Chapter 43: Progeny

Alicia remembered the affair well enough. Ten years prior, the couple had met and fallen quite hopelessly in love. However, as the gentleman was merely a second son, and the lady the only daughter of the Earl of Bessborough, such a match was deemed wholly unsuitable. One did not, after all, simply toss the heiress of an earldom at a spare. Their courtship, thus impeded, had stretched on for three agonizing years, punctuated by clandestine meetings arranged under the most creative of pretenses. Alicia, a mere slip of a girl of ten, had often been an unwitting accomplice. Her great-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire, would pay calls upon Alicia's aunt, dragging young Alicia along to sketch in Hyde Park. A perfectly innocent activity, which just so happened to facilitate the exchange of impassioned letters and stolen glances between Lady Caroline and William Lamb. Then, in a twist worthy of the most melodramatic of stage plays, the elder Mr. Lamb had the unfortunate decency to expire from a sudden illness. And poof, William was no longer a mere second son, but the heir apparent to Viscount Melbourne. Caroline's parents, predictably, found the match considerably more palatable. Their wedding, in June of 1805, had been the talk of the ton. She, a vision of nineteen, all grace and beauty; he, a dashing twenty-six, brimming with wit and vigor. It was, by all accounts, an idyllic beginning. Until, that is, it wasn't. A year later, Caroline suffered a stillbirth, a blow from which she never fully recovered. Though she delivered a son, George Augustus, two years hence, another two years brought a premature daughter, who perished within a day. Tragedy, it seemed, had taken a particular liking to the Melbournes. As young George Augustus grew, he displayed…peculiarities. A euphemism, to be sure, for the sort of affliction that polite society deemed a family disgrace. Yet Caroline, with a fierce protectiveness that defied convention, refused to consign her son to an asylum. This, naturally, did little to endear her to William's family. His sister, Emily, Lady Cowper, and their mother, Lady Melbourne, harbored a profound dislike for Caroline and her mother, the Countess of Bessborough. A viper's nest of resentments, to be sure. They referred to Caroline as "the little beast," and the situation with George only served to deepen the animosity. Caroline, already frail, found herself further burdened by the relentless pressure to produce a healthy heir. Her upbringing, marked by a certain…nervous sensibility, left her craving emotional support from her husband. William, however, immersed himself in the turbulent waters of politics, seemingly oblivious to his wife's distress. A chasm, once a mere crack, began to widen between them. The joyous spark of their early years, extinguished by the cruel realities of childbirth and familial discord. Three years later, Lord Byron entered the scene, and Caroline, with a penchant for the dramatic, promptly fell head over heels, igniting a scandal that shook the very foundations of London society. Seven years of marriage, ten years of courtship, seemingly destined for a most unromantic end. William's mother and sister, naturally, clamored for a divorce. He refused, in a rare display of self-awareness, perhaps realizing his own role in the marital disintegration. He applied for the post of Chief Secretary for Ireland, whisking his wife away to the relative tranquility of Dublin, far from the gossiping tongues of the English mainland. Having untangled this intricate web of familial woes, the newlyweds exchanged a look of profound bewilderment. William Cavendish, brow furrowed in consternation, could scarcely imagine a similar fate befalling himself and Alicia. Yet, had Caroline and William Lamb envisioned such a tragic trajectory seven years prior, at their wedding? He, a mere nineteen at the time, had been in attendance. Affairs of the heart, it seemed, were notoriously unpredictable. Cavendish stared at the passionate letter in his hands, a stark reminder of love's ephemeral nature. Alicia, observing her husband's pensive demeanor, suddenly declared, "We should send this letter to Ireland." William Cavendish, startled, folded the missive. The notion struck him as remarkably sound. He resealed it, handing it to a footman with instructions for the Viceregal Lodge in Dublin, specifying the addressee. "Alicia," he began, fiddling with the lacquer seals on the mantelpiece, his voice laced with a newfound anxiety. Alicia, propped against the sofa's backrest, merely raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" "Any difficulties we encounter…we can overcome them, can't we?" The clinking of the seals punctuated his unease. He could not fathom Alicia enduring the horrors of stillbirth, premature labor, or the loss of a child. He recalled, with a shudder, the image of his own mother cradling the lifeless body of his infant sister, her cries echoing through the halls. Such tragedies were, lamentably, not uncommon in the delicate dance of childbirth. Not to mention the perils of difficult labor, excessive bleeding, or the dreaded puerperal fever. And the pressure…the crushing pressure for an heir. It was, he realized, the uncertainty and the cruel whims of fate that had truly undone Caroline and William. Difficulties? Alicia pondered. Given her cousin's propensity for anxiety, she had no doubt that anything could constitute a difficulty. Refusing him access to her bed, withholding a kiss – these, she suspected, would be deemed calamities of the highest order. He approached, kneading her neck with gentle fingers, his gaze lost in thought. Alicia, accustomed to his touch, allowed him this moment of tactile contemplation, while she continued to read. William Cavendish, meanwhile, meticulously plotted a course of action. He resolved, with unwavering determination, to practice the art of…prevention. Should their families raise any…inquiries…regarding their lack of progeny, he would shoulder the blame. "Alicia," he asked, a flicker of uncertainty in his voice, "do you…like children?" He, personally, did not. Even Alicia, in her angelic childhood, had struck him as rather…demanding. He harbored a distinct aversion to the entire breed. The girl tilted her head, her gaze tracing the contours of her cousin's face – dark hair, blue eyes, long lashes, an aquiline nose, and full lips. He blushed under her scrutiny, a slow, creeping crimson that warmed his cheeks. "I never saw you as a child," Alicia stated, a note of judiciousness in her voice. Therefore, she could not form an opinion. Ah, yes. Their first meeting had occurred when he was a lad of fourteen. William Cavendish's lips curved into a smile, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He tilted his head. A surge of exhilaration coursed through him. "Does Bentinck count?" Alicia mused, recalling the dark hair and blue eyes of their cousin, a striking resemblance shared by all three. "You are not to think of him!" Cavendish, jolted from his reverie, exclaimed. "I have portraits, Alicia." He was, in fact, quite put out. "I do not believe you haven't seen it" The very idea of her using Titchfield as a point of reference was utterly mortifying. "I don't remember," Alicia replied with disarming honesty. Portraits, after all, were notoriously unreliable. Her memory held only the image of his youthful countenance. With childish petulance, he insisted she accompany him. "You have no engagements for the day, do you? Then come with me to Burlington House!" He bundled her in her coat and cloak, and before she could fully comprehend the situation, she was being bundled into the carriage. The journey to Burlington House was a mere ten minutes, a whirlwind of swift motion. He lifted her down, his gaze lingering on her face, framed by the hood, and bestowed upon her a resounding kiss, his face alight with glee. He led her, with an almost frantic eagerness, to the first-floor gallery, a grand, imposing space lined with generations of family portraits. Cavendish gestured towards a painting on the left. "There!" It depicted a sickly-looking gentleman of middle age, his countenance pale and refined. Seated upon his knee was a small, dark-haired boy, his deep blue eyes sparkling with mirth, a lace-trimmed garment adorning his cherubic frame, a smile gracing his lips. This was Cavendish's maternal grandfather, the Duke of Bedford, who had passed away at a young age. He had been of frail health. His mother was the sister of the Duke of Marlborough (Alicia's grandmother's grandfather was the Duke's brother). His father, after the early death of his first wife, married the daughter of Earl Gower (Alicia's maternal grandfather's aunt). He inherited a substantial fortune from his maternal grandmother, the formidable Sarah Churchill. He married the second daughter of the Duke of Richmond, and had only one surviving child, Lady Diana. After the passing of Diana's mother, he remarried, but no further heirs were produced. This grandson, therefore, represented the sole continuation of his lineage. And so, he bequeathed to him a vast and readily accessible fortune. Lady Diana, a woman of considerable intelligence, secured full ownership and control of the inheritance after a lengthy discussion with her father. In 1793, the sum amounted to a staggering 1.2 million pounds. She had broken off her engagement to the Duke of Northumberland, choosing instead to marry into a cadet branch of the Cavendish family, primarily to safeguard her considerable wealth. The then Lord Cavendish, three years her junior, was utterly besotted. Their eldest son was born a mere five months after their wedding. Thus, Cavendish could scarcely imagine Percy, Earl of Northumberland, as his brother. The very thought, should his mother actually have married the Duke of Northumberland, was utterly appalling. William Cavendish's birth, it seemed, was less a matter of romantic destiny and more a product of intricate power dynamics and carefully negotiated compromises. He happened to be a boy, bearing both the Russell and Cavendish names. This, at the age of fourteen, propelled him to the next stage: he would become the future heir to the Duke of Devonshire. With the combined wealth of his maternal grandfather and paternal grandparents, and the extensive lineage of his mother – Bedford, Richmond, Marlborough, and so on – the old Duke of Devonshire would undoubtedly agree to designate him as heir presumptive. Such a union would vastly expand the family's lands and fortune. William Cavendish had never truly been master of his own destiny. Despite possessing seemingly everything, he was, like the rumors surrounding his mother's infidelity at his birth, forever on display, subject to the scrutiny and judgment of others. He was profoundly grateful, however, to have Alicia. This cousin, who shared his birthright, his burdens of observation and critique. With her, he felt a profound sense of solace, a lessening of his isolation. He dared not contemplate a life without her. Alicia studied the portrait of the four or five-year-old boy, his features softer, his hair curled in gentle waves. He nestled beside his grandfather, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his impending destiny. "Will our child look like this?" Alicia inquired, comparing the portrait to her husband's features. William Cavendish's face flushed scarlet. He stammered, "Perhaps…yes, exactly the same." He instantly regretted his words. "Oh, no, more like you. Or…perhaps…a blend of both." He babbled incoherently, clutching at his hair in a display of utter fluster. Alicia emitted a soft chuckle. William Cavendish's full name was William George Augustus John Cavendish. Alicia's, in turn, was Alicia Anne Elizabeth Georgiana Frances Cavendish. Their middle names, a tribute to their respective ancestors. They proceeded to examine the portraits, a chronological record of his life, from childhood to youth. He had served in the army, resplendent in his Hussar uniform; he had graduated from university, clad in his academic robes; he had become a Member of Parliament, and he had been called to the bar. These portraits represented the nine years that separated him from Alicia. "I am, perhaps, a little old," Cavendish admitted with a touch of ruefulness. Alicia, after all, possessed, at most, barely half the number of formal portraits. Portraits were, primarily, commemorative. He had simply lived…too long. However, in future portraits, he would stand beside her, as her husband. Alicia remained silent, taking his hand. He entwined his little finger with hers, a smile playing on his lips. "If it's a boy, it seems we'll have to name him William George," Alicia mused after their perusal of the gallery. Her maternal grandfather was named George, while her grandfather and father were both William, without middle names. Cavendish's grandfather was named George Augustus, and his father was William. Naming, it appeared, was a rather thorny issue. After much deliberation, it seemed simplest to stick with William Cavendish. It was no wonder the name persisted through each generation. He felt a tangible surge of happiness. By the window, Lady Diana observed the newlyweds strolling through the garden. She had heard whispers of their shared bedroom, but refrained from inquiry. The younger generation, it seemed, had their own…modern…ways of navigating the intricacies of marriage. She was, in fact, quite pleased with the match, which had met her expectations. She recalled, with a suppressed smile, her only son's fervent vow, twelve years prior, that he would never marry. William Cavendish, of course, had no recollection of ever uttering such a pronouncement. Should he recall his declaration that he would rather die on the battlefield or leap from London Bridge than marry that little chit, he would undoubtedly be mortified. Upon their return journey, after bidding farewell to his family, Cavendish sought confirmation, his brow creased with worry. "So…you do like children?" Alicia liked the appearance shared with her cousin, but not the same personality – troublesome, jealous, and suspicious. One of him was quite sufficient. She could scarcely imagine managing several. However, observing his anxious expression, she decided to offer a gentle nod of affirmation. Cavendish elaborated on his perspective. "Of course, Alicia, it's not that I wish to keep you entirely to myself, nor am I complaining or fearing that you'll divide your attention between me and a child. Well, perhaps a little." He kissed her cheek. He seized every opportunity for such displays of affection. Alicia gazed out the window, her head tilted slightly. "But…I am more concerned for you." He fiddled with the ribbons of her bonnet, his voice laced with apprehension. Alicia initially attributed his anxiety to the lingering trauma of Aunt Harriet's difficult labor. After a brief explanation, she understood that the tribulations of Cousin Caroline had only amplified his fears. She herself remained indifferent to the matter of contraception. Of her family, only her mother was aware of their current…arrangement. The Duchess, though outwardly composed, was somewhat surprised. She had intended to impart this particular piece of wisdom after her daughter had produced an heir, allowing her the freedom to choose. She had not anticipated…this. Her eyes softened, and she regarded her son-in-law with a newfound appreciation. Perhaps a few more years of solely wedded bliss wouldn't be amiss. "But…if we remain childless for an extended period, won't our families begin to…question?" Alicia mused, recalling that most of her female relatives had faced similar scrutiny. Two years of marriage without the slightest hint of an impending arrival, and one was promptly subjected to a barrage of concerned inquiries and recommendations for medical consultations. Lineage was of paramount importance to the aristocracy, even though childlessness, infant mortality, and the extinction of family lines were lamentably common. Many dukedoms, marquessates, and baronies had vanished for lack of an heir. "I have an idea," William Cavendish whispered, leaning close, his breath tickling her ear. Alicia listened, her brow furrowing in contemplation. His audacity made even him blush slightly. "Really?" Alicia pondered his nightly vigor and enthusiasm, juxtaposed against his proposed…explanation. The contrast was, to say the least, rather curious. "It's only a…pretense," he added hastily, his lips pressed together. He was well aware of Alicia's…unconventional…imagination, and he suspected she was already conjuring a multitude of alternative interpretations. "Don't overthink it," he chided, playfully nudging her hands together. "To say it's all your fault? And what, precisely, is the nature of this…fault?" Alicia pressed for specifics. There were, after all, numerous reasons for a lack of offspring. "Good heavens, let us cease this discussion," they bickered playfully, collapsing into each other's arms. He nestled his face against her ear, his voice suddenly serious. "Alicia, I am truly, deeply happy to have you." A life without her would be a nightmare. The girl gazed at his long eyelashes, feeling the warmth of his breath against her skin. Though she did not quite comprehend the sudden shift in topic. But after a moment of reflection, she concurred wholeheartedly. "I am also happy to have you, cousin." They had known each other for at least twelve years, had heard tales of each other for seventeen, their bloodlines and kinship inextricably intertwined.