Chapter 44. The Hunting Season

They rather enjoyed lying together, nestled close after their… exertions. He would stroke her back, a gentle, rhythmic patting. He always drew near, whispering sweet nothings, their faces close enough to count eyelashes. He'd pinch her cheek, nuzzle her hair, and bestow fleeting kisses upon her temple. "You are utterly adorable, Alicia," he'd murmur. Less adorable was the impending hunting season, necessitating a journey to the Marquis of Salisbury's estate. Luggage packed and farewells dispensed, they embarked upon the trek to Hertfordshire. Hatfield House, the ancestral seat of the Cecil family, had once been the childhood residence of Queen Elizabeth I herself. Alicia had always found the red and white edifice rather charming, with its neat lawns, formal gardens, and splashing fountains. Such an estate seemed perfectly normal, even… small, in her estimation, having been raised at Chatsworth. The hunting gathering, orchestrated by the Marchioness, was a highlight of the social calendar. Autumn had sunk its teeth in deep, and the chill was palpable. Traveling attire demanded layers upon layers. Alicia, bundled like a precious package, further insulated by a swan's-down muff and a toasty foot warmer in the carriage, was practically levitated aboard. William Cavendish followed close behind. He took the seat opposite, and they exchanged a smile. Then, of course, he had to squeeze in beside her, an arm possessively around her waist, bestowing a chaste – or perhaps not so chaste – kiss upon her cheek. A four-horse carriage could achieve a speed of twelve miles per hour at its swiftest. The thirty-six-mile distance, therefore, would consume approximately four hours. A stop at a posting inn for a change of horses was planned, conveniently allowing for a cold collation after their morning meal. The Great North Road stretched before them, straight and broad, out of London, making for a relatively smooth journey. The weather, blessedly, remained cooperative, with only a brief, almost apologetic, spattering of rain. Alicia, leaning against him, drifted into a light slumber. She was roused at the posting inn, blinking sleepily. Cavendish, ever the attentive husband, practically carried her down, so encumbered was she by her voluminous outerwear. Inside, in a private parlor, they partook of hot tea, smoked herring, and a surprisingly fresh salad. Alicia, disinclined to extricate her hands from her warm cocoon, was shamelessly fed by her husband. She was no stranger to travel, having journeyed extensively since childhood, yet even a few hours in a carriage could induce a certain… ennui. "Are you in need of a rest, my dear?" Cavendish inquired, his gaze fixed upon her composed, almost severe, countenance. It always made him want to smile. Alicia shifted her gaze, those striking blue eyes considering him. Then, without a word, she simply leaned closer, closed her eyes, and settled into a peaceful sleep against his shoulder. William Cavendish stared down at her, momentarily stunned. The soft fur trim of her pelisse, the porcelain smoothness of her cheek, the gentle rise and fall of her breath… He tilted his head, resting it against hers. Fortunately, this was merely a short hop to Hertfordshire, just north of London. A journey to the more distant northern counties, or, heaven forbid, Scotland, would necessitate an overnight stay at an inn. Inn accommodations were… less than ideal. Fleas were a common complaint, and prudent travelers brought their own linens and blankets. Cavendish recalled, with a fond smile, their trip to the Lake District five years prior. These two months of marriage had wrought a subtle, yet profound, change. They had, it seemed, truly accepted one another. An hour later, they resumed their northward progress. Finally, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Hatfield House came into view. The elderly Marquis and Marchioness were waiting at the entrance to welcome their esteemed guests. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, and then the new arrivals were shown to their respective bedchambers for a period of… refreshment and rearrangement. Separate bedchambers, naturally. Such was the custom amongst the ton. The Marquis of Salisbury, at sixty-four, had been elevated from Earl to Marquis three decades prior. The Marchioness, née Emily Mary Hill, was the daughter of the Marquess of Downshire, and her mother was a sister of the Duke of Leinster. The Duke, in turn, had married the third daughter of the Duke of Richmond – Cavendish's great-aunt. In an era when female participation in the hunt was… unconventional, to say the least, the Marchioness was a notable exception. Not only was she a renowned Tory hostess, but she was also a dedicated devotee of fox hunting, and the first woman to hold the position of Master of Foxhounds, having assumed command of the Hatfield hunt from her husband at the tender age of twenty-five. Her manners and sartorial choices were… idiosyncratic. She often designed her own clothes. Now sixty-two, she was an acquaintance of Alicia's grandmother, the late Countess of Sutherland. Both ladies had shared a passion for riding and hunting. After the Countess's passing, the Marchioness had taken a particular interest in her surviving children, especially the young, unmarried daughter, who required the chaperonage and guidance of female relatives and older matrons. Alicia's grandfather had remained unmarried, and her mother, Miss Anne, had relied on, among others, the Countess of Carlisle, her elderly aunt, and the Marchioness of Salisbury, one of her godmothers. The Marchioness, a woman of conservative views, often clashed with her more radical, Whiggish goddaughter, but after Anne's return from France and the ensuing scandal of her elopement, it was the Marchioness who first hosted a ball to welcome her back into society. She openly admitted her fondness for Anne Elizabeth's character, declaring that she couldn't help but be captivated by those who carried the Sutherland bloodline, three generations strong. Subsequently, with the intervention of Queen Charlotte and another of Anne's aunts, the Duchess of Beaufort, Miss Anne, despite her imprudent actions, was able to reintegrate into London's social circles, unlike some aristocratic women who, having eloped or divorced, found themselves ostracized and excluded from private gatherings. That year, Alicia's uncle, Granville, Miss Anne's brother, passed away, making her the sole heir to her grandfather, father, mother, and great-uncle. Her already substantial dowry of fifty thousand pounds swelled to a staggering one million, and combined with her renowned beauty, made her a highly sought-after prize, even with the prior scandal of her elopement. Yet, with the support of the Duchess of Devonshire, she secretly married the Marquess of Hartington, the eldest son of the Duke of Devonshire and two years her junior. When the news leaked and was officially announced, it naturally caused a considerable stir. Many were disappointed, yet others found their union perfectly logical. Alicia was born into this milieu. Her grandfather was delighted with the match, as who could resist incorporating such a vast fortune into the family coffers? Her father, unlike his present, more settled self, was a quiet, reserved, and somewhat immature nineteen-year-old, a consequence of his strained relationship with his parents and the controlling nature of the old Duke. In this, Alicia resembled him. The old Duchess of Devonshire enjoyed having young ladies visit their home. They were distant cousins, and it was said that they had grown up together, but when Miss Anne was choosing a husband, the Marquess of Hartington was a mere sixteen, and not considered a suitable match by the Earl of Gower, Alicia's grandfather. Miss Anne was therefore betrothed to the Duke of Bedford, but after a series of events, twists and turns of fate, they ended up together after all, a rather remarkable coincidence. The Marchioness had two daughters and a son, all relatively young. Her two daughters had married in recent years. The younger daughter, Emily, had wed just this past May, and Alicia and Cavendish had attended the private ceremony. Settled in, refreshed, and suitably attired, Alicia and Cavendish rejoined the gathering, which now included their parents and a host of other invited aristocrats, all eager to participate in the upcoming fox hunt. Most were those who had lingered in London and had yet to return to their country estates. After a few days at Hatfield, they would conveniently proceed to their own residences or to other holiday destinations. Following dinner, the Cavendish family, as honored guests, were seated near their hosts, engaging in conversation. The Marchioness of Salisbury remarked that, with both her daughters married, and her goddaughter's daughter now a wife as well, time truly did fly. This lady, who had lived life on her own terms for decades, had now reached an age where she could only observe the hunters from the comfort of a carriage, rather than joining them in the chase. Such an evening, naturally, culminated in a ball. Married couples, as a rule, danced together infrequently. Balls were primarily intended for the social interaction of unmarried men and women. Young married ladies, however, often danced, while married men found their refuge in the card rooms, billiard rooms, and discussions about the following day's hunt, complete with wagers on the anticipated quarry. Cavendish and his beautiful new wife danced a set together, a lively melody filling the ballroom as onlookers exchanged amused comments. The visiting young guests, numbering around twenty, exchanged partners. After two dances, he confidently placed Alicia's hand in that of the Marquis of Salisbury's son, the newly-of-age Viscount Cranborne. Ignoring the young man's evident admiration, Cavendish procured a glass of wine and stood to the side, a smile playing on his lips as he observed his wife's graceful movements and elegant posture. He felt a sense of… peace. His earlier jealousy seemed almost comical in retrospect. His insecurities were gradually receding, replaced by a growing certainty that she belonged to him, body and soul, and that no one could easily sway her. The lively party eventually drew to a close. Guests residing nearby departed in their carriages, while those staying overnight bid each other goodnight and retired to their respective rooms. Cavendish, holding a candlestick, found a moment to speak with Alicia. "You're wearing the jewels I gave you," he observed, his gaze drawn to the two pear-shaped aquamarines dangling from her ears, shimmering with a captivating, fluid light. Her pale blue silk gown, equally luminous, was impeccably tailored and trimmed. Her blue eyes met his. "Because you only included those two sets of jewels." "Well, Alicia." She had effortlessly exposed his little scheme. He feigned a complaint, leaning closer, his gaze lingering on her lips, hesitant, yet drawn. Mindful of their location in their host's home, he restrained himself, though with visible effort. The time came to part in the corridor. "Good night." Alicia nodded, accepting the silver candlestick. His fingertips brushed gently against her thumb. "Good night," he echoed, stepping back, disappearing into the shadows. The girl paused, touching the aquamarine at her right ear. She tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. Just as she was about to turn away, the man swiftly reappeared. He swept her into his arms, claiming a long, passionate kiss, his urgency palpable. "Good night, good night," he murmured, slightly breathless, a smile gracing his lips as his thumb traced a path from her neck. "Sweet dreams. I'll be thinking of you… constantly. My Dear." He reluctantly released her, offering a final, heartfelt farewell. Alicia, ensuring he had truly departed this time, let out a soft chuckle. One so unrestrained, the other so composed. One so indulgent, the other so… content. "I missed you terribly last night. Did you miss me?" The following morning, as they walked arm-in-arm, Alicia had donned her dark blue riding habit. She looked dashing, a military-style riding hat perched atop her head, adorned with a single feather, a picture of equestrian elegance. He first inquired about her sleep, then, as they descended the stairs, he surreptitiously asked the question, his free hand caressing the back of hers. Alicia remained silent, simply glancing at him. They greeted the Earl and Countess, then proceeded to breakfast. A fleeting, yet significant, exchange of glances passed between them. The girl tilted her head, a subtle smile curving her lips. Hatfield kept several ponies that Alicia was accustomed to riding. They made their way to the stables. Reaching a secluded spot, he could no longer contain himself. He lifted her into his arms, spinning her around. "You must have been thinking of me, Alicia," Cavendish declared, pressing his forehead against hers, his gaze fixed upon her calm, yet attentive, eyes. "Weren't you?" he pressed, seeking confirmation. "Because I was certainly thinking of you." She didn't evade his gaze, answering with refreshing candor. "Yes. I was indeed thinking of you." His face slowly flushed crimson. "And I dreamt of you," he confessed, his smile widening into a hearty, boisterous laugh. "I knew it!" He kissed her, joyfully, and then kissed her again. They mounted their horses and rode through the fields surrounding the house, a spirited chase ensuing. They were intimately familiar with the grounds of Hatfield House, being so close to London. They had visited on numerous occasions. Cavendish had taken to the hunt at the age of fourteen, initially pursuing grouse and hares. He reflected on his youthful, carefree days, when his companions had scattered across the globe – to the colonies, the West Indies, North America, India, or the Peninsular War. One had tragically perished a few years prior. He had never imagined that, ultimately, it would be Alicia who would share this passion with him. He recalled their first encounter at Wimbledon, when he had attempted to frighten her with a dead hare (though, in a rare display of conscience, not a skinned one). He had expected her to be afraid, looking down on her with a superior smirk. Alicia had pried open the rabbit's mouth, examining it with a serious expression. "This is an adult rabbit," she'd stated. She then questioned his method of breaking its neck. "You should have stunned it, then cut its throat to bleed it." William Cavendish had instantly regretted his actions, frowning and complaining to someone nearby, "This is my little cousin? She's only five!" Memories, it seemed, were endless. Over the past seventeen years, they had left indelible marks upon each other, marks that had deepened considerably in these past two months. The man raised an eyebrow, observing the girl's agile form. After a warm-up ride, and once the company had assembled, the horn sounded, signaling the official commencement of the multi-day hunting event.