Chapter 26: The Revels

The whirlwind of their newly married life came to an abrupt halt upon their return to London. But before the city's social demands could fully encroach, they stole away for one final escapade, attending the revels in a nearby village, as they had promised one another. In their time together, they had become as inseparable as shadows. William Cavendish almost found himself entertaining the illusion that they were, in fact, deeply in love. He suppressed a smile. This semblance of affection would have to suffice, wouldn't it? They strolled through the fields, Alicia shielding herself from the sun with a wide-brimmed Italian straw hat. A nobleman's income was derived primarily from land rents, and aside from the home farm, the rest was leased to tenant farmers. The Duke of Devonshire, as it happened, possessed the most extensive land holdings in all of England – over two hundred thousand acres. Land in England, of course, was the most valuable. Alicia's mother's one and a half million acres in Scotland, situated as they were in the remote Highlands, yielded far less income than the Marquess of Stafford's mere hundred thousand acres of prime English soil. A grand appearance, it seemed, was not always indicative of true wealth. Alicia's own fortune was incalculable. Had she been born a boy, she would likely have been the wealthiest individual in the entire nation, poised as she was to inherit the fortunes of two of the four richest men. William Cavendish, for his part, brought a considerable sum to the union, a legacy tracing back to his mother's grandmother's maternal ancestor, the Duchess of Marlborough, once the wealthiest woman in all of Europe. Wimbledon Manor, their current abode, was a testament to her enduring prosperity, having been passed down through her lineage. Their marriage, therefore, represented a formidable consolidation of wealth, ensuring that each of their future offspring would inherit a truly staggering fortune. Cavendish recalled the prenuptial agreement: Alicia would gradually become the beneficiary of her father's and grandfather's land trusts. Her future annual income was projected to reach the astonishing sum of 420,000 pounds – and that was a conservative estimate. This immense wealth would, in due course, be passed down to their children. He, in turn, would inherit the ducal title. Given their shared Cavendish lineage, his family had offered no objections to the match. Such was the pragmatic foundation upon which their marriage had been built. Alicia paused, observing the tenant farmers sowing winter wheat. Come summer, the harvest would begin anew. The lands of Wimbledon were meticulously maintained, with well-constructed roads, drainage systems, irrigation works, and sturdy farmhouses visible in the distance. Such were the responsibilities of a conscientious landowner, to invest annually in the upkeep of their estates. Verdant pastures stretched out before them, dotted with grazing cattle and sheep. The farmers, clad in their customary loose smocks, moved about the fields. Alicia, who had been tutored in estate management by her mother, reveled in the bucolic scene. She was well-versed in the management of her own properties, regularly meeting with her agents and fully cognizant of the duties of a capable landowner. On the lane, a farmer approached them, doffing his cap in greeting. These were long-term tenants, often with leases spanning a decade or two, and thus intimately acquainted with the landowners. "Young Master William," he called out in familiar greeting. Cavendish introduced Alicia as his new wife. The farmer offered his congratulations on their recent nuptials. Cavendish, beaming, appeared quite pleased. Alicia now understood the purpose of his bringing her on this tour of his lands. "Do not be surprised, Alicia," he said with a hint of pride. "I am not a man of idleness. I have been managing my mother's estates for seven or eight years now." Noblemen often entrusted their lands to agents, considering it diligent to merely review the accounts periodically. Few took on the full responsibility themselves, for the sheer volume of properties, tenants, and estate personnel could be overwhelming. Moreover, the aristocracy frequently held local offices, served as magistrates, or attended sessions in London, leaving little time for the meticulous management of their estates. Alicia's grandfather, for instance, served as both the Lord Lieutenant and a Member of Parliament for Staffordshire, tasked with presenting proposals from local constituents for road construction and canal digging to Parliament for approval. Her mother had already assumed responsibility for the mining operations and land management. William Cavendish was confident in his ability to manage their combined estates. He would not allow Alicia to concern herself with such matters. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead with his lips. "Shall we proceed to the revels?" Customs varied from county to county, and as luck would have it, a fair was being held just three miles from Wimbledon. Revels, with their reputation for rowdiness and the mingling of all sorts of questionable characters, were generally considered unsuitable for respectable ladies. As dusk settled, they alighted from their carriage and plunged into the boisterous heart of the fair. Alicia, cloaked and discreetly adorned, her hair neatly coiffed, was nevertheless eager to partake in the festivities. Torches illuminated the scene as he led her through the vibrant carnival procession and circus acts. "Do you recall our visit to Bartholomew Fair?" Cavendish asked, turning to her amidst the cheerful strains of the organ and hand drum. This was the grand summer fair held in London each September. Alicia had attended with him once when she was fourteen. They had gone again just before their wedding, and, to her surprise, held hands. His eyes sparkled with amusement. The colorful lights danced across Alicia's face. She blinked, a smile playing on her lips. They watched in amusement as equestrians performed daring feats, a bear did somersaults and danced to the tune of bagpipes, a small dog in a red jacket pranced nearby, and a monkey perched on the bear's back tooted a tiny trumpet. Alicia laughed aloud as the crowd, entertained by the slapstick antics, tossed copper coins at the performers. Cavendish, ever generous, contributed a silver shilling. He knew, all too well, that Alicia was often bored by the stifling constraints of polite society. They marveled at the magician's tricks, the knife thrower's skill, and paused by a fortune teller's stall. "You are newlyweds, aren't you?" the old woman peered into a teacup, studying the patterns of the leaves. "You will have a very happy life together." Cavendish, delighted, pressed a gold sovereign into her palm. "Is it that obvious?" "Indeed," she replied. Alicia gestured to their clasped hands, his little finger and her ring finger adorned with matching gold bands. He leaned in and kissed her. The air was thick with the aroma of hot pies, fruits, and vegetables. They sampled the fare, then paused to watch a puppet show and a theatrical performance. The early autumn evening carried a slight chill, but the excitement of the fair kept them warm. He held her close, their bodies pressed together. They indulged in copious amounts of hot beer with beaten eggs, cocktails mixed with fruit juice, and freshly brewed cider. A rosy flush crept into Alicia's cheeks. "One might think," he began, his speech slightly impaired by the copious amounts of ale they'd both consumed, "that you held some objection to imbibing. And yet..." He leaned in, bestowing a kiss that was more than a little tipsy, a sweet, cider-laden assault on her senses. "Your own lips tell a different tale, my dear." In truth, she did not mind. When he drank, his skin took on a fruity scent. Like now, sweet and intoxicating. He held her hand tightly. The night seemed to slip away in a haze of revelry. No fair was complete without its boxing matches, and a crowd had gathered, placing bets with the fervor that permeated all levels of society. With each knockdown, the crowd roared its approval. The boxers, stripped to the waist, their hands wrapped in bandages, fought with brutal intensity. William Cavendish was a keen boxer himself, but the gentlemanly sport practiced in private clubs differed vastly from this savage spectacle. The latter was far more barbaric. The boxer who had gained the upper hand rained down blows upon his opponent, showing no mercy. The crowd's excitement grew with each blow. Blood was drawn. The fallen man was pummeled relentlessly. Alicia frowned, her brow furrowed in disapproval. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Cavendish, with a sudden surge of recklessness, peeled off his gloves, removed his coat, and stood in his satin waistcoat. "Leave this to me," he muttered, a hint of displeasure in his voice. He charged forward, landing a powerful blow that sent the victor sprawling. He had issued a challenge. Cavendish was, after all, a man who relished a bit of danger. "LetDik!" the referee bellowed. "A new challenger!" With a few swift movements, he removed his cravat and handed it to her. He stood, impeccably dressed, rolled up his sleeves, raised his fists, and faced his opponent. "Let's see how you fare against me, sir. Come then," he taunted with a grin. The onlookers eagerly placed their bets. "Five shillings on the gentleman!" A cacophony of noise filled the air. Alicia clutched his coat, still warm from his body. The fight began! Cavendish ducked a punch, a smirk playing on his lips, and retaliated with a blow to his opponent's chest and abdomen. Alicia listened to the crowd's roar. "Hit him! Hit him!" His advantage was short-lived. The seasoned boxer found an opening and struck him hard on the right shoulder. Cavendish lowered his head, momentarily stunned, and stumbled to the edge of the makeshift ring, only to be shoved back by the crowd. In the tense atmosphere, he rose and delivered two more blows, sending his opponent crashing to the ground. The crowd erupted! He turned to her, a triumphant grin on his face, and winked. But just then, the fallen boxer slowly rose to his feet. Someone shouted a warning, but it was too late. A powerful punch connected with Cavendish's jaw. The match was over. William Cavendish, dazed, lay on the ground, unwilling to rise. He turned his head and saw her blue skirt. Alicia knelt beside him, her eyes fixed upon him. "Is this what you meant by pugnacious, uncouth, and... arrogant?" She dabbed at the blood on his lip with a handkerchief. "You do have a sense of justice, after all." He was in a stupor; he would surely regret this in the daylight. He sat up, tilting his head and smiling at her. They returned to their carriage. He leaned against her, feigning a headache. "Before you act, you should consider the consequences," she admonished. "Very well," he said, lifting his head. "It doesn't hurt anymore." Alicia cradled his head in her arms and kissed him, tasting the metallic tang of blood from his split lip, mingled with the scent of alcohol. "You frightened me just now." She realized, with a sudden clarity, that he was a man of impulse, sometimes mature and steady, sometimes utterly unreliable. Yet, it was difficult to truly fault him. They continued to kiss, nestled together in the carriage. She licked the blood from his lips. "I'm sorry," he murmured, looking up at her with half-lidded eyes, his hand outstretched. He was, indeed, quite intoxicated. Alicia had just realized that he was a man, not just in the physical sense, but in his imperfections and flaws. For the first time, he held a strange allure for her, complex and unfathomable. They kissed deeply, she straddling him, held tightly in his embrace. Her hand slipped beneath his waistcoat, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his soft chest. He was more relaxed than usual, less practiced, his touch clumsy and uncertain. He breathed softly, then chuckled suddenly. The journey was far too short, a mere half hour before they arrived. Impatient, they embraced as soon as they alighted, he pressing her against a colonnade. "Not here," she whispered, and they hurried upstairs. Reaching the long gallery, he pinned her against the wall, their bodies entwined, her legs wrapped around his waist. His bedroom was the nearest, the door ajar. They stumbled inside, shutting it behind them. In their haste, clothes were discarded haphazardly, and they tumbled onto his desk. His bedroom was opulent, a stark contrast to her own more understated elegance. A French writing desk with gilded screw knobs, a style characterized by its clean lines. Upon it lay weighty tomes, a quill pen resting in an inkwell, alongside glass tumblers and porcelain vases – all of which were swept to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder, sinking into the exquisite blue embroidered lace. A wave of belated anger washed over her, and she bit his shoulder hard, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "William Cavendish, if you ever do this again, I might as well kill you." Her fist, aimed at him, was gently caught in his. He had, after all, taught her how to box. "Yes," he murmured against her ear, "Alicia, my wife, my love." She sat there, a whirlwind of passion spent, unable to utter a word. The night had been a blur of alcohol-fueled abandon, against the wall panels, the bedposts, the windowsill, until they were both utterly exhausted. They had broken all the rules, their clothes strewn carelessly across the floor. They fell asleep in each other's arms, not stirring until daybreak. When he awoke the next morning, bleary-eyed, he found her naked in his arms, her shoulders and neck marked with the evidence of their passion, fast asleep. He recalled the previous night's reckless abandon and its potential consequences, his hand tracing the curve of her calf that was draped over his. He was utterly and completely done for. William Cavendish, gazing at her, suddenly leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was not the first time, and it likely wouldn't be the last. She had finally come to his bedroom; their territories had merged into one. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. He pulled her closer, drifting back into a blissful slumber. Alicia opened her eyes to the sight of her cousin's bruised face. He was probably unaware that his most prized possession, his handsome face, was marred. It would likely take several days for the bruises to fade. But the damage lent him a certain rawness, a kind of broken beauty that made one want to inflict even further ruin. His long, dark lashes were lowered as he slept peacefully, his lips full and vibrant, his breathing even. Alicia studied his nose and eyelashes, held close in his embrace. She no longer found it unpleasant. She lingered for a while longer, then gently extricated herself and woke him with a kiss. Cavendish was astonished by their newfound capacity for indulgence, even in the daylight hours. For the first time, Alicia enjoyed breakfast in bed, like a proper married lady. He examined her back and legs with a growing sense of concern. "Good heavens," he murmured, kissing her cheek. She was clearly exhausted. He offered her a piece of fried fish and handed her a glass of lemonade. William Cavendish readily admitted his fault, expressing remorse for his actions from the previous night to that morning. He promised that he would not repeat such behavior in the coming month. He had already done far too much. Alicia merely glanced at him. "We return to London the day after tomorrow." She instructed him to brush her hair, and then, feeling utterly drained, she retired for the evening, forgoing dinner for a light snack. After a hot bath, she was ready for bed.