Chapter 24: Lessons

"No." Cavendish denied it, looking a tad put out. Was he truly so transparent? He had, admittedly, circled the lake thrice before Alicia awoke, pondering the curious evolution of their relationship. It had reached a rather… peculiar juncture. He hadn't quite untangled it all, but he did recall her claiming to know of his love for her. Alicia nodded, her gaze lingering on his face just long enough to ascertain that his physical health was uncompromised. His mental state, however, remained debatable. After breakfast, she expressed a desire to practice her pistol skills. He handed her the silver-inlaid walnut one. With practiced ease, Alicia loaded the powder, set the flint, a routine as familiar as breathing. She raised the pistol, both hands steady, and took aim at the target. The shot rang out, a near miss. Cavendish, ever the tease, applauded with exaggerated flair. "Brava, cousin! A markswoman of your caliber should be challenging fools to duels. You'd have them all quaking in their boots." "You haven't adjusted the sights properly," Alicia observed, a delicate furrow in her brow. "It's different for me, I'm left-handed," Cavendish explained, taking the pistol and repeating the process with practiced confidence. The flint sparked, the lead bullet flew, and it went even wider. "Heavens, what's amiss?" he muttered, a picture of befuddlement. Alicia favored him with a look usually reserved for particularly slow students. Cavendish examined the pistol, turning it this way and that. "Ah, loaded backward. Must have been Francis, the young scamp." He recognized it now. "Alicia!" he called, already in pursuit. He was always chasing after her, in one way or another. Alicia thought she really ought to bring her own pistol next time, instead of relying on her cousin's questionable preparedness. "Alicia, cousin, dearest, angel," he wheedled, employing every endearment in his arsenal. Alicia raised her head, pen scratching across a list of items to bring back to London. Her month at the country estate had been remarkably productive: she had collected a plethora of mineral and plant specimens, drafted three journal articles, devoured stacks of newspapers and magazines, and made her way through twenty new books. As for Cavendish, she couldn't fathom what he'd been occupying himself with. "Well? Speak quickly, I haven't got all day," she said impatiently. "Last night, after I said 'I love you,' what you said..." Cavendish toyed with a stray lock of her hair, attempting to nudge her memory beyond the confines of the bedchamber. "I know," Alicia replied without missing a beat. He looked at her expectantly. "Precisely," she confirmed, returning to her list. A smile tugged at his lips. "So you can stop saying it now." Alicia found the repetition tedious. Cavendish, however, was in good spirits. This was the Alicia he knew. A sudden change would have been rather unsettling. "What are you working on?" she inquired, noticing the revised crest design finally settled upon. He had moved on to another task. Alicia leaned in, her chin casually resting on his shoulder, a familiar posture of hers. It was a document, still in the drafting stage. She picked up the title page for a closer look. "The Partition and Transfer of the Barony of Clifford?" she read aloud. The Barony of Clifford was a subsidiary title of the Earldom of Burlington. The previous Earl of Burlington had only a daughter, so the Barony passed to their shared great-great-grandmother, Lady Charlotte Boyle, while the Earldom went extinct. Cavendish's grandfather, rather than inheriting from his great-grandfather, was granted the title by Parliament, reviving the Burlington title. He then purchased Burlington House near the Duke of Devonshire's estate from his cousin. His inheritance came from his unmarried uncles, including their seats in Parliament. Therefore, the title of Baron Clifford still belonged to Alicia's father, the Duke of Devonshire. As the only child, she could fully possess this title, instead of it passing to her cousin along with the Dukedom. However, extracting it separately after her father's death would involve a convoluted process, requiring a vote in the House of Lords and the approval of the King, or in this case, the Prince Regent. The Duke and Duchess had been paving the way for over a decade, cultivating a close relationship with the Royal Family and maintaining connections with various noble families. "Baroness Clifford, does it have a pleasing ring to it?" Cavendish himself had no title; his grandfather and father were still alive, so he didn't even have the courtesy title of a Lord. He could only be called "Sir" instead of "Lord." He had never cared much for it, even taking a certain pride in its uniqueness compared to the ubiquitous "Lord so-and-so." But now he was married. This was one of the clauses in their prenuptial agreement. Alicia, as the daughter of a Duke, even though legally not a noble as "Lady," would gain certain privileges with the title of Baroness, such as immunity from imprisonment for debt and the right to be tried in a higher court. It also granted her certain social precedence. More importantly, it secured her property rights. Common law did not grant married women property rights, while equity law did, but if the legal heir contested, it could lead to lengthy lawsuits. Considering the possibility of her becoming a widow without children, the situation was even more precarious. Cavendish had been fully involved in the negotiations of her prenuptial agreement. Their union was so natural; he couldn't imagine any other family, no matter how well-connected, not being tempted by the vast fortune she stood to inherit. Her maternal grandfather, the Marquess of Stafford, was believed to possess incalculable wealth, and she also had 1.5 million acres of land in Scotland from her maternal grandmother. "I will inherit Mother's Countess of Sutherland title," Alicia noted, examining the document. "I know, but be a Baroness for now, will you?" He stroked her hair affectionately. She understood his motivations. The mantle of responsibility had passed from her father to her cousin, or rather, her husband. He finished the draft; it was a simple task for someone of his experience. They would initiate the process upon their return to London. Parliament was currently in recess, but things would be bustling again come December. "Where are you planning to go for the hunting season?" During the autumn recess, the aristocracy retreated to their country estates. That's why London had been somewhat quiet during their wedding. Aristocratic weddings emphasized privacy, with only family members in attendance, so it hadn't caused much of a stir. These three months were known as the hunting season, the perfect time for social gatherings and hunting parties in the countryside. Aristocratic ladies rarely participated in hunting; Alicia was an exception. "We've arranged to go to the Marquess of Salisbury's." Their estate was Hatfield House in Hertfordshire. They were descendants of the famous Robert Cecil, of the two branches of the Cecil family. The Marchioness, daughter of the Marquess of Downshire, was also an excellent hunter in her youth, quite unconventional. Many nobles were invited to this hunting party organized by the Marchioness of Salisbury. The Marquess of Salisbury was a Tory, and the Prince Regent, along with his latest mistress, the Marchioness of Hertford, would also be in attendance. The latter, as a Tory, held considerable influence over him. It was necessary to maintain a connection. "But I intend to spend some time with Great-Grandmama first." Her grandmother's mother, the old Countess Spencer, was in failing health, her eyesight deteriorating. "Alicia—" "I understand, cousin. Loss is an inevitable part of life," she said, her hand resting atop his. He had been by her side when her grandparents passed away. Especially when the old Duchess of Devonshire died, he had, in a manner more befitting a fumbled courtly bow than a comforting gesture, invented a story about people turning into stars after death, so she was watching over her, Allie. He had always been hopeless with children. Alicia, at eleven, calmly informed her cousin that stars were merely observable celestial bodies, and human souls did not transform into them, but she was willing to believe his tale. They shared a brief, tender kiss. "I imagine I shall live for quite some time, Alicia," Cavendish mused, after a moment's thought. He wasn't entirely certain, of course. It was generally accepted that women outlived men by a decade. Indeed, the very laws governing a widow's inheritance stipulated that upon her husband's demise, the portion of her dowry brought into the marriage should be paid out by the heir in ten annual installments. Five thousand pounds a year, say, for a dowry of fifty thousand. Alicia's portion, when they wed, had been a symbolic one hundred thousand pounds. A princely sum, originally set at sixty, until her grandfather, in a fit of generosity, added his own flourish. Cavendish's mind wandered down this peculiar path. He was a few years her senior, so, logically, he would have that many fewer years to live, wouldn't he? Perhaps it was for the best. "I believe you will," Alicia agreed. She reached out, mirroring his earlier gesture, and stroked his neck, her fingers tracing the line where his cravat met his skin. She seemed rather displeased with the constricting nature of the knot. And thus, their rather peculiar conversation, veering as it had from mortality to mathematics, drew to a close. Later that evening, she continued to grapple with those infernal calculus problems, while he observed from the sidelines. "Perhaps I could have a go," he offered, only to be met with a skeptical arch of Alicia's brow. "Don't look so doubtful. I did make an effort to learn, you know." If he hadn't attended Edinburgh, he would have, like many sons of Whig families—those staunch supporters of parliamentary power—matriculated at Cambridge, where mathematics were a crucial component of the final examinations. He was rather confident in his abilities on that front. He'd even studied the latest developments in calculus, all for Alicia's sake. He began to write, his initial confidence quickly evaporating as his brow furrowed in concentration. "What in heaven's name is this?" he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Honestly, William George," Alicia sighed, snatching the paper from him. She circled a section with her pen. "You've gone wrong here, right from the start." With a renewed sense of purpose, she bent her head and continued her calculations. "I'm not a simpleton, you know. I can memorize ten legal briefs in three days," Cavendish declared, resting his chin on his hand. Heirs apparent were not required to learn so many things or do so much. The burden of knowledge, it seemed, fell disproportionately on younger sons. He could sense Alicia's disdain, a potent cocktail of "utterly hopeless" and "not particularly bright." "Why do you persist in doing things you're not suited for?" she asked, without looking up. He possessed a natural aptitude for languages, oratory, memorization, and even a touch of theatrical flair. Debates, speeches, diplomacy, the stage—those were his forte. Not, it seemed, mathematical equations. "Because I wish to understand you," he confessed, nuzzling her cheek. He had filled an entire notebook with his studies, encompassing everything from astronomy to geography. Even during his travels abroad, he had diligently sent Alicia maps, though those available on the market were, naturally, inaccurate—military secrets and all that. "Everyone is different," Alicia murmured, leaning against him. She had kicked off her shoes, a most unladylike gesture. "Indeed," he concurred. Cavendish's gaze drifted to the mother-of-pearl inlaid clock on the wall. A sudden realization struck him: he, like Alicia, was incapable of loving in the conventional sense. She was no standard lady, though she could play the part flawlessly when required. Her etiquette was impeccable, her manners beyond reproach. Yet, in the privacy of their home, she was remarkably at ease. Her stockinged feet were now propped up, and she imperiously commanded him to move over. He refused. So, as was their custom, she rested her feet upon his lap. She raised her eyes, meeting his gaze, and held it, her leg unmoving. She watched him, observed. Through the sheer fabric, her touch was light, almost casual, yet undeniably deliberate. He longed to pull away, but her gaze held him captive. She acknowledged his burgeoning desire and, in doing so, exerted a subtle control over him. He was her specimen, her study. She, a woman; he, a man—the only man besides her father with whom she shared a life, a home. Alicia was a creature of exquisite cruelty, a fact he should have grasped long ago. But there was nothing inherently wrong with that, was there? He, after all, had once attempted the same. Only now, the tables were turned. "Why must you torment me so?" he asked, his voice strained, his hand hovering near her calf, then retreating. "You do the same to me," she replied, her touch intensifying for a fleeting moment before withdrawing altogether. "Will you be mastered by this?" "Yes," he admitted, averting his gaze. "It's an animal instinct, something that, at a certain point, begins and suddenly..." He inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly. "...takes hold of you." From their youth, they had been combative, reckless, their energies finding no suitable outlet. "I've been fighting it all along." "Have you, now?" Alicia's eyes met his, questioning, probing.