Chapter 49: The New Year

The days in Bath passed uneventfully, save for one minor interlude. The happy couple encountered Lady Elizabeth Foster. To put it succinctly, Lady Elizabeth was the former mistress of Alicia's grandfather and the intimate friend of her grandmother, the late Duchess. The trio had maintained this… arrangement for over two decades, residing together at both Devonshire House and Chatsworth, providing ample fodder for the gossips of the ton. The old Duke, you see, had even sired two children with Lady Elizabeth, and, after the Duchess's passing, had entertained the notion of marrying her. Alicia's father, the Marquess of Hartington, had put a swift end to that particular folly. Lady Elizabeth, now four and fifty years of age, had largely withdrawn from London society, preferring a more secluded existence. She and the Duchess, it was said, had first met in Bath. At the time, she'd been separated from her husband (owing to a rather unfortunate indiscretion with a stable boy), and was, to put it delicately, in reduced circumstances. Then, well, she'd found her way into the Duke's bedchamber. Her relationship with Georgiana, the Duchess, was… complicated. Even after becoming her husband's lover, she professed a deep and abiding affection for the woman. Whether it was genuine friendship or merely the artful machinations of a practiced charmer, the Duchess had been utterly devoted to her. Of Lady Elizabeth's legitimate offspring, Alicia's father maintained a studied indifference. Aunt Georgiana was amiable enough, while Aunt Harriet harbored a deep-seated resentment for the woman who had, in her view, disrupted their family and humiliated their mother. After all, the old Duke had rather flaunted his relationship with Lady Elizabeth, introducing her into the very fabric of their family life, a gross affront to his wife's honor. This uncomfortable state of affairs had persisted until Alicia was seven years old. It was only then, as the Duke began to feel the inevitable encroachment of age and a yearning for familial companionship, that he seemingly recognized the absurdity of his behavior and its detrimental effect on his family. He and Georgiana reconciled. Lady Elizabeth, naturally, removed herself from Devonshire House. Her children, however, remained. Caroline St. Jules and Augustus Clifford were only ten and seven years older than Alicia, respectively, closer in age to her aunts. Caroline, a girl possessed of her mother's charm and an uncanny ability to command attention, had been the old Duke's darling… until Alicia's arrival, that is. The Marquess of Hartington, by virtue of being the male heir and possessing a modicum of competence, retained his father's favor, though the old Duke's doting affection for his illegitimate son, Augustus, was undeniable. The twelve-year age difference, however, meant that the eldest son hardly gave it a thought. However, the Marquess, having witnessed the disintegration of his parents' marriage firsthand and having been raised solely as an heir, with a rigorous and unforgiving education, harbored little fondness for them. Since his marriage in 1794, he'd finally gained the ability to attempt some independence. It took him a decade, one might say, to finally expel them from Devonshire House and eradicate that… unconventional family dynamic. But his triumph was short-lived. Five years later, the Duchess passed away, and the old Duke, overcome with nostalgia, began to entertain the notion of a second marriage. Caroline St. Jules had married in 1809, taking as her husband George Lamb, the younger son of Lord Melbourne (rumored to be the natural son of the Prince Regent, no less!). She was thus sister-in-law to Alicia's cousin Caroline and to Lady Cowper. The marriage, it must be said, was not a particularly harmonious one; they barely shared a bed. Harriet had also married that same year, spurred on by her father's insistence on marrying Lady Elizabeth Foster and a burning desire to escape the increasingly fraught atmosphere of the family home. Lady Elizabeth had come within a hair's breadth of becoming the Duchess of Devonshire, a dream that had been cruelly snatched away. Whether she harbored resentment or had found a measure of acceptance, one could only speculate. Her son, Augustus Clifford, was decidedly less forgiving. His last, fleeting chance at legitimacy had vanished. Alicia's father, you see, had no male heir. Had Augustus been legitimized, he would have stood to inherit the dukedom. Alas, he remained a bastard, without even a surname to call his own. It seemed a profound injustice to him that the title should pass to a collateral branch of the family, merely because of the inconvenient matter of his birth. The Marquess of Hartington, being of a certain age and having assumed control of a considerable portion of the family's estates and influence upon reaching his majority, and having secured a politically advantageous marriage, was in a strong enough position to veto his father's ill-advised nuptials. A son, before inheriting the title, typically held far less power than his father, and fathers were rarely inclined to relinquish their authority. It had taken the Marquess a decade of careful maneuvering, coupled with the Duke's declining health, to achieve this feat. Moreover, the prospect of such a remarriage had set the entire ton abuzz, with everyone eagerly awaiting the final outcome. Alicia, at the tender age of fourteen, found herself quite overwhelmed by the conflict between her grandfather and father, and the still-fresh grief of her maternal grandmother's passing, only three years prior. Lady Diana, a kind and perceptive woman, invited her to Burlington House, offering a respite from the family turmoil. Alicia occupied her customary bedchamber, spending her idle hours gazing out from the balcony of the drawing room. As a child, she hadn't grasped the… peculiarities of the relationship between Lady Elizabeth Foster and her grandparents. It was only later, as she grew older, that she began to understand, and it was partly due to this dawning awareness that Lady Elizabeth had removed herself from the immediate vicinity, adopting a less conspicuous profile. Her gaze drifted towards Devonshire House in the distance. Caroline St. Jules, Augustus Clifford… those two strangers who had practically watched her grow up, always so kind, almost… fawning. Yet, she had never addressed them as "Aunt" or "Uncle," even after learning they were her grandfather's children. Because, in the end, they were merely… bastards, lacking even the dignity of a surname. Devonshire House was vast, certainly large enough to accommodate them all. Just as it had accommodated Charlotte Williams, her grandfather's illegitimate daughter, who was two years older than Alicia's own father. Rumor had it that her grandmother, too, had a natural daughter, fathered by Earl Grey, a girl only three years older than Alicia herself, who had been sent to be raised by the Earl's family. And then there was that girl in the servants' quarters, adopted by her grandmother, much like the countless children of uncertain parentage who found their way into the homes of the aristocracy – an extra mouth to feed, hardly a matter of consequence. The girl always looked at her with such envy. Alicia was convinced she must be the child of her grandmother or one of her great-aunts. But her mother had told her the girl was merely the illegitimate daughter of a politician and a governess. Her grandmother, in her boundless generosity and fondness for children, had simply taken her in to care for her friends. Later, the truth had come out, and Lady Bessborough had packed her off to boarding school. Alicia understood the rules of the aristocracy, however much she struggled to reconcile herself to them. The relationships were a tangled web of complexity and moral ambiguity, yet no one seemed to think anything amiss. William Cavendish, ever attentive to his seemingly disheartened little cousin, watched her with a mixture of amusement and concern. He had recently completed his studies at Edinburgh and returned to London, intending to pursue further legal training at Lincoln's Inn. He was of two minds. As she grew older, he was constantly reminded of their… preordained betrothal. He was obliged to marry her; he was deemed the most suitable candidate. He felt… nothing for her, beyond the affection one might have for a younger sister one had helped raise. Cavendish propped his chin on his hand, a smile playing on his lips as he observed her furrowed brow. Alicia was lost in thought, her brow knit in concentration. Habit, she mused, did not equate to acceptance. Even though she was privy to all the scandalous whispers, the numerous elopements and divorces that had rocked society in recent years. She'd taken to reading Gothic novels, finding in them a stark contrast to the realities of her own world. While those tales were filled with dramatic twists and improbable events, at least the protagonists, after enduring countless trials and tribulations, found love and a genuine connection. Unlike the casual, self-serving unions that seemed to characterize her own social circle. He waved a hand in front of her face, settling down beside her on the carpet, his long limbs carefully tucked in. "What troubles you, Alie?" Alicia blinked, her gaze shifting to meet his. Why must they marry? She asked the question with genuine earnestness, her eyes filled with a profound confusion. Nothing else seemed to bother her, only this. They did not love each other, each had numerous lovers, yet they would be husband and wife, in the most literal sense. After her grandmother's death, her grandfather had grieved deeply, genuinely. Yet, two years later, he contemplated remarriage. Remarriage itself was not unusual, she understood that; it signified that the previous marriage had held meaning for the man, and he was willing to enter into such a union again. But she could not fathom Lady Bessborough bearing the same title as her grandmother. Were all marriages like this? Why marry if it brought such unhappiness? What did they gain, besides misery? He understood her perfectly. Cavendish listened to Alicia's outpouring, then fell silent. "Marriage is always thus," he finally said, with a shrug. He stared at her, lost in thought. They sat there, together, in a shared moment of quiet contemplation. Alicia never brought up the subject again. She was still young, after all, and there was no need to contemplate marriage just yet. When they encountered Lady Elizabeth Foster in Bath, she was, of course, considerably aged, the bloom of her once-celebrated beauty entirely faded. The grievances of the previous generation had, at last, come to an end. They exchanged polite greetings, the encounter surprisingly amicable. Initially, there had been considerable unpleasantness. Lady Elizabeth had insisted that her son be permitted to wear the Cavendish family crest and attend the old Duke's funeral. When this request was denied, she had, in a fit of pique, revealed the true parentage of her illegitimate son. While the identity of the father had been widely suspected, it had never been definitively confirmed. This was the unspoken rule of polite society – to maintain a veneer of decorum, even when the truth was glaringly obvious. Her outburst had effectively ripped away the last shred of pretense. Alicia's father, in handling the matter, displayed remarkable forbearance. The three children had sworn on the Duchess's deathbed to always treat Lady Bess with kindness, leaving him little recourse. He had calmly forgiven her and quelled the ensuing gossip. Lady Elizabeth Foster had subsequently called upon him to offer her apologies, and a reconciliation of sorts had been achieved. She had received no inheritance beyond the gifts bestowed upon her by the old Duke during his lifetime. It was a small mercy, perhaps, that the marriage had never taken place, or the entanglement would have dragged on for another year. Lady Elizabeth studied the girl's face, noting the striking resemblance to her grandmother. It was said that all the beauty of the legendary Georgiana had been reborn in her granddaughter. Around her neck, she always wore a locket containing a lock of Georgiana's auburn hair. She had heard of the newly married couple, of their seemingly idyllic union, and yet, she could not help but recall the customary absurdities of the aristocracy. She was overcome with a sudden wave of emotion. During their conversation, Lady Bess informed her that she was leaving for Rome. Her visit to Bath had been for the purpose of taking the waters, seeking relief from her ailments. She believed that the warmer climate of Rome would be more conducive to her health in her remaining years. Lady Elizabeth Foster, known affectionately as "Bess" by her intimates, had witnessed many of her former lovers and friends succumb to the ravages of time. She nodded, her eyes filled with a wistful remembrance, and then vanished into the bustling crowds of Bath. The sojourn in Bath was fleeting. Upon their return to London, they resumed their separate lives. William Cavendish immersed himself in his election campaign, striving to secure a seat in the constituency of Westminster. He lamented that his time was consumed by the endless demands of Parliament House and Whitehall. Alicia, ever gracious, reassured him, "Go about your business." After three months of relative idleness, she, too, returned to her own pursuits. He penned his speeches; she translated a French treatise on calculus. They met in the library, and still shared a bed each night. There was little fiery passion, but a quiet, comfortable companionship, as if they had been married for decades. Hardly surprising, given the length of their acquaintance. After spending some time with her parents at Devonshire House, Alicia paid a visit to Burlington House, staying with the elderly Earl and Countess of Burlington. The Countess presented her with a ring that had belonged to her mother, the long-deceased Countess of Northampton. Alicia, accepting the antique Baroque ring, expressed her sincere gratitude, offering a gentle embrace. That night, he took her hand, examining the ring with a thoughtful gaze. "It's rather extraordinary, isn't it? But we are, truly, a family now." He clasped her hand tightly. In December, some Members of Parliament began to return to London, and meetings resumed. The Houses of Parliament, situated within Westminster Palace, were the scene of passionate debates. Members, seated on high-backed benches, delivered impassioned speeches on proposed legislation, while the Speaker maintained order, reading out the motions and calling for votes. From the ventilation shafts high above the ceiling, one could obtain a clear view of the proceedings within the chamber. Appearing in the gallery adjacent to the House of Commons was a favorite pastime of aristocratic ladies. The hostesses of Almack's, in particular, were fervent devotees of this form of political engagement. They offered their opinions with unrestrained enthusiasm, casting aside any notion that women should not concern themselves with matters of state. Here, they reigned supreme, wielding their influence to the fullest extent, controlling and supporting with their resources and wealth, the true uncrowned monarchs. Alicia joined them. She watched her husband, a figure of striking distinction amongst the assembled throng. He pounded the table, his hand resting upon it, his demeanor confident and spirited, his arguments unassailable. Newspapers lauded Mr. William Cavendish for his exceptional appearance and remarkably eloquent oratory. As long as he wasn't facing Alicia, he seemed to excel at everything. Upon his return, learning that she had attended the session, he was elated. "Was I not magnificent?" He had, that day, utterly demolished his opponent's arguments on the subject of Lord Liverpool's government and its policies regarding the Atlantic trade. Following Perceval's death, the abolitionist policies he had championed were being undermined. Merchants from Liverpool were engaging in clandestine smuggling, while the new Prime Minister, preoccupied with consolidating his power, turned a blind eye. He adopted a serious expression, then, with a mischievous grin, leaned in to kiss her. William Cavendish eagerly awaited his wife's praise. After the session adjourned, upon hearing that the ladies of Almack's had been present, his heart had leaped with anticipation, knowing that she would undoubtedly be among them. She had been there, draped in a shawl, observing him silently amidst the discussions with the other ladies. Cavendish, like a puppy, made no attempt to conceal his delight. He was practically wagging his tail. He accepted a sheaf of papers from Alicia's hand, his eyes widening with anticipation as he unfolded them. He paused, his brow furrowing as he scrutinized the contents. He confirmed he had not misread. His head shot up in disbelief. The papers contained Alicia's critique and corrections of his speech, highlighting instances of imprecise language and, in some cases, outright exaggeration. He raised an eyebrow. Although it was all true. Cavendish pouted. He didn't want to listen to her. Resentfully preparing to say, "I'll bear that in mind." "Well done," Alicia said, taking a sip of tea, condescending to offer him a compliment. His eyes lit up, and he interrupted her to steal another kiss on her cheek. He attended Parliament three or four times a week. Wednesdays were reserved for Prime Minister's Questions, with attendance typically lower on Thursdays and Fridays. Sundays, of course, were devoted to church services. Other days were dependent on the specific issues under discussion, requiring his attendance as deemed necessary. When William Cavendish emerged from the session, it was already the early hours of the morning. He spotted the carriage parked near Westminster Palace, adorned with the crest they had designed together. Clutching his hat, he hurried towards it. The words of greeting on his lips died unspoken as he opened the carriage door and beheld his wife's sleeping form. He carefully boarded the carriage. He sat beside her, allowing her to rest her head upon his shoulder. His gaze was tender. She had waited for him to finish the meeting. He lowered his head, a thoughtful expression on his face as he studied her. Alicia opened her eyes. He was so warm, and he took her hand. "You're finished," she said, lifting her head and rubbing her eyes. She had intended to wait for him to return together after the evening's entertainment, but had inadvertently fallen asleep. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he apologized. "I shouldn't have kept you waiting so long." London's aristocracy, much like their usual social interactions, were accustomed to holding meetings after seven or eight in the evening, often continuing until three or four in the morning, or even throughout the night. He affectionately stroked her cheek. She nestled into his embrace, closing her eyes once more, drifting back into a peaceful slumber. When the weather permitted, she would take a leisurely ride on horseback, passing by the Royal Courts of Justice. William Cavendish, clad in his barrister's black robes, his wig in hand, was conversing with a colleague after a court session. He saw her, and his smile widened. In full view of everyone present, he rushed towards her with unbridled enthusiasm, lifting her into his arms and spinning her around. "Alicia, you are adorable! How can anyone be as adorable as you!" Alicia, her riding crop still looped around her waist, was momentarily at a loss. The arrival of winter naturally necessitated warmer attire, and the fur collar framed her full cheeks. He beamed at her, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Why have you come to find me?" "There's a gathering, I was passing by." Without a word of farewell to his friend, he turned his attention to her, engaging her in conversation as he walked away. His companions exchanged bewildered glances, their thoughts lingering on the half-discussed legal proposition. "I will succeed," he assured her. William Cavendish redoubled his efforts in his professional life. He was determined to win the election in the constituency of Westminster and secure a prominent position in the House of Commons – all through his own merit. Alicia would be proud of him. Observing his dark circles under his eyes, and his chapped lips, the result of countless late nights spent poring over documents, followed by early departures and late returns, she noticed. His first act upon returning home was always to seek her out, to bid her good morning or good night, to share breakfast or dinner with her. A stark contrast to the many men who squandered their mealtimes at their clubs, far removed from their families. This had become his unwavering routine. Alicia took note of her husband's unusual behavior and the occasional, fleeting glimpses of exhaustion he tried so desperately to conceal. It was customary for aristocratic women to assist their fathers and brothers in their election campaigns, a widely accepted form of political participation. Women's images often possessed an approachability, and their involvement in charitable endeavors made them more memorable to voters. She considered this. Cavendish was astonished to see her, adorned in the blue and buff colors of the Whig party, complete with a tall hat and sash. She had appeared amidst the throng of voters, campaigning on his behalf. Just like her grandmother, she was greeted with cheers and adoration from the London populace. She extended her hand from the carriage, and the crowds surged forward to kiss her fingertips, showering her with bouquets of flowers. They had not forgotten her grandmother, the old Duchess of Devonshire, nor her mother, and she was the very image of them both! She gazed upon the scene with a composed demeanor, a faint smile playing on her lips, her gaze meeting his across the distance, radiating an almost unbelievable brilliance. Cavendish relaxed his jaw, suppressing his excitement, restraining himself from leaping up and waving to her. She had come! She cared for him so deeply! He couldn't fail. He straightened his posture, his smile becoming even more genuine. One could foresee, perhaps, that for decades to come, they would remain the most steadfast of political partners, supporting each other's endeavors, unwavering in their commitment. She visited the poor, venturing into the slums of Westminster, distributing supplies, personally handing out warm blankets, clothing, food, and coal for heating. She showed compassion to everyone, approaching her task with the utmost sincerity and empathy, her actions radiating a powerful influence. Alicia declared that she now knew how her annual allowance of thirty thousand pounds should be spent, and they all encouraged her wholeheartedly. The Cavendish family rallied together, achieving considerable acclaim in this election, maintaining their reputation, just as the Duchess had done in her day. It propelled their political influence to even greater heights. Even the newspaper critics could find little fault. The current Duchess of Devonshire had always been a radical, openly supporting all manner of reforms and actively campaigning for the release of the imprisoned MP, Sir Francis Burdett. Amidst this outpouring of support and admiration, with Parliament in session, the matter of Alicia's title was naturally raised. A month later, William Cavendish, by a narrow margin of votes, was successfully elected in Westminster, one of the largest constituencies. A remarkable achievement, considering his age and experience, and a testament to his exceptional qualities. In addition to his striking appearance and eloquence, his past experience as a diplomat and military secretary, his wife, Lady Alicia, had played an undeniable role. She had become the most celebrated lady in all of England, the focus of everyone's attention, her influence immense. "They only know you, Alicia!" They called her "Lady A," and she had become the sole representative figure of this generation. He was even more excited than she was, hardly giving his own election a second thought. Alicia gently covered his mouth, pushing him away. "I haven't finished that annotation yet," she said calmly. William Cavendish rested his chin on his hand, leaning on the desk, a helpless smile on his face. After a moment, her brow unfurrowed, having resolved the issue at hand. She extended a hand to him. Granting him permission to kiss her. He smiled, touching her chin lightly. "Madam, is there anything I can do to assist you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. Alicia, without hesitation, directed him to retrieve a substantial stack of documents, in order to provide the most accurate interpretation of a particular concept. He was delighted to be of use, to be able to share so much with her. At Christmas, they received numerous gifts. Snow fell heavily outside. Following tradition, they kissed beneath the green mistletoe. "Merry Christmas." Her title remained unchanged, still referred to as "Lady Alicia," but she was his wife, his beloved. He held her close in his embrace. In the snow-covered landscape, they chased each other around the frozen fountain, engaging in a playful snowball fight. She stuffed snow down his collar. He tried to catch her, bursting into boisterous laughter, then, after a moment's thought, simply cupped her cheek. Alicia, seizing the opportunity, hurled a snowball she had concealed behind her back, hitting him squarely in the face. She laughed gleefully and ran away. He tirelessly indulged her in these games, building snowmen and ice skating on the lake. "It's a pity the Thames hasn't frozen over." The winters of the past decade hadn't been cold enough for it to freeze, unlike in previous years, when frost fairs had been held on the ice. He held her hand, and they glided from one side of the lake to the other. Alicia was a skilled skater, excelling in everything she did, graceful and agile. "The Russians even waltz on the ice." They attempted it. She stumbled, and he caught her in his arms. Alicia rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes cast downward, a picture of quiet serenity. The New Year's bells chimed, and they watched the fireworks illuminate the night sky. Sated with food and wine, they silently made their wishes. "What did you wish for?" Cavendish asked. Alicia blinked. "Oh, right, I know, if you tell, it won't come true," Cavendish said with a shrug. He took her hand, welcoming the arrival of the new year. His wish was to spend as much time with her as possible. He was, after all, several years older than her. With that thought, he intertwined his pinky finger with hers, holding on tight.