Chapter 32: The Cravat and the Cad

Cavendish observed the scene from the upper floor. The Earl of Sunderland, a man whose boorishness made even Lord Titchfield seem positively angelic, was a relative Cavendish preferred to avoid. One simply did not engage with such tedious individuals if one could help it. His mind drifted back to earlier events. Alicia had always been the radiant center of attention, a natural consequence of her striking beauty. With her golden hair and blue eyes, she was a vision that drew the eye even in the most crowded of ballrooms. It was hardly surprising that throngs of young men, barely out of leading strings themselves, had vied for her favor. He had chosen to overlook their puppyish affections. After all, none had yet reached their majority. Alicia seemed content enough at the ducal estate. Her days were filled with the usual pursuits of a young lady of her station: horseback riding, leisurely strolls through the park, and the occasional carriage ride. Her relationships with both sides of the family remained as placid as ever. Even the relative quiet of the London autumn seemed to have little effect upon her. She spent her time sketching in the garden, a picture of serene concentration. Tomorrow, her formal studies would resume, a prospect she faced with her usual diligence. Assignments were meticulously prepared, ready to withstand the scrutiny of her tutors. Alicia, it must be said, was a young woman who held herself to the highest standards. From afar, he saw the familiar figure of a man with dark hair and blue eyes, waving in her direction. The man approached, his walk quickly turning into a light jog. A wide smile illuminated his face. "It feels an age since I last saw you, Alicia," he declared, bending down to bestow a light kiss upon her lips. They had shared breakfast only that very morning. Alicia, unaccustomed to such public displays of affection, was far more receptive to his advances in private. William Cavendish, ever the patient suitor, was adapting himself to her pace, occupying his days with his own affairs. Yet, he could not help but hope that she might miss him during his absences. No one, after all, could claim a level of intimacy with her that rivaled his own. This thought, perhaps, was his sole comfort. He kissed her cheek, then took her hand, content for the moment to simply observe her artistry. "Will we be attending the Royal Presentation in a few days?" he inquired. "Indeed." Their schedules, it seemed, were already filling up, each of them striving to master the intricate dance of newly married life. Something, however, felt subtly amiss. The royal court was currently under the sway of Queen Charlotte, whose preferences dictated the prevailing fashions. While the ladies of the ton typically favored the high-waisted, narrow-skirted Empire silhouette, court dress demanded an incongruous amalgamation: a high-waisted gown paired with the wide, hooped skirts reminiscent of the Rococo period, the whole topped off with white egret feathers. The annual Presentation at Court, was not merely an occasion for the introduction of eligible young ladies to society, but also for newly married couples who held positions within the military or government. This year, young, titled gentlemen eligible for the social whirl were also to be presented. Cavendish found himself attired in the prescribed blue court uniform, complete with a dress sword at his waist. He leaned against the doorway, a smile playing on his lips, as he watched Alicia don the court gown she had worn for her own presentation the previous year. It was an exquisite creation of ivory silk, adorned with countless pearls and gemstones, its intricate embroidery the product of months of painstaking labor. The long train of red velvet, edged with white ermine, was a potent symbol of her status. Such a gown, costing anywhere from five hundred to over a thousand guineas, was a considerable expense, far exceeding the price of an ordinary evening gown, which might be had for a mere hundred pounds. Married ladies were expected to wear six or seven long feathers, three or four more than their unmarried counterparts. "One wonders when our dear Queen's tastes will evolve," Cavendish remarked, offering his arm to assist her. Servants followed, carefully managing the cumbersome train as they descended the stairs and boarded the carriage. The excessive length of the feathers necessitated a most careful lowering of her head. The Duke, serving as Lord Chamberlain, and the Duchess, being the Queen's goddaughter and former lady-in-waiting, accompanied them. The four-horse carriage, emblazoned with the Devonshire family crest, made its way to St. James's Palace, accompanied by footmen. Being presented at court typically involved a curtsy before the Queen, followed by a brief exchange. Queen Charlotte, flanked by her unmarried daughters, was known for her devotion to her husband, King George III. Theirs was a love match, untainted by the presence of mistresses. Alicia kissed the Queen's cheek, receiving her blessing for a happy and fulfilling marriage. They walked arm in arm, the picture of a contented couple. Cavendish, as Alicia had astutely observed, could not abide a life of monotonous tranquility. Her love for him, if it existed at all, was but a pale imitation of what he desired. If only she could love him a little more. Their current arrangement of separate bedrooms, with alternate nights designated for intimacy, was adhered to with the same polite detachment that characterized most aristocratic marriages. Cavendish confided his woes to Francis, his cousin. The Marquis, in turn, regarded him with a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Cavendish, you've changed," he remarked, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "Whatever happened to the man who was indifferent to everything?" "You find your wife distant? But surely, sharing a bed every other night is sufficient. What more could you possibly desire?" William pointedly ignored him. "Ah," the Marquis exclaimed, a sudden flash of understanding in his eyes. "Is this what you want? For her to wait for you at home each day, to bid you farewell with a tender placement of a flower in your buttonhole, and perhaps even tie your cravat with a loving hand?" This, apparently, was the latest fashion among young gentlemen, a practice adopted from their Continental travels, signifying the nature of their relationships with their lovers. Cavendish felt a pang of recognition. For once, his usually unreliable cousin had spoken a truth that resonated deeply. "But you cannot expect your wife to perform such services," Francis continued, "Those are the duties of a mistress. Or, failing that, a valet." Cavendish, upon his return, had resumed the practice of having his valet assist him with his dressing. It was only proper. "A wife," he declared with newfound conviction, "is to be respected." Francis, however, was not one to let an opportunity for self-promotion pass him by. "But I am different," he asserted, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Ann loves me." His wife, Anna Sophia, was evidently a paragon of wifely devotion. "She ties my cravat for me every day," he boasted. Cavendish, clenching his glass, could feel his teeth grinding. He managed a noncommittal "Hmm," his voice tight with suppressed irritation. "I do not love her, my wife," he retorted, clinging to his pride. "I merely accord her the respect she is due, in the interest of domestic harmony. We are simply an ordinary couple, adhering to the established norms." The implication being that they did not indulge in such frivolous displays of affection. "Is that so?" They had shared a bed the previous night. He had lain beside her, restlessly playing with her golden tresses. Alicia, for her part, had grown so accustomed to his presence that she could now continue her writing even after their lovemaking, propped up against him without a care in the world. Occasionally, he would pull her back down, his ardor rekindled, though last night he had been surprisingly subdued. Their earlier agreement of intimacy once a month had been tacitly abandoned, replaced by the simpler rule of alternate nights. A sort of self-imposed restraint. Alicia was meticulous about her health, regularly consulting with the family physician. She did not inquire about his troubled mood. She attributed it to his overly complicated thoughts, though she found solace in his ability to eventually reason his way out of his funks. In that respect, at least, he was not overly burdensome. She ruffled his dark hair, a gesture she found particularly pleasing. Cavendish, startled by the touch, buried his face in her shoulder, a smile spreading across his lips. He made a move, and Alicia, blushing, set aside her pen and paper. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Seeking a bit of amusement." Alicia watched him, intrigued. The next day, he appeared in a state of deliberate dishevelment, his linen cravat hanging loosely around his neck. "Help me tie this, will you?" he requested, getting straight to the point. Had he dismissed his valet? Even so, surely he could manage the task himself. Alicia frowned. "I'm afraid I don't know how." Cavendish, barely suppressing a chuckle, took this as confirmation that she had never tied another man's cravat. He was the first! "It's quite simple, really." Alicia, with a perfunctory air, attempted to tie the cravat based on her recollection of seeing it done. Gentlemen of London, now favoring somber, unadorned coats, had taken to expressing their individuality through the intricate artistry of their cravats. Each month, it seemed, brought forth a hundred new and elaborate styles. William Cavendish was, without a doubt, a leader in this particular arena of fashion. That day, he appeared at his club sporting a cravat tied in a manner so novel, so utterly unique, that it bordered on the outrageous. His companions, naturally, were agog. Inquiries were made as to the nature of this extraordinary knot. Cavendish, with a mysterious smile, pondered the question for a moment. "The 'Ann Knot'," he declared. Alicia Ann, his Ann. He couldn't resist a pointed look at his cousin. Francis was utterly perplexed. "It's hideous," he pronounced with unflinching honesty. "Silence, you philistine." Within days, the "Ann Knot," or at least a crude approximation thereof, had become de rigueur among London's dandies. To be seen without it was to be hopelessly out of touch. Alicia thus found herself saddled with the unexpected task of tying her husband's cravat. During this period, she discovered that, aside from his mother, the only other individuals who seemed to understand Cavendish's eccentricities were a group of married ladies. "Men, particularly young ones, are prone to such bouts of competitiveness," they explained. He would even surreptitiously pilfer one of her father's small flowers, a delicate Persian daisy, and insist that she place it in his buttonhole before he departed. He would flash a roguish grin. Alicia added another observation to her growing list of her husband's peculiarities: he was easily pleased, sometimes inexplicably dissatisfied, and at other times, utterly self-satisfied. A most curious creature. When his dark eyelashes fluttered in that endearing way of his, she would, on occasion, stand on tiptoe to plant a kiss upon his cheek. This inevitably shattered his carefully constructed facade of composure, and he would sweep her into his arms, twirling her around in a rare display of unbridled affection. "I love you, Alicia," he declared, his voice filled with a fervent sincerity. "We shall be the most devoted couple in all of England." ... Cavendish eventually abandoned his insistence on maintaining the pretense of a purely amicable relationship. He cared little for the absurd wager, and outsiders were hardly privy to the true nature of their interactions. Of course, he still desired to uncover the instigator of the bet and the source of the rumors. Besides, as long as Alicia remained indifferent to all others and reserved her intimacy for him alone, he could find a measure of contentment. He was a master of self-deception. He did not require her love, though, of course, it would be most welcome. Only to his closest confidants did Cavendish occasionally voice his grievances. It had come to his attention that among his married friends, their wives were genuinely in love with them, and even those who kept mistresses enjoyed the unconditional adoration of their paramours. One moment he wished Alicia were different, and the next he decided that their present arrangement was for the best. Cavendish was, at times, a rather melancholy fellow. His marriage, though outwardly brilliant, was as fragile as spun glass. Yet, he maintained his usual air of insouciance, his inner turmoil hidden from the world. Rising from his seat, he announced, "I must go and fetch her." Alicia was attending the theater, and he, ever the considerate husband, would not dream of intruding upon her gathering of ladies. He would, like many a bored gentleman, while away the hours at his club, engaging in idle chatter and, of course, dedicating a significant portion of his thoughts to her. Cavendish was beginning to suspect that he was a lost cause. He attempted to distract himself with his long-neglected pursuits—shooting, riding, fencing, boxing—but to no avail. Leaving his club, he entered his carriage, which set off towards the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. He ordered the carriage to halt a short distance away, alighting and proceeding on foot. He had grown accustomed to collecting her after her outings, their time in the carriage often marked by a certain intimacy. On such occasions, Alicia was noticeably more animated. She would bite him, though never uttering a sound. Once, feigning complaint, he had pointed out the teeth marks on his shoulder. "Did I do that?" Alicia had inquired, meticulously comparing the marks to her own teeth to confirm their origin. He had felt a thrill course through him, a perverse desire for her to bite down even harder, the physical pain transforming into a strange and exhilarating pleasure. As these thoughts occupied his mind, his gaze fell upon the familiar carriage. His wife emerged, resplendent in a white fur cloak, her golden hair cascading down her back, adorned with a dazzling array of diamonds that refracted the light into a thousand shimmering sparks. She was a vision of ethereal beauty in her long red velvet gown, its neckline edged with delicate organdy, accentuating her snow-white skin. How beautiful she is, he mused, a familiar pang of longing in his heart. If not for the fact that he was her cousin, would he have ever been able to win her hand? And if that were the case, what right did he have to demand anything more? She was a woman who commanded the admiration of all who beheld her. And now, as if to prove his point, a man approached, taking her gloved hand in his. He held it with a reverence bordering on the religious, his gaze fixed upon her face as he raised her hand to his lips, bestowing a lingering kiss upon the back of it. The man had hair of spun gold and eyes of the most striking emerald green, his countenance marked by a melancholic beauty that could melt the heart of any woman. He was, in short, a paragon of masculine perfection. With a sigh, he murmured a few words, his voice inaudible from Cavendish's vantage point. A single tear traced a glistening path down his cheek. Alicia regarded him with an earnest expression, her attention fully captured. They appeared, for all the world, like star-crossed lovers, forced apart by cruel fate. Her eyes lit up when she saw the tear. William Cavendish took a deep, steadying breath. He recognized this man. Henry Percy. That little scoundrel who knew all too well how to feign vulnerability.