Chapter 27: Return to London

William Cavendish, like so many gentlemen of his station, was a staunch devotee of the cold bath. Indeed, even his sponge baths were taken with water chilled to a degree that might make a lesser man's teeth chatter. Doctors, you see, were all too fond of preaching that illness stemmed from miasma, and that cold water had the admirable effect of shrinking one's pores, thus preventing the foul air from infiltrating the body. A delightful theory, to be sure. The popularity of sea bathing, believed to be a cure-all for any ailment under the sun, was a natural extension of this watery dogma. Hot water, on the other hand, was only considered beneficial if it bubbled forth from the earth in the form of a mineral-rich spring. William, it must be said, was rather more fastidious than most. A sponge bath before venturing out was de rigueur, and any activity that resulted in perspiration necessitated another immediate immersion. This habit had become particularly pronounced during the honeymoon, with each return to their chambers prompting a thorough ablution in the washroom. The frigid water, which was said to fortify the body and strengthen the will, would leave his skin a rather alarming shade of red. Alicia, however, held a marked preference for hot baths, and had a tendency to linger in them for an unconscionable amount of time. Cavendish mused that this might be the reason she always felt so delightfully warm to the touch. Her hair, artfully arranged and wrapped, was piled high as she reclined in the tub, a faint blush of pink spreading from her shoulders to the delicate nape of her neck. Taking a bath at such an hour was a tedious affair. Tap water, delivered to the house by the grace of gravity, was typically only available in the basement and on the ground floor. It had to be heated in the basement kitchen, transported upstairs in buckets, and then the cooled water carried back down. Bathing, especially a full immersion, was a luxury reserved for the upper classes. Most made do with public bathhouses or the aforementioned sponge baths. Even for someone of Alicia's standing, it required patience to wait for the water to be heated, for servants to mix it to the desired temperature, and then to replace it when it inevitably cooled. This was the very reason for the popularity of Bath, with its Roman-style public baths filled with the sulfurous waters of natural hot springs. There, one could stand fully submerged, engaging in polite conversation, and remain for as long as one pleased. As the maids lathered her with soap, she rose slightly, revealing the smooth, elegant curve of her back. He took over, his palms gliding over her skin. Alicia glanced at him. Cavendish smiled. She loved him; he had become certain of it last night. They had been so wonderfully unrestrained, and she had touched his scars with such tenderness, had even kissed the corner of his mouth. Good heavens, the honeymoon was barely over, and his wife had truly fallen in love with him. He continued to apply the soap with gentle care, his gaze lingering on the graceful dip of her spine. "Would you like to go to Bath?" Like many others, Alicia had, in the past, made a habit of visiting Bath during the autumn and winter months. However, it was a city altogether too boisterous, positively reeking of new money. She did not care for it, merely tolerating the excursions with her governess, strolling past the Royal Crescent and on to the Circus. She would don the requisite bathing gown at the Roman Baths, dutifully sip the mineral water at the Assembly Rooms, attend the occasional concert, and take in a play at the theatre. Alas, being not yet of an age to be out, she was barred from the Upper and Lower Rooms, where the dancing took place. He used to accompany her to Bath, though that would soon come to an end, in a few weeks at most. He found Bath dreadfully dull, his presence there solely for the purpose of escorting her. Without realizing it, he had grown accustomed to looking after her. "Perhaps in December," Alicia replied, extending her hand to allow him to wash it. He performed this task with meticulous attention, just as he did when drawing on her stockings. "We could return in time for Christmas," he agreed. Where they would spend the holiday had become a matter of some discussion. Cavendish's grandfather, the Earl of Burlington, and the old Duke had been first cousins. Due to the early loss of his parents, William had been raised alongside the old Duke at Chatsworth House, as close as brothers. They had spent last Christmas at Chatsworth, after the funeral. However, with the passing of the old Duke of Devonshire, that connection had weakened somewhat. The elderly Earl, now advanced in years, preferred the comforts of Burlington House in London. Any forays into the countryside were limited to the outskirts of the city. Cavendish's own parents were Londoners through and through, with only occasional visits to Wimbledon. Alicia also had a maternal grandfather, the Marquess of Stafford, whose country estates were even more scattered. In the end, they decided to spend Christmas at Devonshire House, the Duke's London residence. The bulk of their luggage had already been sent ahead; only a few personal items would accompany them in the carriage back to London. Cavendish felt a pang of regret. The honeymoon was well and truly over. His wife would no longer be his alone. She would return to the endless social whirl of London and the embrace of her family. "Alicia?" "Hmm?" His fingers brushed against her skin, causing a faint blush to rise on her cheeks. Cavendish felt a sudden need for reassurance, a promise that she would not grow distant, that she would remain as she was now. But such a request would be entirely inappropriate. He was seized by a sudden, inexplicable apprehension. They could no longer be so attached. A husband must give his wife ample space to socialize, to cultivate her connections, without getting in the way. He sighed. Alicia studied his chin, noting the faint shadow of stubble despite his close shave, and the fine down at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to shift between youth and maturity in an instant. She leaned in and kissed him softly. He responded in kind. The soap slipped from his grasp, splashing into the bathwater. He frowned, reaching for it, but she pulled him down. "Alicia!" She regarded his disheveled state with amusement. He had entered the room wearing only a shirt and trousers, and now he was thoroughly soaked. The wet fabric clung to his chest and waist, revealing the lean lines of his form. Alicia's lips curved into a smile. The bathwater was warm and fragrant with lavender oil, the steam inducing a pleasant drowsiness. He could begin to understand her fondness for hot baths. He made to climb out, but seeing the look on her face, he suddenly lunged, capturing her slippery body in his arms. "You're done for, Alicia, you little scoundrel!" They wrestled playfully for a moment, then met each other's gaze. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Their playful tussle turned into something more. His face was flushed; he couldn't explain it. It was such a novel, such a delightful sensation. "Are you sure you're not uncomfortable?" he asked, concerned for her well-being. It was all so curious. The odd-numbered and even-numbered days rule was no more. She was truly his. The next day, he swam in the lake while Alicia sat on the grass, reading, her white dress a splash of purity against the vibrant green. He emerged from the water, his dark hair plastered to his face, and tilted his head to kiss her. Alicia responded with a fleeting touch of her lips. He joined her on the grass, and they basked in the sun together. Alicia turned the pages of her book, a soft rustling sound in the stillness. That night, she allowed him to hold her as they slept. They had a journey ahead of them the next day, so there would be no further adventures that night. His dependence on physical intimacy had lessened considerably. He was no longer afraid, content in the knowledge that his affections were returned. Cavendish kissed the top of her head. Though he still did not fully comprehend Alicia's thoughts, they were undeniably drawn to each other, their bodies attuned, their heartbeats echoing one another. And so, they returned to London. As agreed, Alicia donned her riding habit, a military-style ensemble complete with gold braid and a jauntily angled cap, which lent her a dashing air. "Ah, my dear little bugler," Cavendish teased, offering a mock salute. Alicia mounted her horse. Their carriage was the same one they had used on their wedding day, a splendid affair of green and gold, with the Cavendish family crest emblazoned on the door—one half belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, the other to the Earl of Burlington. It was drawn by four magnificent white horses, driven by postilions in dark green livery, with outriders clearing the way ahead. Footmen stood at the rear. The couple, however, were not inside the carriage. They had set off ahead, riding their steeds, one behind the other, towards the north of London. In his younger days, Cavendish had favored lean, swift racehorses, temperamental creatures that ran like the wind. Now, more mature, he rode a sturdy, well-muscled black warhorse. Alicia's silver mare was a graceful creature, and she was a skilled rider. They engaged in a silent race, their competitive spirits ignited. They galloped across the open fields with abandon. The sky grew overcast, threatening rain. They were lightly sprinkled upon, so they spurred their horses onward, making haste for the posting inn. Cavendish lifted her down from her horse. He removed her cap, offered her a warm, light beer, and helped her dry her hair. He watched her smile, and she gave a little shiver. After a brief rest and once the rain had subsided, they boarded the waiting carriage. They journeyed onward, stopping and starting, until finally, in the afternoon, they crossed London Bridge, passed through the City of London, and headed west, back to the heart of the capital. Devonshire House was located at Number 2 Piccadilly, occupying a vast expanse of land. It was the largest private residence in London, second only to the royal palaces. The aristocracy, in general, preferred the countryside to the city, in part because their ancestral estates offered sprawling grounds, complete with forests, lakes, and rolling hills. In London, most were confined to three-story townhouses. While these were by no means small, they were comparatively cramped, with gardens limited to the central squares, used primarily for leisurely strolls. Devonshire House itself was four times the length of such a townhouse, boasting twelve windows across its façade, and twice the width. It was a classic example of Palladian architecture, stately and imposing, with a vast forecourt and a fountain gracing the front. The wings of the house extended outwards, and a high wall with a gilded leopard's head gate separated it from the street and the curious gazes of passersby. Behind the house lay a three-acre garden. It was, in essence, a miniature country estate in the heart of the city. As for their ancestral seat, Chatsworth House encompassed over 1,000 acres, comparable in size to Buckingham Palace. One could reside on opposite ends of the estate and, if one so desired, never encounter another soul for an entire year. The carriage, preceded by outriders on their imposing steeds, made its way through the streets. Some, who had witnessed the wedding, recognized the carriage as belonging to the newlyweds. Indeed, the press had caught wind of their return and had, predictably, embellished the story. The major newspapers and magazines all had a column dedicated to chronicling the lives and doings of the upper echelons of society, providing fodder for gossip among the citizenry. As the carriage entered the city, its pace slowed. From the window, one could catch a glimpse of the newly married couple. The bride was dressed in a gown of champagne-colored satin, changed into at the inn, and she held a bouquet of pristine white lilies of the valley. Children chased after the carriage, their laughter filling the air. It was around five or six o'clock, and those who labored were finishing their day. Pedestrians on either side of the road craned their necks, curious to witness the grand spectacle. Alicia gazed out at the scene, reminded of her wedding day. "They seem pleased to see us." Beginning with her grandmother and continuing with her parents, the family had cultivated a sterling reputation. Both were dedicated to charitable causes and had made significant contributions to society. Even her grandfather had been an active figure in politics, wielding considerable power and influence. The aristocracy was eager to forge alliances with the Cavendish family. The Cavendish name, representing the wealthiest family in the nation after the Royal Family, had always been associated with a certain ostentation. Alicia had frequently appeared in public with her parents, partly out of a genuine desire to do so, and partly to pave the way for her future. She would, after all, be a prominent figure in society. Cavendish, for his part, reveled in the attention. "Naturally," he declared with pride, his expression returning to its usual composed demeanor, a slight purse of his lips. He took her hand in his. They passed St. James's Palace, the residence of the Royal Family, and continued along Piccadilly. The imposing gates, a symbol of power and prestige, swung open. Finally, they came to a halt before the magnificent splendor of Devonshire House. The household staff stood assembled to greet them, and at the forefront, having awaited their arrival with anticipation, were the parents of the newlyweds. A handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes relaxed his countenance, his usual coolness giving way to a more animated expression. Beside him stood a lady with auburn hair and light green eyes, her jawline striking, a woman of considerable beauty. She wore a simple white muslin gown, the skirt billowing gracefully, lending her the air of a goddess. She smiled. It was evident to any observer that Alicia had inherited her mother's face and nose, and her father's eyes and mouth. The carriage came to a stop, and a footman opened the door. Alicia, without waiting for her husband's assistance, alighted from the carriage. "Papa! Mama!" she exclaimed, rushing forward to exchange kisses on the cheek. Cavendish followed, a touch of resignation in his stride. He turned his attention to the other couple standing nearby. A tall, statuesque woman with blond hair and piercing blue eyes, her expression full of warmth. Beside her, a man with dark hair and blue eyes, his face stern and unsmiling. They stood arm in arm. William Cavendish bowed. "Father, Mother." Lady Diana nodded, her gaze fixed on Alicia, who had already forgotten her new husband. The lady's eyes held a hint of skepticism as she looked at her son, whose face and build resembled his father's, but whose features were her own. She frowned slightly. William, are you so lacking in charm? In his mother's eyes, Cavendish was a failure; he had not won his cousin's heart, as it seemed. The fact that the honeymoon had lasted a mere month was, in truth, rather surprising. The London social circle, the letters exchanged between aristocratic families, were abuzz with speculation about the newly married couple, whose status was so prominent. Was their relationship strained? Had a disagreement prompted their hasty return to London? They had unwittingly become the center of attention, with invitations and visits from various families poised to descend, all eager to ascertain the true state of affairs. At White's club, wagers had even been placed on whether the couple was genuinely in love or merely putting on a show of affection. The total sum of the bets had already reached tens of thousands of pounds. Cavendish glanced at Alicia, who was now chatting with her parents. He was no longer certain himself. They had just been holding hands and kissing in the carriage, after all.