Chapter 40: Married Life

Their townhouse in Park Lane, alas, boasted no garden to speak of, merely a respectable bit of street frontage. While Miss--no, Mrs. now, Mrs. Cavendish, if you please--Alicia's little hound was obliged to remain at the Duke's more spacious courtyard, her mare, at least, enjoyed the comforts of the mews out back, where it received its daily grooming. Together, the newlyweds would often ride in the park, ambling along the King's Road at a leisurely pace. Hyde Park, it must be understood, had certain unspoken rules regarding the acceptable velocity of one's mount. A gallop was simply not done. Thus, they contented themselves with a gentle trot. "Once we are in the country for the hunt, we shall race to our hearts' content," Cavendish declared, with a wink that suggested he had more than just equestrian pursuits in mind. After a sufficient interval of sedate riding, they would dismount near the Serpentine, admiring the way the sunlight danced upon its surface, and stroll towards Kensington Gardens. Inseparable, they were the very picture of newlywedded bliss. Exiting by the southwest gate, they made their way to Piccadilly. Upon entering the Duke's residence, the aforementioned hound came bounding out, offering Cavendish a few introductory bites before turning its affections to Alicia, fawning and fussing in a most undignified manner. "Wretched beast," Cavendish grumbled, "and to think, I was the one who gave it to you." He had quite forgotten. It had been some years ago, when Alicia was about thirteen, and her grandfather's old hound had passed on to that great kennel in the sky. Fearing her distress, he had searched high and low for a replacement, eventually settling on a creature with identical markings. He had presented it to her with a flourish, "Alicia, Alicia, this little dog is just like you, quiet and clever." It appeared his judgment had been, shall we say, somewhat flawed. Cavendish cast a withering look at the dog, Pip, who was perpetually in a state of exuberant activity, except, naturally, when it came to him. Alicia, for her part, watched this little tableau with quiet amusement. She remembered everything. After a visit with Alicia's parents, the Duke inquired whether she desired any additional embellishments for their new home, citing examples such as a bronze chandelier or a marble statue. Alicia, quite delighted, selected two. It was becoming increasingly apparent that they were truly independent now. Next, they proceeded north to Burlington House, where they found the Earl of Burlington basking in the sun, accompanied by the Marquess of Stafford. It was arranged that they would dine at her grandfather's the following evening. Lady Diana was quite pleased with her only son. He had finally seen this marriage through to its proper conclusion, though she remained rather mystified as to how he had managed it. They ventured to the fashionable shops of Oxford Street and Bond Street. Cavendish mentioned that his father, Lord Cavendish, was planning to construct an entire shopping arcade. That would certainly be more convenient in the future. Lady Diana occasionally found the journey to those two streets rather tiresome, and Burlington House was frequently subjected to the indignity of having oyster shells tossed into its courtyard. "Perhaps a year? And it shall be completed." What would they be like by then, she wondered? And so, the day was whiled away, culminating in a visit to Marylebone Park, where they ascended Primrose Hill, surveying the whole of London's northern outskirts. As for Cavendish, the gentlemen's clubs of St. James's Street were, for the time being, utterly forgotten. That is, until he learned the identity of the scoundrel behind the wager and the ensuing rumors. Whenever he wished to accomplish something, he merely had to let the word out, and someone would inevitably step forward with an olive branch. A letter from Earl Percy, received just before his departure, also pointed to the same individual. William Cavendish, upon seeing the name, was not in the least surprised. He had merely assumed it would be one of Alicia's rejected suitors. Pol-Wellesley, or rather, Long-Wellesley, as he was now styled. A more conceited, reckless, impulsive fellow one could scarcely imagine. He never considered anything with an ounce of sense, treating everything with a shocking degree of levity. It was this very flippancy that had led him to make those outrageous remarks during a drinking bout, encouraging Lord Percy to pursue Alicia, and even spreading false rumors. Cavendish had a history with this particular specimen of humanity. It went back six years, to a diplomatic mission. Pol-Wellesley, then a mere sixteen years of age, had been bundled off on a tour of Europe, having made himself thoroughly unwelcome in England due to his involvement with women, excessive drinking, gambling, and a mountain of debt. With his silver tongue, inflated ego, memorized Shakespearean quotes, proficiency in dance, and practiced flirtations, he had managed to carve out a reputation for himself on the Continent, much to his own satisfaction. Cavendish had always despised him, considering him nothing more than a hollow, foolish creature. He had thought his vices were limited to drinking, gambling, frequenting brothels, and seducing married women. After the old Duchess of Devonshire fell gravely ill, he returned to England from Constantinople and attended her funeral. Coincidentally, the wife of Ambassador Charles Arbuthnot had passed away during childbirth, leaving him utterly devastated and neglecting his duties. With Cavendish's departure, the position of Chief Secretary fell vacant. And so, Pol-Wellesley was thrust into the role. He possessed not a shred of genuine talent, but, puffed up by the flattery of two Russian princesses, he deluded himself into believing he was capable of anything. Thus, he decided to threaten the Ottoman Foreign Minister, demanding that he make peace with Russia, or else he, Pol-Wellesley, would declare war on behalf of Great Britain. The sealed letter containing this preposterous ultimatum was intercepted by William Cavendish, who had just arrived back at the port. He examined the document, bearing his own name and seal (Wellesley's official appointment had not yet been finalized), and, with a furrowed brow, proceeded to open it. Rushing back to the embassy, he overheard Pol-Wellesley boasting about the great feat he was about to accomplish. The embassy staff and entourage watched as the dark-haired, blue-eyed man, still in his traveling cloak and hat, strode in with a grim expression. The two footmen opened the doors. Removing his gloves, the young and audacious Pol-Wellesley turned, his smile freezing on his face as he met Cavendish's gaze. Neither he nor anyone else in the room had time to react. Without a word, Cavendish marched over, seized him by the collar, and delivered a powerful punch. This was followed by another, equally forceful blow. Pol-Wellesley finally regained his senses, and the two began to grapple. Naturally, Cavendish, being four years older, had the upper hand. "You wished to start a war with the Turks? Without the Ambassador's knowledge or Parliament's consent!" William Cavendish, the very picture of elegance and composure in the eyes of others, had completely abandoned all pretense of gentlemanly conduct. "Do you have any idea what war is, you imbecile!" Had he ever been to a battlefield? He had. It was hell on earth. And yet, here was someone who wanted to start a war for no good reason. He rained down blows upon him. "You mentioned our warships in the harbor? You think that's leverage? If war breaks out, what do you propose to do with our navy?" Cavendish was beside himself with fury. He had never encountered such a blockhead. Had he learned nothing in a year and a half? Did he not understand diplomacy? He actually thought he could threaten them? Did he truly believe the Turks wouldn't dare to fight back? He was practically handing them a loaded weapon. An unprepared and unprovoked exchange of fire would result in significant casualties. Hundreds of men, hundreds of families plunged into mourning. Poor Mr. Pol-Wellesley had two teeth knocked out and a mouth full of blood, but this was a mere trifle compared to the catastrophe he had nearly caused. Those who understood the gravity of the situation did not dare to intervene, partly because they believed he deserved it. He had done this behind everyone's backs! William Cavendish shuddered to think what might have happened if he had not returned in time. It was obvious: war between Britain and Turkey, the emergency evacuation of British residents and the embassy staff, the twelve warships in the harbor bombarded, heavy casualties. Such a humiliating defeat, following the Battle of Trafalgar, would have caused an uproar in Britain. The Ambassador would have faced an inquiry in Parliament, his diplomatic career in ruins. William Cavendish's diplomatic journey had thus come to an unpleasant end. The incident was suppressed. Ambassador Charles Arbuthnot, deeply shaken, submitted a formal apology to Parliament. He escorted Pol-Wellesley back to England, despite the latter's connections to the influential Wellesley family. But the other party was a Cavendish. As the one who had been assaulted, Mr. Pol-Wellesley had no choice but to swallow his pride and, accompanied by his father and uncle, offer an apology to William Cavendish. He had never forgiven him, merely casting him a cold glance. From that day forward, Pol-Wellesley was firmly established on his list of most detested individuals. He could not fathom how anyone could be so utterly devoid of sense, and the man had shown no genuine remorse. There was no point in reasoning with such a person, Cavendish decided. He was quite right about that. Upon learning of his role in this latest affair, William Cavendish had no desire for any sort of conversation. He simply chose an opportune moment to spill his drink on the man, raising an eyebrow, "You spilled my wine. Jackson's Saloon, boxing, shall we?" He had issued a challenge, a matter of honor, and Mr. Long-Wellesley, now burdened with his wife's surname, could not refuse. This development led to the two men being escorted to the club on Bond Street. William Cavendish gave him a thorough thrashing. He knew him well: impulsive, full of weaknesses, impatient, and prone to relying on foolish schemes. Mr. Long-Wellesley was utterly humiliated. "You really haven't improved at all, have you?" Cavendish remarked, giving him a slight kick. In comparison, he was almost starting to like Earl Percy. Passing a mirror, he examined himself, then frowned. Alicia had recently become quite friendly with Mrs. Long-Wellesley. She was a petite woman, universally liked, possessed of a gentle nature, and devoted to numerous charitable causes. Before her marriage, she had been known as the "Wiltshire Heiress," the wealthiest commoner in England, with an income exceeding forty thousand pounds a year. Ignoring all warnings and anonymous letters, she had married Pol-Wellesley for love. He was a notorious rake, known for his boorish and dissolute behavior. Yet she loved and respected him deeply. She was not entirely ignorant of his past, but after he confessed his previous transgressions, she forgave him. William Cavendish felt a great deal of sympathy for Mrs. Long-Wellesley. By his standards, she was a good person. The mere thought of her being tied to such a villain for life filled him with despair. This latest dispute and brawl would undoubtedly make things awkward between Alicia and her new friend. He punched himself in the face, looking in the mirror. When Alicia returned, she found her husband, who had been perfectly fine earlier in the day, with a split lip and a bruised eye. She cradled his face in her hands, examining his injuries. Cavendish let out a hiss. Fetching some medicine from the nurse, Alicia proceeded to tend to his wounds herself. Cavendish was secretly delighted. He suppressed a smile, realizing this was an unexpected perk. He whined, playing up his pain, "It hurts. Someone hit me." Then, turning the truth on its head, "Long-Wellesley. It's all his fault," he pouted. Alicia raised an eyebrow, "I heard it was you who provoked him, bumped into him on purpose." Cavendish fell silent for a moment, then mumbled, "I had my reasons." "Uh-huh." Alicia mentioned that Catherine, Mrs. Long-Wellesley, had not expressed any displeasure or blamed her. She assumed it was just some sort of manly challenge. Long-Wellesley had spoken ill of him to his wife, but, feeling guilty, he had not revealed the true reason. He had always been jealous of William Cavendish, who constantly outshone him, even at their wedding. Later that evening, Alicia pressed on his wound, causing Cavendish to wince in pain. He was convinced she did it on purpose; she was clearly displeased. "You're not going to go off and fight a duel with pistols, are you?" Alicia asked suddenly. "Of course not. I'm not that foolish." He looked at her. "Are you worried about me?" Cavendish asked, batting his eyelashes with a grin. She pressed down hard on the corner of his eyebrow. He sucked in a sharp breath. She soothed him with a kiss on his lips. Then pulled away, light and teasing, a delightful torture. "Does it hurt?" Alicia traced his injuries with her fingers. He began to play the victim, tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill. "What do you think?" She leaned down, her body pressing against his. Since moving to this new residence, they enjoyed a newfound freedom. "Then why do you like fighting so much?" Alicia recalled the incident at the carnival, the taste of blood in her mouth when she kissed him. "Instinct," he murmured in her ear, "Just like I like to..." He chuckled softly. Alicia blushed furiously, looking at him. She realized that their harmonious and playful dynamic was quite rare indeed.