Chapter 20: Matrimony

Miss Alicia was accustomed to taking breakfast with her parents, it being a cherished tradition within their esteemed family. Even her grandparents, when circumstances permitted, were wont to join them. Now, finding herself distant from her parental figures, she discovered, to her mild astonishment, that she had acquired a new family member. She had anticipated his presence at the breakfast table, though a touch of vexation arose within her due to his tardiness. Yet, upon setting eyes on him, all was forgiven. The previous evening had been quite taxing, after all. He had been so very thorough, so very... attentive, as her two aunts had instructed. It was only proper. Cavendish, for his part, attempted to navigate his wife's cool demeanor with an air of nonchalance. Yet, she remained remarkably indifferent to his efforts. The greater the intimacy shared in the bedchamber, the more peculiar their interactions seemed to become in the light of day. He offered her the newspaper, having already perused its contents. The latest intelligence indicated that the Russian commander, Kutuzov, had retreated without a fight, relinquishing Moscow to the enemy. The city's inhabitants had fled in the dead of night. On the 14th of September, the French army had marched into Moscow, only to find it utterly deserted. This news, already three days old, hung heavy in the air. "Do you suppose they will seek terms for peace?" he inquired. "Alexander? Never," Alicia declared with unwavering certainty. William Cavendish concurred. He produced a letter from the Russian ambassador's wife, Dorothea Lieven, and presented it to her for her consideration. The missive contained certain insights into the Tsar's disposition. This particular lady, it seemed, had been exercising her diplomatic prowess quite openly since the beginning of the year, wielding more influence than her husband, the actual ambassador. It appeared that Russia was hoping for further assistance from Britain. A matter that required the assent of Parliament. The Whig opposition, remarkably, found themselves in agreement on this issue. The Cavendish family, it should be noted, had played a not insignificant role in fostering this consensus. It was a gamble, to be sure, but one thing was paramount: Bonaparte must not prevail. Both Alicia and William were, in their own way, sympathetic to the ideals of the French Revolution, a fact that allowed for a certain common ground in their discussions, though disagreements, as was inevitable, did arise. Cavendish, with a touch of disdain, referred to him as "Bonaparte," his leanings being decidedly liberal. Alicia, on the other hand, maintained a more neutral stance, supporting the concept of a republic and applauding his revolutionary ideas, yet vehemently opposing his authoritarian tendencies and expansionist ambitions. After several years of spirited debate, they had learned to simply avoid the topic altogether. He found he preferred to discuss these matters with his cousin. Having finished with the major news of the day, the pair retired for a peaceful promenade. ... Yesterday's correspondence had spurred them to urgently discuss their return to London. The social obligations of a married lady were considerably more extensive than those of an unmarried maiden. Hosting and attending various soirees, expanding one's sphere of influence, and so forth. Notably, Almack's, the undisputed epicenter of London's social scene, was keen to welcome this newly minted wife into its fold as one of its esteemed patronesses. Cavendish, however, was inclined to postpone this particular milestone. Fortunately, Alicia herself exhibited a marked lack of enthusiasm for the prospect. He kept her company outdoors as she examined insects. He watched, his eyelashes fluttering, as she picked one up with tweezers. "They will turn into butterflies," Alicia declared, before releasing it and embarking on a detailed explanation of the differences between butterfly and moth larvae. Cavendish, though utterly bewildered, committed her words to memory. ... Upon their return, he went to sort through the contents of his drawer, counting each item with a lingering reluctance. These were the only things that connected him to her. Yet, for fear of incurring her displeasure... He carried the box and returned it to her. Alicia raised her eyes, engrossed in embroidering a hatband. She had recently mastered a new stitch, producing remarkably lifelike roses. "I do not want it," she declared, casting a cursory glance at the open box. "What?" Cavendish regarded the beautiful pure gold box with a hint of confusion. "You may keep it," she said, her attention returning to her needlework. This was more in line with her character; she saw no need to reclaim something that had been handled by another. William Cavendish, somewhat bewildered, took the box back. He sat down, tilting his head back. Was Alicia already tiring of him? "Are you finding it tedious here?" he ventured. Country life, after all, was rather monotonous compared to the bustling social whirl of London, with its endless stream of visits, theatre performances, concerts, and balls. Though, in truth, Alicia had never been particularly enamored of social engagements. She had already devoured over a dozen books, completed a hundred-piece puzzle, and produced five or six paintings, two of which were meticulously colored, a testament to her profound boredom. "It is tolerable," she replied. This lukewarm response, more unsettling than outright coldness, gnawed at him. She had him select threads for her, inquiring whether blue would be suitable for the trim. ... "You have a rather low tolerance for the mundane, William George," Alicia remarked, snipping a thread. She began to write out a menu, assuming the duties of a household mistress, as was expected. "Do I?" So it was he who was bored? William Cavendish was perplexed. Was this the typical course of a newlywed's life? He realized, with a sudden clarity, that he was demanding too much. He rested his chin on his hand, gazing at his wife. ... Alicia went to the pianoforte, a daily ritual for her. She favored Mozart and Bach, though she was not averse to a bit of Beethoven. Melodious notes flowed effortlessly from her fingertips. Unlike many ladies who treated music and painting as mere accomplishments to cultivate a charming facade, Alicia strived for mastery in her pursuits. He ought to have realized that a woman so devoted to perfection would gradually learn to accept and tolerate him. Their approaches to life were fundamentally different. In his younger years, around the age of ten and something, Cavendish had often envisioned his future wife. A vision of her, with her golden hair half-undone, seated at the pianoforte. He knew then that it was she. He convinced himself that he was happy, that his love for her was sufficient. ... That evening, they turned their attention to the design of a new coat of arms, a matter that piqued Alicia's interest, drawing her closer to observe. This emblem would adorn their carriage and the livery of their servants. Each generation of the aristocracy was wont to modify the family crest, adding and altering elements to create a unique version. He sketched the design: first, the Cavendish family's grey and black background with three silver buck heads with golden antlers. Then, the red and white diagonal stripes of the Earl of Burlington's wall, the blue and yellow checks and red stripes of Baron Clifford. The red background with yellow stars of the Earl of Sutherland, the blue background with golden leaves of the Marquis of Stafford, and the red and white striped background with a black cross. He pondered for a moment, deciding that a four-part division was insufficient; it would have to be six. He produced a rough draft. "It is rather unsightly," Alicia commented, leaning against him. He made revisions until she finally expressed her satisfaction. Upon their return to London, they would need to commission a new carriage bearing the new crest. As she regarded the newly amalgamated coat of arms, Alicia was struck by the realization that, although her surname remained unchanged, she was, indeed, married. ... Alicia began to color the completed coat of arms. Something occurred to her. Cavendish was still lost in the memory of the previous night's fervor, and the contrasting tranquility of the present day. This reverie was short-lived, however, brought to an abrupt halt when Alicia suddenly inquired, "Are you not returning to London?" "What?" Cavendish was taken aback, momentarily stunned. Did she wish to return home? He suppressed his unease. "Are we to go together?" he asked. "No, you alone," she replied airily. What! She no longer wanted him. She intended to cast him aside. He had anticipated, perhaps foolishly, a period of tender affection, a modicum of love and attachment, however fleeting, after last night. She had used him and now discarded him. She was sending him back to London; she no longer desired his presence! Cavendish feigned composure, but inwardly he was seething. That little deceiver, she had professed to like him only last night. He remained silent, a silent protest brewing within him. Yet, Alicia's expression remained unchanged, as if she were oblivious to his burgeoning anger. He blinked, his eyelashes betraying his inner turmoil, a mixture of hurt and bewilderment. He began to question where he had gone wrong. Was it because he had stolen things? Alicia observed the ever-shifting expressions on her cousin's face, a newfound pastime she had recently acquired. She noted a marked difference in his demeanor before and after their marriage. Cavendish, choosing his words with care, finally asked, "Do you wish to remain here alone?" He felt a dull ache in his chest. Was she weary of him already? Alicia, her interest waning, returned to her coloring of the coat of arms. Cavendish finally comprehended. "Is it not your election this year?" she inquired casually, her eyes fixed on her task. Ah, so that was it. He breathed a sigh of relief, though his unease did not entirely dissipate. I thought you were going to send me back to London. He kept this thought to himself. He felt a pang of sadness, realizing that he was, perhaps, dispensable to Alicia. He was still unsure about last night. Cavendish assured her that his speech was already written and that the by-election was still a month away, leaving ample time. After his earnest entreaties, Alicia finally nodded, her attention elsewhere. Having tired of coloring the crest, she relinquished the task to him and picked up a mathematics journal, engrossing herself in its problems. ... Cavendish watched her from the periphery. A sense of urgency, a need to cherish these fleeting moments of togetherness, washed over him. That remark about returning to London had startled him. He had feared that his honeymoon period was already drawing to a close. His thoughts were in a whirl. Alicia, feeling a wave of fatigue, stretched out, resting her legs upon him. She instructed him to massage her calves. A smile tugged at the corners of Cavendish's lips. She needed him after all. He dutifully complied, his gaze lingering on her feet, encased in satin slippers, delicate and graceful, the soft curve of her calves beneath the silk stockings. A blush crept up his neck. She playfully kicked his leg. He caught her foot, and Alicia gave him a look. She withdrew her foot from his grasp, stretching it out languidly. Her eyes held a hint of inquiry. They locked gazes, their breaths quickening. He leaned in and kissed her. Alicia cradled his face, returning his kiss, but when he sought to deepen the embrace, she gently pushed him away. He looked at her with a hint of reproach. Her eyes, though utterly guileless, held a certain serpentine allure, reminiscent of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Alicia gestured for him to return to his seat. Kissing her relaxed him; a problem that had previously stumped her suddenly yielded a solution. Disregarding his ever-watchful gaze, as a cat might ignore a particularly dull mouse, she decided that his kisses were no longer on the menu, so to speak. She no longer desired his kisses. After a perfunctory goodnight kiss, Alicia barred her cousin from her chamber, instructing him to present his speech to her on the morrow. She was treating him like a school tutor! It was utterly preposterous. Cavendish cast a resentful glare at the closed door, a symbolic barrier representing the inviolable rules that governed their relationship. He had always abhorred rules, rebelled against them, yet he found himself utterly powerless before Alicia. Should he focus on his career, in the hope of altering Alicia's perception of him? Cavendish pondered this as he retired for the night. ... Alicia paused in her journal entry, a particular memory surfacing in her mind. He had said, that night, "I am your pony." The image of his shy yet enraptured expression floated before her eyes. In her mental portrait of her cousin, she added another stroke: seemingly idle, yet surprisingly capable. She had developed a fondness for his proximity of late, a fondness that, in truth, perplexed her. Tonight, for instance, she had harbored a secret desire for him to kiss her calves. When he behaved like a puppy, it elicited a peculiar sense of satisfaction within her. During breakfast, Alicia meticulously reviewed his speech. "It is passable," she declared, after substituting certain words within the more convoluted sentences with those she deemed more suitable. She offered a few suggestions for improvement. It was rare for her to offer such praise; it seemed he had met with her approval. Cavendish beamed with pride. He had chosen the topic of free trade, a common theme among Whigs, who often championed reform to garner support from local constituents. Particularly this year, with the Orders in Council having been repealed a mere three months prior, the opposition was eager to capitalize on the Tory party's blockade policies. A thought struck Alicia. The aristocratic women of the era employed their own methods of political engagement, primarily in service to their fathers and brothers. Women, it was believed, possessed a greater capacity for empathy and connection than men, and they leveraged this advantage by engaging in charitable works and delivering speeches, fostering closer ties with the electorate and garnering attention. Alicia's grandmother, mother, and aunts, as well as Cavendish's own mother, were all ardent practitioners of this art, wielding considerable influence. She, too, would eventually be expected to shoulder this responsibility. "You needn't fret," he said, blinking once. "It is not, after all, my first time." Cavendish, it seemed, possessed a healthy dose of confidence in matters unrelated to Alicia.