Chapter 28: In Which a Wife Takes Her Leave

Burlington House stood a mere stone's throw from Devonshire House, practically perpendicular to it, in that haughty way of London architecture that suggested the buildings themselves were engaged in some silent, aristocratic feud. Miss Alicia, ever the dutiful niece, presented herself to her cousin's parents. "Lord Cavendish, Lady Diana," she murmured, her tone a model of polite deference. Such formality was, of course, de rigueur in noble households. Some children, after all, addressed their own fathers as "Lord," a practice that rather efficiently chilled any hint of familial warmth. Lord Cavendish offered a curt nod, while Lady Diana, a woman whose enthusiasm could rival a flock of excitable peacocks, launched into a flurry of conversation. And so, the party made their way inside. Tea was poured, pleasantries exchanged, and the obligatory recounting of honeymoon exploits commenced. Invitations were duly presented, for a grand ball was in order, to mark the triumphant return of the newlyweds to London's social whirl. October, however, was upon them, and most of the ton had retreated to their country estates, leaving London in a state of social hibernation. This dearth of eligible guests would not be remedied until December, particularly after the merriment of Christmas. Ironically, this meant that the two lovebirds, whose return had set tongues wagging like metronomes gone mad, found their social calendar suddenly, and quite distressingly, empty. The landed gentry, you see, had little need for gainful employment, their days a dizzying whirl of social calls fueled by the bountiful income from their estates. It was at this juncture that Alicia finally remembered her husband. The two were perched upon a sofa, a chasm of respectable distance between them. Cavendish, ever hopeful, attempted to inch closer, only to be thwarted by the watchful gazes of their respective parents. These seasoned veterans of the honeymoon wars exchanged a knowing glance. Could the whispers swirling about the ton be true? Their letters had spoken of wedded bliss and harmonious companionship, but the current display suggested mere harmony, and a rather strained one at that. The Duchess, intimately acquainted with her daughter's temperament, could discern that while Alicia harbored no active dislike for her cousin, neither did she exhibit any discernible fondness. Cavendish, on the other hand, found himself utterly bewildered. Surrounded by the familiar faces of his family, he was at a loss as to how to interact with his new bride. During the agonizingly short journey to Burlington House, he had attempted to take Alicia's hand. The girl had deftly extracted it, her gloved fingers slipping from his grasp like an eel from a fisherman's net. "We are in London now," she had declared, as if that explained everything. Cavendish remained silent, a man adrift in a sea of social protocol. The elder Earl and Countess of Burlington, aged sixty-four and sixty-two respectively, were still very much alive and kicking. Theirs had been a love match, a whirlwind romance that saw them wed at an unseemly young age. The Countess, the only daughter of the late Earl of Northampton, had brought a considerable dowry to the union, having been raised by her uncle after the untimely demise of her parents. When their eldest son married at the ripe old age of thirty-six, his bride a mere twenty-one, a rather delicate matter arose: who would reign as the mistress of Burlington House? Consequently, Lady Diana had spent the better part of the next fifteen years residing elsewhere—be it at their Wimbledon estate, serving as a lady-in-waiting at the Royal Court, or accompanying her husband near Whitehall. It was only when the elder Countess began to retreat from the social scene that Lady Diana finally took up permanent residence at Burlington House. Lady Diana was now forty-seven years of age. Their family was, of course, intimately acquainted with Alicia, having watched her blossom from a precocious child into a young woman of remarkable beauty. The marriage of Alicia's parents had, in its time, caused quite the scandal. The Duke of Devonshire, two years his wife's junior, had been barely a man when they wed. Their secret nuptials, performed at Dunrobin Castle in Scotland, the seat of Alicia's mother, the Countess of Sutherland, had sent shockwaves through polite society. The bride, though of noble birth, had a rather colorful past. Two years prior, she had broken off her engagement to the Duke of Bedford—Cavendish's own cousin, no less—and eloped with a French Marquis. The unfortunate Marquis had met a rather grisly end at the guillotine, leaving her a widow and prompting her return to England. The death of her brother that same year had catapulted Lady Anne Leveson-Gower to the position of sole heiress to the Marquess of Stafford. Lady Anne was, in fact, a distant cousin of the Duke of Devonshire. They had been childhood acquaintances, and the Duke had long harbored a tendre for her. However, at the tender age of sixteen, he had been deemed too young for consideration when her father arranged her betrothal to the Duke of Bedford, a man eight years her senior. This same Duke had also passed away nine years ago, unmarried, leaving the title to his younger brother. In any case, this unconsummated betrothal had, in a roundabout way, finally come to fruition through the union of Alicia and her cousin. Both families were, naturally, delighted. The newlyweds were granted a brief respite from the social whirlwind. Custom dictated that the first meal upon returning from one's honeymoon be taken at the groom's family home. Thus, nearly every relative within a fifty-mile radius had descended upon Burlington House. Burlington House was comparable in grandeur to Devonshire House, albeit with a more pronounced Baroque influence, its architecture a mishmash of styles resulting from numerous renovations. There were even Romanesque colonnades, not to mention the meticulously designed gardens, Cavendish's own pet project. The bride had been given a suite of rooms, newly refurbished and henceforth to be known by her name. They were filled with exquisite antique furniture by Buhl, adorned with the most lavish gilt decorations. The curtains, wallpaper, and carpets had all been replaced, incorporating her favorite shades of blue and rose pink, in addition to her usual green. It was not merely a bedroom, but a full suite, complete with an adjoining sitting room. Grecian-style scroll-back armchairs, cabinets of ebony wood from the Orient, a sofa inlaid with ivory, a Parisian clock, and a vibrantly colored Japanese screen, behind which were arranged plush Persian ottomans. These furnishings alone had set them back a cool ten thousand pounds. William Cavendish surveyed the scene with a satisfied air. The only drawback, from young Cavendish's perspective, was that Burlington House was some ten times larger than the cozy cottage they had occupied during their honeymoon. This meant, much to his chagrin, that they could no longer share a bed. Indeed, they were now separated by a considerable distance. The mere traversal of the corridor that now divided them took a full five minutes. Upon ascending the grand staircase, they were forced to part ways, each retreating to their respective wings of the house. He cursed the infernal social strictures that dictated such arrangements. "Would you have me sleep with you?" he whispered, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I could sneak in, you know." There were, after all, a plethora of secret passages and hidden doors in a house of this vintage. And if those proved insufficient, he was not above excavating a few new ones. Alicia merely glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "That won't be necessary." She did not permit him to kiss her. The sudden reappearance into society, with its myriad prying eyes, had rendered her strangely uncomfortable. She found herself recoiling from any unwanted physical contact. Cavendish leaned against the doorway, a picture of dejection. "Rest well, then, Alicia," he mumbled, adding after a beat, "See you at dinner." This grand house was teeming with not only his parents but also his grandparents, not to mention a veritable army of servants, numbering over two hundred. He could not even enjoy the simple pleasure of watching her dress or bathe in peace. Dinner was served in the grand dining hall, at a table that stretched to an almost comical length. Alicia, ever mindful of propriety, was attired in a gown of deep purple velvet, accessorized with a simple yet elegant black crystal necklace. She ate with gloved hands, gracefully navigating the endless courses while parrying the incessant inquiries of their assembled relatives. Her parents were also in attendance. Aunt Georgiana was absent, having retreated to the wilds of Yorkshire, where she resided at Howard Castle with her husband's family. Aunt Harriet, on the other hand, was confined to her villa on the outskirts of London, awaiting the arrival of a new addition to the family. On Cavendish's side, the eldest aunt, the Duchess of Grafton, had graced them with her presence, along with her husband. The remaining aunts' husbands, as well as his uncles, were all gallivanting about the Iberian Peninsula, engaged in some military skirmish or other. Their wives, therefore, were largely confined to their country estates. The female relatives, it seemed, were in the majority at this particular gathering, and so the meal was consumed. After dinner, as was the custom, the ladies retired to the drawing-room for tea and polite conversation, while the men remained at the table, indulging in port and discussing matters of great import. Only after they had had their fill of masculine camaraderie would they deign to rejoin the ladies. Cavendish, his mind consumed by thoughts of his wife, was barely present in body, let alone spirit. Their time alone together had been reduced to practically nothing since their return. Alicia was well-acquainted with Cavendish's aunts, the youngest of whom was a mere twenty-six. Lady Mary, a woman whose curiosity could rival that of a cat presented with a ball of yarn, had, within minutes, managed to extract the entirety of their honeymoon itinerary. She could not help but marvel at the sheer, unadulterated dullness of it all. Truly, it was a wonder they had not expired from boredom. No wonder they were back in London. She could not fathom what had possessed Will to plan such a tedious affair. William Cavendish remained blissfully unaware of his relatives' assessment of his honeymoon planning skills. He finally managed to snatch a moment alone with Alicia while ostensibly refilling her teacup. He could not, for the life of him, understand why a newly married couple should be subjected to such an elaborate game of hide-and-seek simply to steal a moment together. Alicia, however, was soon whisked away to rejoin the gaggle of female relatives, to engage in idle chatter about the latest on-dits and indulge in a few hands of cards. He, in turn, was dragged off to join his grandfather, father, and uncle by marriage, to discuss the political climate, the latest election results, and, most importantly, the optimal location for the year's hunting expedition. He sank into an armchair, casting a surreptitious glance at Alicia. The two managed to slip away to the rear garden, seeking a moment's respite from the suffocating formality of the house. But before he could even steal a kiss, Alicia spoke, her tone more suited to delivering a formal pronouncement than a whispered confidence. "William," she began. He smiled, a bit bashfully, at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, Alicia?" "In about three days' time, I shall be returning to Devonshire House." "What?" His hand, which had been reaching for her cheek, froze mid-air. He stared at her, utterly bewildered. What in heaven's name was going on? "It is as we agreed before our marriage," Alicia stated, her voice maddeningly calm. She preferred the familiar comforts of her parents' home. Moreover, Cavendish's mother, Lady Diana, was not yet of an age to relinquish her position as mistress of the house. This created a certain awkwardness, a clash of roles that Alicia would rather avoid. Not that Alicia cared much for such social niceties. She simply craved her own space. Cavendish wracked his brain. It was true; they had made such an agreement. One of Alicia's stipulations before he had even dared to propose was that their living arrangements would remain unchanged, both before and after the wedding. In essence, aside from the vows exchanged before the altar and the vicar's pronouncements, nothing would be different. He stood there, dumbstruck. "But we have only been married a month!" he finally blurted out, his eyelashes fluttering in a display of utter consternation. That familiar sense of unease, of impending doom, began to creep over him once more. Alicia, however, had clearly given this matter considerable thought. "Devonshire House and Burlington House are a mere five minutes apart by carriage." Yes, five minutes. Closer than our bedrooms, even. "Five minutes by carriage, fifteen on foot. I shall, as is my custom, take a morning stroll and join Lord and Lady Burlington for breakfast." Yes, and he would have to wait for her to visit his grandparents to see her. What utter madness was this? They were married, for God's sake! "You may, of course, come and visit me," Alicia added, as if granting him some great concession. And hadn't he agreed to all this with remarkable alacrity? He recalled his own flippant words, uttered in a moment of youthful indiscretion: "Of course, cousin. I, too, am not accustomed to residing at Burlington House." Before their marriage, he had maintained rooms at the Albany, a luxurious residence exclusively for bachelors, as was the fashion among young men of his set. He had only moved out shortly before the wedding. Because... well, he had never anticipated this. He had fallen in love with her! He did not wish to be parted from her. He could not, for the life of him, understand what he had been thinking. He?? Cavendish was speechless. He could not go back on his word. "Very well," she conceded, allowing him to take her hand, but only for a moment. No kiss was forthcoming, for Alicia was due back at her parents' side. Cavendish realized, with a dawning horror, that he was being subjected to a form of marital separation. Before retiring for the night, they exchanged a perfunctory "good night." The rules that had been so blissfully broken during the latter part of their honeymoon were now reinstated with a vengeance. Alicia reintroduced the concept of odd and even days. And, given their current circumstances within the household, she suggested a degree of restraint. It was not merely a matter of propriety. Alicia's own desires had waned considerably. Her life had suddenly become rather full, and she found herself growing weary of the endless round of physical intimacy. Cavendish stood there, watching her disappear down the corridor, his chest heaving with a mixture of frustration and longing. He desperately wanted to sneak into her room; he was her husband, after all. He fumed, clutching a pillow to his chest. What was the point of that glorious week they had shared? He could only console himself with the thought that their excessive indulgence that day had depleted their quota for the following month. This month, therefore, was to be one of enforced abstinence. He lay there, staring up at the elaborately painted ceiling. Good heavens, she was returning to Devonshire House! They would be so far apart. What newly married couple lived apart, with the wife residing at her parents' home instead of her husband's? At breakfast, Alicia engaged in lively conversation with the Earl and Countess of Burlington. In some ways, she was a remarkably amiable young woman, one who effortlessly charmed those around her. Cavendish stirred his coffee, his gaze fixed on the delicate, downy curve of her cheek. He had not been privy to her morning toilette. Upon their return, Alicia's retinue of servants had been restored to its former, impressive size. A mere glance, a subtle gesture, and someone would appear to pour tea or offer some other service. Three maids were required to dress her. She no longer needed him. Cavendish felt a desperate need to prove his worth, to find some other value he might possess. He racked his brain, searching for something, anything. Then it dawned on him. Alicia's social calendar was overflowing with engagements, each one accompanied by a gaggle of female companions. A husband's constant presence, far from being a comfort, was considered a positive hindrance, a sign of a lack of consideration, of being too, well, clingy. She did not need him to sleep beside her. She would never again return to his embrace. Cavendish's gaze fell upon a society paper, open to a particularly juicy bit of gossip: "It appears that the recently married Mr. C and Lady A are not enjoying the blissful harmony one might expect. This union, forged purely from familial ambition, is as unremarkable and mundane as its very nature suggests." The article went on to speculate that their early return from their honeymoon was a clear indication of a rift between them. How utterly absurd! Cavendish let out a derisive snort. Then he glanced at Alicia, his new bride, who had thus far only deigned to utter two phrases to him: "Good morning" and "The wild duck is quite delicious today." Perhaps, he thought grimly, the gossips were not entirely off the mark.