys a good love poem, don't they?" he retorted, a touch of bitterness in his voice. But as he met her gaze, he softened. Cavendish returned his attention to the view. He handed her a stack of crumpled, snowy-white papers. "Here." Alicia took them. His love letters. He kept glancing at her, his eyelashes fluttering nervously. They were all sonnets, in the Italian style. Alicia, ever meticulous, examined them one by one. Each was inscribed at the bottom: "To my dearest, dearest Alicia." He was stealing glances at her. When he noticed her looking up, he averted his gaze, pretending to be indifferent. Would she like them? Alicia selected one page. His heart pounded like a drum. Her slender, pale fingers pointed to the ninth and tenth lines. They read: 'From your slumbering eyes, A moment's peace I steal." Cavendish couldn't tear his gaze from her rose-colored fingertips. He braced himself, suppressing a smile, eagerly anticipating her evaluation. "The meter is incorrect here," she pointed out. The flames of his love were considerably dampened. "Ah?" he exclaimed, taken aback. "Alicia!" "I deliberately altered the rhyme scheme," he explained, somewhat dejected. "You see, it can be arranged to spell out your name." His romantic gesture was utterly demolished by Alicia's scholarly scrutiny. "It's not bad," she conceded. Cavendish dejectedly gathered his love poems. Sonnets were meant to be expressions of love between lovers. But his beloved would tell him that he had gotten the meter wrong! "I apologize," William Cavendish said, suddenly regretting his intention to ignore her today. He felt incredibly childish and foolish. He was utterly despondent. Yet, Alicia remained standing there, not leaving, as if waiting for something. She lifted her long lashes and looked at him. "Morning kiss?" ... William Cavendish discovered that he could be appeased by a single kiss. He even felt ashamed of his earlier anger. He stood there, rooted to the spot. She was with him now, his wife. He touched his lips, where she had kissed him. Alicia, as if completing a task, had bestowed a light, fleeting kiss and then departed, adhering to her usual routine. She had incorporated her cousin into her daily life. Cavendish followed her, a faint smile playing on his lips. ... They ate breakfast, perusing the morning newspapers. International affairs dominated the headlines. While they enjoyed a peaceful life in the countryside, war raged overseas. It had been going on for over a decade, and people had grown accustomed to it. Now, it had reached a critical juncture. In June of that year, events had taken a dramatic turn. Napoleon, without a declaration of war, had invaded Russia with an army of 600,000 men, while the Russian forces numbered only slightly over 200,000. The United States had declared war on Great Britain, vying for control of North America. The previous Prime Minister, Perceval, had been assassinated, and after a power struggle between the two parties, a fellow Tory, the Earl of Liverpool, had assumed leadership, maintaining the existing conservative policies. On the Iberian Peninsula, the British campaign to liberate Spain from French rule, led by Viscount Wellington, continued unabated. In the northern counties, the suppressed Luddite movement was gaining momentum, with radical figures advocating for freedom of the press, expanded suffrage, and parliamentary reform. Both domestically and internationally, the world was in turmoil. The Cavendish family were prominent Whigs. The Duke of Devonshire had been one of the seven who instigated the Glorious Revolution. Successive dukes had been dubbed "Whig Princes." After Alicia's grandfather passed away, their fathers, the current sixth Duke of Devonshire and Lord Cavendish, had taken up the mantle, inheriting the parliamentary seats and becoming active in politics. The younger generation was represented by William Cavendish, who was being groomed for leadership with the full weight of the family behind him. His three uncles had all chosen military careers. The Cavendish lineage was not particularly prolific; counting back to the earldom, all male relatives across seven generations had died unmarried. Only the lines of Alicia's father and Cavendish's grandfather had continued. Politics, law, theology, and philosophy were considered the exclusive domains of men. However, Alicia, owing to her family's progressive traditions and the influence of her mother and grandmother, did not shy away from these subjects, and like many aristocratic women, she was keen to participate in politics. They conversed freely on these matters. News arrived of a major Russian defeat at the Battle of Borodino, with the commander of the Second Army, Bagration, killed in action. The newspapers debated whether General Commander Kutuzov would defend Moscow to the death or retreat to preserve his forces. The situation was dire; if Russia fell, only Britain would remain to resist Napoleon in Europe. They might be forced to negotiate a peace treaty. "Winter is coming," Alicia remarked, taking a sip of her coffee. Cavendish smiled. He never shied away from discussing such matters with his cousin. To other men, it would be unthinkable to allow a woman to be exposed to such topics. He understood why she had chosen him. "Bonaparte's best option is to secure a timely truce and peace treaty with Russia," he said. The supply lines were too long. Alicia nodded. "Therefore, if I were Kutuzov, I would abandon Moscow." Preserve their strength, lure the enemy in, and wait for an opportunity to counterattack. She was decisive. He had experienced the Russian winter. Cavendish thought of the magnificent Kremlin in that city, feeling a pang of regret. If she had been a boy, she would have been sent to Lisbon, to participate in the Peninsular War, serving as an aide-de-camp to Wellington. Or perhaps she would have served as a secretary to an ambassador, gaining experience and building her credentials. She was intelligent, studious, courageous, and calm. William Cavendish couldn't help but imagine such a scenario. "Why did you wish to visit Sweden and Russia for your honeymoon?" he asked. They were war-torn regions. "I thought you might want to see them. To witness history, after all." He never believed that certain things were off-limits to women, just as he had taught her to shoot and given her a dagger and a gun. They had reconciled.