Chapter 51. Of Misdiagnoses and Missives

The summer holidays having drawn to a close, autumn found Alicia and William returned to Hardwick Hall, nestled near their beloved Chatsworth. A brief sojourn in the countryside would precede their return to Bath, a city buzzing, no doubt, with the latest gossip. The whispers, of course, centered on Napoleon. Between the 16th and 19th of October, the Emperor suffered a resounding defeat at Leipzig. The allied forces, a relentless tide, forced him into a rather undignified retreat to Paris, his former allies abandoning him like rats from a sinking ship. His fate, it seemed, was sealed. Alicia, however, found herself in a rather peculiar state. Her appetite had waned, a persistent drowsiness clung to her, and a general malaise had settled upon her spirits. Save for the occasional visit from close friends, she kept largely to herself, her usual zest for life inexplicably diminished. She was, in a word, fragile, and craved companionship. William, ever attentive, devoted a considerable portion of his time to her side. He maintained an air of calm, understanding that any outward display of anxiety would only serve to exacerbate Alicia's condition. Cavendish, thankfully, possessed a keen sense of balance in such matters. He harbored a suspicion, a gnawing intuition that occasionally furrowed his brow when he was away from his wife. Alicia had missed her monthly courses for two months running, a fact that prompted a visit from the physician. After a rather… thorough examination, involving the inspection of urine, its mixture with wine, observations of her pupils, and palpation of her abdomen – methods that Cavendish viewed with a healthy dose of skepticism – the doctor declared her likely with child. The symptoms, he pronounced, were far more pronounced than those she had exhibited a year prior, shortly after their nuptials. "Alicia," he began, entering their chamber. She lay in bed, clad in her nightdress, her complexion somewhat pale. She met his gaze and nodded. "I know," she murmured. Cavendish crossed the room and took her hand. He ought to control his emotions, but a wave of apprehension, of profound sadness, washed over him, particularly at the sight of her in such a state. "I…," he stammered, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, "I am delighted." A strange sense of unreality enveloped him. Their world, their carefully constructed duet, was about to be transformed by the arrival of a new life, a tiny being who would make their appearance in a mere half a year. Alicia turned her head, her eyes downcast. After a lengthy and heartfelt conversation, she had come to terms with the situation. A child, she decided, might not be entirely unwelcome, despite her frequent complaints of exhaustion. The news was swiftly dispatched to family and friends. The Duke and Duchess, understandably, hastened to Hardwick, their joy tempered by an undeniable undercurrent of worry. The clause in the prenuptial agreement, that seemingly distant threat, now loomed large, casting a shadow of fear over everyone. Aunt Harriet, whose country residence lay within the Duke's vast holdings, arrived posthaste to provide comfort and companionship to her niece. Alicia's grandfather, the Marquess of Stafford, embarked on a southward journey by carriage. Cavendish's parents, too, cut short their sojourn in Bath. Hardwick Hall, once a haven of tranquility, suddenly teemed with visitors. Letters, a veritable deluge of them, poured in, brimming with blessings and countless inquiries. The couple, it seemed, had finally completed the final piece of their marital puzzle, a year after their wedding. The individuals at the center of this whirlwind, however, were not faring quite so well. She was but eighteen years of age. He, meanwhile, racked his brain, trying to discern where their contraceptive measures had failed. They had been so diligent, so meticulous. The physician's response was hardly reassuring. Young people, he explained, possessed a certain… vigour. Such occurrences were perfectly natural, and even the most careful precautions were not infallible. Cavendish found sleep elusive, pacing the confines of his chamber throughout the long nights. Pregnancy, he knew, demanded ample rest, and he was determined to provide Alicia with the space she needed, even though she preferred his company. They shared a bed, of course. But he rose each morning with the utmost care, lest he disturb her slumber, allowing her to steal a few extra hours of repose. Her appetite remained diminished, despite the efforts of the finest physicians in London, summoned by the Duke to attend to the young Countess's every need and meticulously document her condition. "What troubles you, my love?" Alicia inquired, her voice soft. Even Cavendish's most valiant attempts at levity could not conceal his inner turmoil from her perceptive gaze. As for the failure of their contraceptive efforts, she remained remarkably serene. Aside from a mild annoyance at her increased need for sleep, which curtailed her opportunities for outings, she spent most of her time indoors. But the presence of her family provided solace and comfort. He sat upon the carpet, his ear pressed against her abdomen, straining to hear the faint flutter of a tiny heart, though the physician had yet to detect a fetal heartbeat. It was too early, he was told. Her abdomen remained soft and flat, and he sometimes marvelled, as he caressed it, at the sheer improbability of it all. Why? Why had this happened? He raised his head, his blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. He did not dissemble. Nestled in Alicia's embrace, beside her needlework – she was crafting small garments for their unborn child – he poured out his heart. They had perused magazines, discussing the myriad necessities for the impending arrival: a wet nurse, a nanny, nurses, a governess. Alicia, following in the footsteps of her grandmother, mother, and aunt, was determined to personally nurture her child. Most aristocratic women, of course, relegated such tasks to the servants. Cavendish, resolute in his commitment to fatherhood, vowed to shoulder the greater part of the responsibility, ensuring that Alicia had ample time to pursue her own interests. Through these earnest discussions, they seemed to prepare themselves for the roles of mother and father. "Do you recall Lady Stanhope?" he asked. "I do," she replied. Frederica, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Mansfield, had been wed to the younger son of the Earl of Stanhope. A union blessed with extraordinary happiness. But her life had been tragically cut short, a mere three years after their marriage. Before childbirth, it was customary for women to pen letters to their husbands, children, parents, and other loved ones. Frederica, in a tone of remarkable lightness, had implored her husband, should she succumb to the perils of childbirth, to remarry for his own happiness. She would rather see him at the side of a new wife than spending his life in the arms of mistresses. Her words, alas, proved prophetic. Her labour was free of complications, seemingly effortless. But soon after, a raging fever consumed her, and within three days, she was gone. Colonel Stanhope, devastated by grief, strived to honour his wife's dying wish, to live a full life. Yet, two years later, in a state of profound despair, he took his own life by hanging. Suicide, a transgression against the tenets of religion, often resulted in the desecration of the body, a stake driven through the heart before burial. To preserve the dignity of the deceased and allow for interment in the family crypt, the courts frequently ruled such deaths as the result of temporary insanity. Suicide, after all, carried a heavy stigma, tarnishing the reputation of the departed. Alicia understood him. She always understood him. Such cases were, tragically, not uncommon. Lady Deerhurst, married for a mere eighteen months. Lady Mildmay, married for only a year. Both had perished in childbirth, at the tender age of twenty-two. "Samuel Romilly," he murmured, the name heavy with sorrow. A distinguished barrister and judge. William Cavendish gazed up at her, her face bathed in the soft glow of the lamplight, radiating a serene beauty. "After his wife's death, he refused all sustenance for four days, neither eating nor drinking, following her into the embrace of death. They were buried together." The incident had caused a considerable stir at the time. "If you die, I will die," he whispered, the words barely audible. Alicia met his gaze, her eyes filled with understanding. She had no doubt that he meant every word. "Wherever you are, I will be by your side. No matter what, I will be with you, Alicia." "From the moment you were born, we were destined to be together." He would follow her, just as James Stanhope and Samuel Romilly had followed their beloved wives. He could not bear to lose her. "I cannot fathom the consequences of losing you." "Must I do the same?" Alicia asked softly. Tears welled in his eyes, tracing a path down his cheeks. His expression was a mixture of sorrow and a faint, bittersweet smile. "Certainly not. You must live," he insisted, caressing her cheek. "You are so young, Alicia. Your life stretches before you, a long and winding road." "No matter what happens to me, you must go on living. It may seem unfair, but I implore you, Alicia." "I promise," she whispered, her voice filled with conviction. She gently wiped away his tears. William Cavendish, ever the master of his emotions, swiftly composed himself. He could not afford to indulge in despair, lest he trigger a similar response in his wife. Together, they penned letters, acknowledging the possibility of misfortune, bracing themselves for the uncertain future. "My dearest love, I lack the courage to bid you farewell. Such words are simply impossible." He stroked her neck, his touch gentle and lingering. That night, they lay nestled together, their toes touching. Following that heartfelt outpouring, Cavendish exhibited no further signs of his previous anxiety. He meticulously arranged everything, ensuring that all contingencies were accounted for. After two months of agonizing uncertainty, it transpired that it had all been a false alarm. Alicia experienced bleeding, and after ruling out a miscarriage, the physician, to his astonishment, realized that his initial diagnosis had been mistaken. She was not pregnant. Family and friends, fearing that the young Countess might be despondent, delivered the news with gentle concern, offering words of comfort. The situation had taken a dramatic turn. "Are you disappointed?" William Cavendish inquired, his voice laced with concern. He did not feel joy. His emotions were a tangled mess, a complex tapestry of relief and lingering apprehension. He feared that she might be saddened. Alicia shook her head. She felt… alright. This ordeal, a blessing in disguise, had drawn them closer, forging an even deeper connection between their hearts. They cherished every precious moment. But after this tumultuous experience, they resolved to let nature take its course. They felt better equipped to handle whatever the future held. Amidst this flurry of emotions, winter descended, and they found solace in each other's arms, his embrace warming her very core. The festive season passed, followed by the new year, and finally, spring arrived, bringing with it a sense of renewal. At long last, the dust settled. On March 31st, 1814, the allied forces marched triumphantly into Paris. On April 11th, Napoleon unconditionally surrendered. On April 13th, at the Palace of Fontainebleau, he signed the instrument of abdication, his reign brought to an end, and he was exiled to Elba. The entire nation of England erupted in joyous celebration. Streets and parks overflowed with festivities and ceremonies, adorned with vibrant flags. The war was over! Peace, long awaited, had finally arrived. The allied powers, however, still faced a protracted period of negotiation, haggling over their respective interests, deciding the fate of the deposed Emperor and the future of France. Britain, naturally, was keen to prevent Russia from gaining undue dominance, seeking to maintain a balance of power with Austria and Prussia, and to redraw the map of Europe and its overseas territories. In May of 1814, Viscount Wellington returned to England, hailed as a hero. He was elevated to the rank of Duke of Wellington, bestowed with the prestigious Order of the Garter, and Parliament, in a unanimous vote, granted him a staggering sum of 500,000 pounds. The Wellesley family's standing soared to unprecedented heights. The Duke of Wellington made his first public appearance at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. The theatre was packed to the rafters, the audience eager to catch a glimpse of the celebrated war hero. The Duke graced the Cavendish family's box, engaging in cordial conversation with the Duke and Duchess, as well as Alicia and William. He expressed his gratitude to the Duke of Devonshire for his unwavering support during the Peninsular Campaign, their friendship long-standing. He also held Lady Diana in high regard, having long been an admirer of hers. The Duke was distinctly unimpressed by his nephew, Pole-Wellesley, but William Cavendish's rather one-sided feud with him during their time in the diplomatic mission, far from causing offense, earned his praise. After all, Cavendish, from the tender ages of sixteen or seventeen, had served as an aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington himself. Tsar Alexander I of Russia and King Louis XVIII of the restored Bourbon dynasty paid visits to England, and Carlton House played host to a seemingly endless succession of lavish gatherings. Both dignitaries kissed Alicia's hand, showering her with unrestrained compliments. Almack's, thanks to the presence of the Russian Ambassador's wife, Dorothea Lieven, enjoyed unparalleled prominence. Alicia, a prominent member of the club, held a position of considerable influence, drawing attention and admiration wherever she went. In short, the spring of 1814 unfolded in a remarkably flamboyant fashion. Following a grand celebration in Hyde Park, featuring hot air balloons and a mock naval battle, William Cavendish accepted an invitation to join Viscount Castlereagh's diplomatic mission, accompanying the Duke of Wellington back to Paris to determine the post-war order alongside the ambassadors of the other great powers. Cavendish was overjoyed at the prospect of fulfilling his promise to his wife, a tour of Europe. But, as fate would have it, Alicia's grandfather, the Marquess of Stafford, fell ill. After careful consideration, she chose to remain by his side. They said their farewells at Dover. "I'm not going," William Cavendish declared abruptly, seized by a sudden wave of regret. "Don't be absurd," Alicia chided him gently, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I shall join you in three months." Hand in hand, they stood, reluctant to part, vowing to write to each other without fail. She stood upon the White Cliffs of Dover, her skirts billowing in the wind, waving her hand in farewell. Cavendish watched her from afar, his heart heavy with longing. On the opposite shore of the English Channel, on a clear day, one could almost make out the faint outline of those very cliffs. He would miss her terribly. The emptiness of separation was a void that could not be filled, even by the daily exchange of letters. Alicia kept him apprised of her grandfather's condition. Cavendish was relieved to learn that the situation was not dire, for he feared that Alicia would be heartbroken otherwise. And at this moment, he could not be there to comfort her. The Marquess of Stafford's health gradually improved, a remarkable recovery considering his advanced age. He had departed at the end of June, and Alicia, true to her word, arrived in Paris three months later to visit him. They resided in a hotel on the Champs-Élysées, taking daily strolls, attending performances at the Paris Opera, visiting the Louvre Museum, and taking carriage rides to the Palace of Versailles, sightseeing and enjoying the autumnal splendour. Following the war, a great many British tourists flocked to Paris, no longer confined to their own shores, their footsteps now tracing paths across the continent. Moreover, the exchange rate, with one pound fetching twenty-five francs, made the cost of living in Paris considerably lower than in London. Numerous aristocrats facing financial difficulties, even on the brink of bankruptcy, relocated to Paris, Brussels, and other continental cities. But alas, after a sojourn of two months, in September, the diplomatic mission was to depart for Vienna to attend the Congress. Alicia longed to return to England, to be with her family. She fretted constantly about her grandfather. Travel being inconvenient, the elderly gentleman had not left England. The climate of Southern France might perhaps be more conducive to his recovery. She planned to accompany him to Europe the following year, once his health had further improved. William Cavendish, though heartbroken, could not but bid his wife farewell. Alicia would not permit him to abandon his diplomatic duties to accompany her. As chief secretary and a key member of the mission, he played a crucial role in the negotiations. "We each have our responsibilities," she reminded him. She kissed his cheek. One remained in the English countryside, the other in Vienna. Their separation grew even greater, and the exchange of letters became more challenging. Cavendish penned copious love letters, adorning the bottom of each page with whimsical sketches of little dogs. "I am yours, my dearest, and I shall dream of you every night." Alicia's replies, though less effusive, were nonetheless filled with a quiet tenderness. "I miss you terribly as well. Today, while tidying your belongings, I discovered a pressed violet in your pocket." They agreed to reunite in the spring, once winter had passed. The Congress of Vienna was proving to be a protracted affair, likely to last for at least six months. Travel in winter was arduous, but William Cavendish implored her to visit him as soon as the snows had melted. They had been apart for four long months, and he missed her desperately, his nights often sleepless. He tempted her with descriptions of the endless balls held at the Viennese court, where everyone danced the waltz and other dances, such as the Polonaise. She, he assured her, would undoubtedly be the most dazzling lady in attendance. The waltz had finally been introduced to England the previous year, thanks to the efforts of the Prince Regent and Almack's, though it was not yet widely danced, confined primarily to private gatherings. "I long for you so. Why will you not come to me?" he lamented playfully. But he still cautioned her to wait until winter had passed, for a long journey in such harsh conditions could easily lead to a chill. Alicia wrote back, informing him that she would arrive in Europe in April, accompanied by her grandfather. The Marquess of Stafford had served as ambassador to France in the past, and he and his wife had travelled extensively throughout the continent. He wished to revisit those familiar places. William Cavendish eagerly anticipated their reunion. But the course of events, as it so often does, took an unexpected turn. On February 26th, 1815, Napoleon escaped from Elba, sending shockwaves across Europe. In early March, he landed in the south of France. Initially, the newspapers were filled with ridicule, but within twelve days, he had reached Paris, successfully restoring his rule. Panic gripped the continent. The Paris newspaper, Le Moniteur Universel, published a series of reports chronicling the events in detail. (A French newspaper) And so, Alicia lost contact with William Cavendish. Such disruptions were commonplace amidst the turmoil engulfing Europe. Napoleon was amassing his army, and British tourists, holidaying on the continent, scrambled to purchase passage on ships bound for home. His initial letters had expressed a degree of concern, which gradually deepened. In his last letter, he had instructed her to remain in England in April, and that he, too, would soon return. "Do not worry for my safety, my dear." But after that, silence. No further letters arrived. The Duchess of Devonshire comforted her daughter, "It is merely a disruption in communication. William is with the diplomatic mission; he will be safe." Alicia frowned. "But he is in Paris." He had been transferred from Vienna in February, reassigned to the British diplomatic mission in France, in order to... to be able to welcome her and her grandfather upon their arrival in Europe. The Duchess of Devonshire observed her daughter rise to her feet. Her face, so youthful, was nonetheless etched with determination. "I am going to find him," she declared. She had made a decision. The first instinct of any parent would, naturally, be to object. Even the Earl of Burlington's household voiced their disapproval. But Alicia swiftly persuaded them. The Duke consented, dispatching officers from his own regiment to accompany her. Alicia embarked on a ship at Dover, setting sail for the continent. Paris had fallen, and the former foreign residents were fleeing to Belgium, most heading for Leuven, and then onto Brussels, where they would pause before continuing to the ports to return to England. Alicia, however, was travelling in the opposite direction. She rode in a carriage along the main road, her manservant beside her, diligently inquiring about the whereabouts of the British diplomatic mission. She meticulously recorded her observations, her brow furrowed in concentration. The first day yielded no news. The second day, she learned that they were, reportedly, retreating to Brussels with the army. EX...... Alicia lodged in a local inn, brushing her hair, carefully pinning on her bonnet and taking the lead on horseback, expertly navigating the bustling crowds. She was searching for him. She followed every lead, observing everything around her. Finally, amidst the chaos, she spotted a figure clad in a long cloak. He was mounted on a magnificent black steed, brandishing a pistol, shouting orders at the top of his lungs, and then firing a shot into the air to maintain order. Fleeing civilians, scattered and panicked soldiers from various nations, all jostled together, nearly causing a stampede. His hair was unkempt, his beard untrimmed, his appearance dishevelled, a stark contrast to his usual impeccable grooming. Behind him stood British soldiers, clad in their distinctive red uniforms, carrying rifles. He frowned, his mouth uttering what were undoubtedly curses. He turned his head, and froze. He had seen her. They were separated by the surging tide of fleeing vehicles and people. Alicia's horse startled, but she managed to regain control. He shouted her name, his voice filled with urgency, though she could not hear him over the din. Cavendish struggled to push his way through the throng to reach her. She, too, was making her way towards him, a mutual pursuit. He dismounted, his face a mask of disbelief and overwhelming joy. "Alicia!" They embraced, their bodies clinging together. He then realized how filthy he was, covered in mud and grime. He pulled back slightly. He led her to a more secluded spot. He scraped his boots, searching for words, his manner endearingly awkward. The jostling crowd pushed them aside, forcing them to move. Cavendish shielded her protectively, instinctively uttering a curse, "Damn!" "I apologize," he said quickly, turning back to her. "I..." He had sworn. He had never been so coarse. Alicia gazed into his bloodshot eyes. He was exhausted, utterly weary, yet he managed to summon a smile, a radiant smile just for her. "I came to find you," she said, her words simple and direct. "This is dangerous," he admonished gently, shaking his head. "You foolish girl." How long had she been searching for him? Words, a torrent of them, ultimately condensed into a single question. "Are you well?" he asked, his voice filled with concern, reaching out to touch her face, then hesitating, fearing to soil her cheek. "Grandfather is well, as are Father and Mother, Lady Diana and Lord Cavendish, the Earl and Countess of Burlington..." Alicia rattled off a list of names, extending even to her pony and her dog. "They are all well," she concluded, conveying their greetings and anxieties. She had, however, neglected to mention herself. Cavendish waited patiently for her to finish, shaking his head slightly. "No, I mean are you well?" Alicia was taken aback for a moment, then she met his gaze. "I am well," she said softly. His lips curved into a genuine smile, and he finally allowed himself to touch her face. He had found her. Everything he saw was real. "I am so sorry," he said, his voice filled with remorse. "You did not receive my letters, Alicia. The lines of communication from Paris to Leuven were severed. Yes, I worried you. I am sorry, Alicia." Alicia shook her head. She grasped his hand. Beneath his palm, he felt the delicate flutter of her pulse. They boarded the carriage. He had not slept properly for three days and two nights, managing only brief catnaps. He possessed experience in the military, so instead of accompanying the diplomatic mission directly to Brussels, he had remained behind to maintain order. They conversed, these reunited lovers, their hands clasped tightly, unwilling to break the connection. With her by his side, inhaling her faint, familiar fragrance, he quickly drifted off to sleep. He awoke with a start. "I fell asleep?" "Yes," He rubbed his brow, a gesture of weariness. It was already dusk. They were en route to Brussels. William Cavendish suddenly sighed. "I truly am getting old," he remarked, a hint of resignation in his voice. In truth, he would soon reach the age of thirty. And Alicia, she was but twenty, not yet fully come of age. She was so young. Such a vast difference separated them. How swiftly time had flown. "No," Alicia responded firmly. She cupped his face in her hands. He was still strikingly handsome, but as he had said, he had matured, his features more defined, his gaze more knowing. He smiled, his forehead touching hers. He lowered his head to kiss her, a reunion after six long months of separation. Yet, it felt as though they had parted only yesterday. Her face, her smile, had been so vividly etched in his memory, and then, she had appeared, as if conjured from a dream. It felt surreal. "I love you," he declared, his voice husky with emotion. He closed his eyes, his long lashes brushing against his cheek. Just moments ago, he had slept soundly, his head resting on her shoulder. She responded, her voice filled with sincerity, "I love you too."