Chapter 47: Another World

November, as it always did, brought with it a swift descent into darkness. Sensible folk, rather than braving the perils of travel, tended to remain indoors. After all, venturing out at night was hardly considered safe, even in the most civilized of shires. Thus, the family's time was largely consumed within the sprawling confines of Chatsworth House. Upon their return, a flurry of social engagements had been orchestrated, the Duchess of Devonshire having graciously granted her daughter carte blanche in the matter. Alicia, it must be said, managed these affairs with commendable skill, though she displayed a marked lack of enthusiasm for the endeavor. Aside from the occasional obligatory visit to neighboring estates, their days were largely devoted to the quiet routines of domestic life. The family existed in a state of blissful isolation, each member pursuing their own particular fancies. The Duke, having finally conquered his internal reservations, had come to accept his son-in-law. He could, after all, perceive his daughter's happiness, or, at the very least, her considerable fondness for the fellow. As for the two youngsters sharing a bedchamber, well, the Duke was hardly one to raise an eyebrow. Young, deeply infatuated… it was only natural. Beyond the undeniable pleasures of the flesh, their union was characterized by a profound contentment of spirit, a meeting of minds and souls. As the weather grew increasingly inclement, and despite the ever-blazing hearths, Alicia clearly preferred the warmth of his embrace. She was quite content to drape herself upon him, he to hold her close, observing as she drifted off to sleep. Their combined energies were… substantial, to say the least. He, however, had learned the art of restraint, as well as the undeniable appeal of… variety. Boredom, after all, was a fate he wished to spare her at all costs. Alicia, in turn, maintained a refreshing sense of novelty. His cravat, for instance, might find itself employed as a blindfold, reducing her world to a hazy, luminous white. Senses, thus heightened, became both familiar and thrillingly strange. His lips, teeth, and tongue were intimacies she knew well, as were his murmured endearments. He took her hand, guiding it to his face. A sweep of his long eyelashes against her side, the delicate skin of her inner thigh receiving the devoted attention of his lips, her hand firmly clasped in his, a gentle, rhythmic stroking. He knew her body intimately, with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Her fingertips traced the curve of his hip, and Cavendish watched as, beneath the crisp white linen of her nightdress, her own lips bloomed a vivid, inviting crimson. A tremor, a release, and he returned to her, her fingers finding his lips in a tentative exploration. He met her halfway, a soft kiss, a lingering taste at the corner of her mouth. Laughter, then, and a shared immersion in this gentle intimacy. The nights were sufficiently long, and they often slept foot-to-foot, she facing him, he clasping her hand against his heart. As dawn tentatively approached, Alicia's eyes fluttered open, her leg still draped casually over his. Sitting upright, a cascade of golden hair tumbling down, she paused, observing him for a moment, before deciding a glass of light ale was in order. William Cavendish shifted, a frown creasing his brow. He grasped her wrist, murmuring her name, "Ally." With a sigh of patient indulgence, Alicia lay back down, allowing him to pull her into his embrace. He was talking in his sleep, clearly agitated, his hand reaching out into the air as if searching for something. She watched his outstretched hand, then gently hooked her fingers around his. She sought to soothe him. Cavendish finally awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, his gaze meeting his wife's calm, steady eyes. "Are you awake?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. He softened, a fragile smile touching his lips. "Did I wake you?" "No," Alicia shook her head. "A bit loud, though." She propped herself up on one elbow, studying him with concern. "What's wrong?" Cavendish gazed at her, then pulled her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Something was clearly amiss. Alicia could feel his heart hammering against her, a frantic, uneven rhythm. Their breaths mingled, a counterpoint of calm and agitation. "I dreamt I lost you," he confessed, his fingers tracing the strands of her golden hair, as if reassuring himself of her presence. "What?" He was reluctant to release her, and she, truth be told, had no inclination to rise just yet. In his dream, he had found himself in another world, a world where he had no cousin, where his uncle remained unmarried. He had searched for her desperately, frantically, but to no avail. It was a desolate landscape, a reflection of the solitary existence he had always envisioned for himself. Everything in his life that had been touched by her presence had faded, vanished, as if it had never existed. Alicia, his Ally, was gone. William Cavendish, his voice heavy with a newfound melancholy, recounted the harrowing details. "Without you… why?" The version of himself in that other world was even more dissolute than his present self, utterly devoid of any attachments. He was a rake, a cynic, despising everything, yet consumed by a profound emptiness. "I can't imagine life without you," he murmured, drawing her closer, the warmth of their skin a tangible reassurance. He saw the vibrant gold of her hair, the bright blue of her eyes, vivid and real, and the world around them regained its proper hue. But now, she was his, and they had each other. Alicia understood the dream, and the fear it had instilled in her cousin. "Without me?" she considered this, a faint hint of regret in her voice. She kissed his lips, a gentle, reassuring pressure. He seemed still lost in the echoes of his nightmare. With patient tenderness, she continued to soothe him. "But I'm here, Will." The shortened daylight hours were always a trial, from November all the way through March. Her own spirits tended to flag during this period, and her cousin, it seemed, was similarly affected. Alicia leaned against him, and he finally seemed to awaken fully, his hand cupping the back of her head, his kiss returning with a desperate hunger. Their bodies pressed together, the girl's legs entwining with his, sinking into the mattress and the piled blankets. The him of that other world was a truly pathetic creature. In this blissful, undulating reality, Cavendish thought, he was undeniably, irrevocably happy. This minor episode did not, thankfully, morph into a recurring nightmare. Whenever the memory surfaced, he had only to gaze upon her closed eyes, her cascade of golden hair, and the anxiety would dissipate, replaced by a relieved smile, his gaze caressing her features. How incredibly fortunate he was. That they should find each other, against all odds. November passed in this cocoon of intimacy, confined largely to Chatsworth, rather than traversing the entirety of England, yet it was, undeniably, exquisite. The two were inseparable. They inspected their lands, rode horses, strolled along the riverbank, hands clasped behind their backs, sharing laughter and conversation. They drove carriages – she, with a flick of the whip, expertly managing the horses – went fishing on fine days, assisted the Duke in tending to the greenhouse, ensuring the survival of his precious flora through the winter, accompanied the Duchess on visits to the poorhouse, attended services at the parish church, called upon tenants, and discussed the necessary repairs to farmhouses. William Cavendish had become utterly integrated into the family. The Duke and Duchess regarded him as an indispensable member. Alicia would wait for him to join her for breakfast, allowing him to select her attire for the day. He, in turn, would fasten her corset, meticulously adjusting the measurements in her notebook, noting with a hint of pride that she had grown half an inch. They played billiards, she at the pianoforte, he singing along. They wrote family theatricals, rehearsing lines, he assisting her with the creation of costumes, even gamely dressing up as a fairy. They played chess, completed puzzles, decorated tables, engaged in needlework, wielded tree branches as makeshift swords in mock duels, and practiced archery in the courtyard. Happiness. There was no greater happiness than this. Alicia had a treehouse, built with the assistance of the Duke. As a child, she would perch there, gazing down at him. Cavendish, astride his horse, would observe the girl with her tousled golden hair, utterly unconcerned with her appearance, covered in dirt and grime. "You're here." Even then, he had known that his cousin was no lady. Later, upon encountering her again, he would tease her for her attempts at decorum. She, in turn, would surreptitiously kick him under the dining table. Cavendish's expression shifted. "What is it, cousin?" Alicia inquired, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She kicked him again, a playful tap. He could only scowl, feigning offense. How could he possibly bully a mere slip of a girl? Alicia would invite him up to her treehouse, but he, naturally, would refuse to stoop to such childish things. Cavendish, now, ducked his head as he followed her inside, taking in the various collections: a knife with a bone handle, a bear pelt, antlers. He teased her, calling her a "Viking," a fitting moniker, given her hair color. In doing so, he promptly bumped his head. "You were very mean before, and you still are," Alicia remarked, attempting to climb further up the ladder, in search of her slingshot. He felt a blush creeping up his neck, a mixture of embarrassment and lingering resentment. In the past, he would have retorted, "Yes, Ally, and you were no better." Cavendish stood beneath the tree, shielding his eyes from the sun, squinting as he looked up at her. "You shot me with that slingshot." He, too, had a long memory. He had been engaged in conversation, and she, concealed within the foliage, had struck him. Cavendish, clutching his head, had barely managed to maintain his composure, refusing to expose her. "You called me a little savage," Alicia reminded him, having reached the top of the treehouse. She had not forgotten their verbal sparring. When she was around eleven, Cavendish would lament the disappearance of his sweet, docile cousin. However, after the death of the old Duchess of Devonshire, Alicia had undergone a remarkable transformation, becoming noticeably more mature. He, in some ways, wished she had remained as she was. "Found it," she announced, brandishing the slingshot with its leather strap. Her face reappeared, her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. Her youthful features were now infused with a burgeoning beauty, a captivating blend of innocence and allure. Her chin was pointed, her cheeks still held a hint of youthful fullness, and her bright blue eyes, though wide and innocent, were upturned at the corners, hinting at a mischievous spirit. She was backlit by the sun, emerging from the autumnal bleakness, vibrant and full of life. Cavendish's lips curved into a warm, contented smile. "I'm going to jump down, and you're going to catch me," Alicia declared, perched on the edge of the treehouse. William Cavendish was momentarily alarmed, then quickly composed himself. "Don't you dare—" Her skirts billowed as she leaped, with utter, unwavering trust, into the void. He caught her, securely, in his arms. She had trusted him completely. Alicia wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing unrestrainedly. He wanted to scold her, but instead, a helpless smile spread across his face. She was utterly mad, and in that respect, they were kindred spirits. The only difference was that her gaze often held a cool detachment, while he was more outwardly expressive. She leaned down and kissed him, a breathtaking, dizzying kiss. Finally, he lowered her to the ground, their lips still locked, leaning against the tree for support. He cradled her head protectively. What a joyous, blissful kiss. At times, she was like an elusive nightingale, at others, a soaring lark. At night, she was like a fish, slippery and playful, teasing him relentlessly. She would hug him from behind, her hands exploring mischievously. She would approach him from the side, observing his reactions with keen interest. Sometimes her face was impassive, other times radiating a cunning intelligence. He could never quite decipher her, but he knew, without a doubt, that she loved him. It was evident in every detail. He rarely asked Alicia that question anymore – do you love me? – nor did he resort to feigned pleas for affection. Because, even without doing anything, she was utterly devoted to him, seemingly never tiring of his body. They shared countless kisses each day, some born of habit, others of a renewed, exhilarating novelty. Her every action proclaimed her love. This idyllic existence continued for a month, after which the newlyweds bid farewell to their family and embarked on a short excursion to Bath. The journey from Derbyshire to Somerset took two days and a night, with a stop at an inn along the way. Alicia, having traveled a fair amount, was accustomed to such journeys. The most significant news of the moment was Napoleon's catastrophic defeat in Russia. The tidings had spread throughout Europe and, naturally, reached England. The once-mighty Emperor's decline was now undeniable. He had lost nearly 570,000 men in Russia, with only 30,000 retreating, effectively decimating the elite French cavalry and artillery. This development came as no surprise to the couple, though they were astonished by the extent of the French losses during the retreat, ambushed and decimated. Napoleon's power was utterly shattered. Cavendish was busy managing his investments, buying and selling bonds. This momentous event had prompted an early reconvening of Parliament in London, with members flocking to the city to discuss the next course of action. They planned to spend two weeks in Bath before returning to London. Alicia, perhaps, would enjoy a soak in the thermal baths. It was, after all, beneficial for one's health, and bathing during the winter months was less frequent and carried the risk of catching a chill. Bath's thermal springs were the perfect solution. Like many members of the aristocracy, they rented a residence in the Royal Crescent. As their heraldic-emblazoned carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses and escorted by footmen and outriders, entered the city of Bath, the onlookers – both residents and visitors – gathered to witness the spectacle, whispering amongst themselves. It was immediately apparent that a personage of considerable importance had arrived in the little city of Bath.