Chapter 48. The Dream

Bath. A city overflowing with new money, a veritable symphony of gold. Besides the Roman baths, the Royal Crescent, the Circus, and the Assembly Rooms, it was teeming with holidaymakers and fortune-hunters. It was often said that if a young gentleman wished to find himself a wealthy bride, he need only set his sights on Bath. Before her marriage, Alicia had been largely unapproachable, save to those already within her intimate circle. All that was known of her was that she was a lady of considerable consequence. Moreover, she had not yet made her official debut into society, and her visits to Bath had been marked by a quiet seclusion, always accompanied by her governess, a chaperone, and a footman. Everyone spoke of the arrival of a Duke's daughter, yet no one could put a name, let alone a face, to the rumour. And so, she remained shrouded in a veil of mystery. After making the rounds to visit family and friends who happened to also be in the city, the newlyweds took up residence in a modest (by their standards, at least) dwelling. Their days were filled with leisurely strolls, visits to the spa, concerts, and the obligatory sampling of the mineral waters. This sort of holiday was a customary part of their routine; autumn and winter invariably called for a sojourn in Bath. With the influx of visitors, the Upper and Lower Assembly Rooms in Bath were positively bursting at the seams. Matrons eagerly shepherded their daughters to these gatherings, seeking introductions from Mr. King, the Master of Ceremonies. It was a chance to reconnect with acquaintances and, more importantly, to engineer encounters with eligible young men, perhaps even a dance or two. They had joined the throng on the dance floor several times. Public assembly rooms, unlike the more exclusive private balls held by the aristocracy, were open to a far wider range of individuals. Free from the scrutinizing gazes and whispered gossip behind fluttering fans, the couple had danced four consecutive dances before retiring, hand in hand, to the tea room. Alicia, on occasion, chose to dress with a certain casual elegance, favoring her white gowns and a simple strand of red coral beads. Even amidst the bustling crowds of the Bath Assembly Rooms, she remained a figure of captivating beauty, her tall, slender frame, her cascade of shimmering golden hair, her delicate neck, all accentuated by a long, warm shawl. This deliberate blurring of sartorial lines led many to assume she was still unmarried. Those unfamiliar with her, after repeated sightings of this exquisite beauty, could not help but speculate about her identity. Bath was a city that thrived on ostentation. Young ladies with substantial dowries often adorned themselves with extravagant fabrics, elaborate fans, and glittering jewels, all designed to advertise their considerable worth. They became the targets of ambitious young men, eager to offer their attentions. In such a setting, an exceptional appearance was particularly noteworthy. However, the lack of clarity regarding her dowry served as a temporary impediment. Bath was simply too crowded; a single evening at the assembly rooms could see upwards of a thousand attendees. As luck – or perhaps, ill-luck – would have it, there was no titled aristocrat present who happened to recognize her and, by offering a greeting, inadvertently reveal her status. Furthermore, the couple maintained a remarkably low profile; aside from the carriage that conveyed them back to the Royal Crescent each evening, there were few outward signs of their considerable wealth. (Only the very affluent, or the very foolish, took lodgings on the Royal Crescent.) And so, Alicia acquired a nickname: Miss Mystère – the Mystery Miss. Ladies and gentlemen arriving at the Assembly Rooms were accustomed to scanning the crowd for familiar faces, seeking the comfort of shared conversation. Alicia, however, cared little for such social niceties. Avoiding unnecessary pleasantries afforded her a sense of relief, of freedom. She relished her time alone. Those eager to make her acquaintance, however, found themselves stymied, lacking anyone to perform the necessary introductions. They could only observe from afar, curiosity piqued. Miss Mystère raised a glass of lemonade to her lips, taking a delicate sip. Her movements were the epitome of grace, utterly beyond reproach. She was unaccompanied by any female relative, yet she possessed none of the nervous awkwardness of an unmarried young lady. Nor, however, did she carry herself with the assured air of a matron. She was, in short, an ice maiden. "Excuse me, so sorry." William Cavendish navigated the throng with some difficulty, a small paper parcel clutched in his hand. He'd finally managed to secure a space. He'd gone to purchase a few sweet treats – why he insisted on doing so personally was, perhaps, best understood as a particular… whim of his. And so, he made his way, with all due haste, towards his wife. Across the crowded dance floor, he saw her standing, her exquisite profile illuminated by the candlelight. The delicate flutter of her eyelashes, the serene expression on her face... He could see only her. Her vibrant presence bloomed before him, washing over him in a wave. Cavendish could hear the frantic thump-thump of his own heart. In the fleeting gaps between dancing couples, he traced the lines of her figure, his gaze lingering. If I were to see her for the very first time, right now, he thought, I would fall in love with her just as I have. Alicia turned her head, and her eyes met the rather stunned gaze of her husband. He was dressed in a coat of deep sea-blue, looking exceedingly dashing and remarkably young. Her head tilted slightly, a gesture that instantly melted the icy facade, and a smile, reserved only for him, graced her lips. Cavendish, in turn, beamed, and with an almost boyish eagerness, hurried to her side. He held her hand as he spoke, and she, with a delicate gesture, brought his hand up, taking a small bite of the almond biscuit he offered. She shook her head slightly, a faint frown creasing her brow. "Too sweet," she declared, "not like the ones before." William Cavendish, in years past, when accompanying his younger cousin to Bath, had always taken great pains – one might even say agonized – over the provision of suitable refreshments. Food, naturally, was of paramount importance. He was, in his own way, clumsy, yet he believed himself to be exquisitely attentive, catering to her every need with meticulous (if occasionally misguided) care. The man, with a look of utter disbelief, snatched the crescent-shaped biscuit, bearing the delicate imprint of her teeth, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. "Indeed, it is rather sweet," he conceded, his gaze lingering on her. He then, with a boldness that surprised even himself, took the glass from her hand and drained the remaining lemonade. His eyes, however, were fixed on her lips, now glistening with a hint of lemon-induced moisture. Alicia, with a practiced flick of her wrist, slipped her fan onto her arm and extended her hand, a silent invitation for him to lead her in the next dance, once the current one had concluded. The mystery, at last, was solved. The watchful eyes of the assembled company had reached a verdict: this young lady was, at the very least, betrothed. And, truth be told, she and her companion were a remarkably handsome couple, even if their displays of affection were a trifle… unconventional for a public assembly. But then, for newly enamored lovers, such things were perfectly understandable. Cavendish, oblivious to the subtle shifts in perception around him, beamed and, taking her hand, led her onto the dance floor. "If only one could waltz in London," Cavendish sighed contentedly, leaning back against the plush cushions of the carriage as they made their way home. Alas, their waltzing was confined to the privacy of their own home. "The war should be drawing to a close soon," he remarked. Napoleon's recent defeats made the outcome rather inevitable, didn't they? Though, of course, it would likely drag on for another year at least, before a definitive victor emerged. Given his track record over the past decade, the odds were, at best, evenly split; he held no decisive advantage. The Whigs, typically staunch opponents of the war, having long decried the Prime Minister's exorbitant expenditures on the Peninsular campaign, had now, remarkably, found themselves in rare agreement. However, until the conflict with America concluded, there would be no significant increase in commitment. The British, as was their wont, preferred to maintain a posture of detached observation, occasionally stirring the pot of Continental politics – a very British approach, indeed. They turned their conversation to their future travels, envisioning a sojourn in Paris. William, it must be said, found Paris rather… unsanitary, but he conceded that it was undeniably a hub for theatrical performances, musical concerts, and, of course, the most celebrated artists and writers of the age. They even began to discuss potential lodgings, naturally settling on the vicinity of the Champs-Élysées. And then there was Venice, Florence, Naples – retracing the steps of his earlier Grand Tour. The mere thought of it filled him with a profound sense of contentment. "We could stay for a year, perhaps two," Alicia murmured, tilting her head back to press a light kiss upon his chin, effectively silencing his enthusiastic, if somewhat rambling, projections. Cavendish paused, his hand gently touching the spot where her lips had brushed his skin. He gazed into her clear, bright eyes, now nestled within the curve of his arm, and, without a word, swept her into a passionate, if somewhat clumsy, embrace, showering her with kisses. Winter was making its presence definitively known. She stepped from the carriage, enveloped in a thick fur coat. He rubbed his hands together briskly, his breath forming a small cloud in the crisp air. Snow was imminent, and with it, their return to London. Venturing out in such conditions would be ill-advised, and he fretted, as was his habit, about her catching a chill. A simple cold could prove fatal, and the ever-present threat of consumption loomed large in his mind. Cavendish, alas, had not yet managed to conquer his tendency towards anxious over-concern, though his worries were not entirely without merit. He cupped her face in his hands, warming her cheeks with his palms. "We are to attend the concert tomorrow, are we not?" Alicia tucked her chin in, nodding in agreement. He ushered her inside with a protective arm around her waist. The instant the footman closed the door, he, with an irrepressible surge of affection, scooped her up into his arms. She gave a startled cry, playfully swatting at his shoulder, but his laughter, booming and joyous, echoed up the staircase as he carried her upwards. Her own laughter, bubbling up like a spring, soon joined his. "You are incorrigible!" she exclaimed, though her voice lacked any real censure. "I've been longing to kiss you since we were at the Assembly Rooms!" he declared, punctuating his words with a series of hasty, somewhat haphazard pecks. Alicia cradled his face in her hands. He set her down gently, then drew her close, pressing her back against the door. He paused. "Do you know, Alicia," he began, his voice a low murmur, his nose gently nuzzling hers. They were so close she could have counted each individual eyelash. "When I returned this evening, the moment I saw you, a thought struck me." Their cheeks brushed, her hand resting lightly against his chest, her fingers curled slightly inwards. "If we had never met before, if tonight had been our very first encounter, I would have fallen utterly and irrevocably in love with you. It would have been like…like being under a spell." He took her hand, raising it to his lips. "Without a doubt." "It's like that dream I had. In the dream, you weren't there, Alicia, but I knew, somehow, that you were somewhere, and that I would find you." He confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm not nervous. My only fear, you see, was that you might have fallen in love with someone else, just…before I had the chance to meet you." "It's strange, I know, but I simply had to tell you." Gazing at his earnest expression, she felt a subtle flutter in her chest. "No matter what, I would find you, and I would love you. We are meant to be together, William." Even if he wasn't the first, the only one. Why was he so worried? The him in that other world must be so very wretched. He pressed a deep, lingering kiss upon the back of her hand. Alicia gazed into his dark-lashed, blue eyes, a sudden understanding dawning within her. Her fingertips traced the line of his cheek. "It is a bit strange, Will," she conceded softly. "But if such a day were ever to come, I would wait for you." As if, in that very moment, a scene unfolded in her mind's eye: she was at the Assembly Rooms, feeling utterly bored, listless. She turned her head idly, and there he was. He was brash, impetuous, a mere stripling, really, looking utterly disheveled, his hair a chaotic mess. And she smiled. She waited for him to rush to her side, to blurt out, without rhyme or reason, "I love you." Though it seemed utterly preposterous, yet, "My dear Miss, I fell in love with you at first sight." Cavendish was momentarily taken aback, his gaze unwavering. "Thank you," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I truly am the luckiest man in the world." Perhaps Alicia did dream, after she had drifted off to sleep, nestled securely in his embrace. She was typically a sound sleeper, rarely troubled by dreams. But when she did, the visions seemed so incredibly real, yet ethereal. She was no longer the child of her parents; everything had been altered. She had grown up in a prosperous household, but one without a title, a simple family of the gentry. Her adoptive parents adored her, showering her with affection. And then, she met him. He was the same age as he was now, meticulously attired, strikingly handsome, with a flippant smile playing on his lips. He was utterly lawless, his manner of speaking to her shockingly informal. He noticed her occasional attempts to avoid his gaze. And then, that fleeting, despondent phrase: "If only you were my sister. Then, no matter whom you loved, it wouldn't cause me such pain." She felt, with a pang, the weight of his sorrow. Alicia didn't want the dream to continue. And so, she opened her eyes. She looked at him, sleeping soundly. Rising, she gazed at him intently. He was exactly the same, yet…different. The him in her dream was more cynical, more…bitter. He was surrounded by a throng of admirers, yet utterly alone. He would always watch her from a distance, his lips pressed into a thin line. Now, he held her close, their bodies intimately entwined, a familiar closeness, skin against skin, not a stitch of clothing between them. His skin was warm, almost feverish, a heat she had initially resisted but had now grown to cherish, to need. Alicia gently touched the corner of his mouth. She stirred slightly, and he awoke, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his expression immediately softening with concern. The patience he had cultivated over their years together, a patience that had once only manifested as a subtle furrow of his brow, was now utterly ingrained. "What is it, Alicia?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep. Alicia playfully pinched his cheek, a gesture he tolerated with amused indulgence. His jaw was rough with stubble. His lips, soft and pliable, were now being gently (and rather thoroughly) manipulated by her fingers. "Nothing," she murmured. "Hmm." Cavendish glanced towards the window, estimating the time to be somewhere between three and four in the morning. Was she unable to sleep? He drew her closer, his voice a low rumble against her ear, "Did you not sleep well, my love?" He pressed his hand to her forehead, checking for any sign of fever. Propping herself up on one elbow, she shook her head. "No. I simply…love you more," she said quietly. "What?" Cavendish was instantly alert, his handsome face still cradled in her hands. He longed for her to repeat those words, but she remained silent. He, far more demonstrative than she, was practically bubbling over with excitement. "Tell me, Alicia!" he urged, his words a jumbled rush. She simply closed her eyes, a small, enigmatic smile playing on her lips. The mere thought of losing him, even in a dream, filled her with a profound sadness. Cavendish stroked her long, golden hair, a contented smile gracing his own lips. He was happy, truly happy. Who could possibly be happier than he? Only the him of tomorrow, perhaps.