Chapter 52. Of Reunions and Rather Uncomfortable Carriages

The reunion was… exquisite. One could hardly find the words. They were, after all, of precisely the correct age for such passionate reunions, and yet fate (and a rather tiresome Napoleon) had conspired to keep them apart for a full six months. Letters, however meticulously penned, were a poor substitute for the reality of one's beloved. William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire – though presently playing at soldier – awoke in the jostling carriage to find his wife regarding him with an air of quiet amusement. Her golden hair was, rather fashionably, tucked beneath a French-style headscarf (acquired, she informed him later with a dismissive wave, at a posting inn. One must maintain appearances, even amidst impending warfare). Those cerulean eyes, framed by lashes of an almost indecent length, were half-lidded, observing him with a calmness that both soothed and, frankly, stirred him. He had, after all, been using her as a rather comfortable pillow for quite some time. "Half an hour yet, I believe," Alicia murmured, reaching out to smooth a hand over his dark hair, which was, regrettably, coated in a rather unbecoming layer of dust. She flicked at it with a delicate, yet firm, gesture. Cavendish grinned, a slow, predatory stretch, and promptly pinned her beneath him, indulging in a kiss that could only be described as… thorough. His breath caught, ragged, as he felt her, truly felt her presence after so long. Alicia, ever practical, initially offered a token resistance, her fingers pausing at the fastening of his greatcoat. But then, with a sigh that spoke volumes, she cupped his face, her touch surprisingly firm, and returned the kiss with an earnestness that stole his breath away. "I've missed you," he managed, a heartfelt groan against her lips. "Beyond words." "And I you," she replied, her voice a low, husky murmur that sent a shiver down his spine. (One couldn't very well have a proper reunion without a few shivers, after all.) After a kiss that could have, quite possibly, melted the very glass of the carriage windows, Cavendish contented himself with nuzzling her cheek. Alicia, in turn, wrinkled her nose delicately. "Darling, you really must do something about that… that growth upon your chin. It's quite assaulting." He chuckled, pulling her close, burying his face (and the offending stubble) in the fragrant cloud of her hair. "You adore me, you know. It's quite evident in your desperate flight across the Continent." The anxiety that had been gnawing at him, a constant companion these past months, began to recede. He'd worried, incessantly, of some catastrophe befalling her on the journey. What would become of her? He kept a miniature of her, tucked safely away, and had consulted it with the frequency of a devout man consulting his prayer book, tracing the delicate lines of her face with his fingertip. The portrait, commissioned during their last, fleeting moments of peace in London, depicted her as the woman she had become: hair piled high in an elegant chignon, a gown of sapphire silk mirroring the startling blue of her eyes. It was, of course, merely a half-length portrait – propriety demanded as much. He'd observed the entire, rather tedious, process, spread over two excruciatingly long days. She'd glittered with diamonds, a constellation brought to earth, the candlelight dancing in their facets. He'd stood beside her then, captured for posterity in a canvas commemorating nearly two years of (mostly) wedded bliss. He remembered, with a sudden pang of longing, their walks through London squares, her hand tucked securely in his, the two of them scattering crumbs for the pigeons, those bold creatures fluttering down to feed from their outstretched palms. Alicia, with that characteristic detachment that both fascinated and infuriated him, had remarked, "Roast pigeon for dinner, I think." She possessed this… air about her, a subtle yet impenetrable barrier separating her from the mundane realities of the world. He was, seemingly, the only one granted access to her private sanctuary. They were, for all intents and purposes, joined at the hip: eating, sleeping, breathing the same air, sharing the same thoughts (or, at least, his thoughts, which she occasionally deigned to acknowledge). The prospect of decades stretching before them, filled with such blissful companionship, was… intoxicating. He delighted in teasing her, declaring himself her "most beloved." Alicia, with her infuriatingly logical mind, would invariably retort that such affections were not quantifiable, that his use of superlatives was, to put it mildly, imprecise. She loved a great many people: her father, her mother, her departed grandmother (who undoubtedly resided amongst the angels), a gaggle of aunts, and a surprisingly diverse collection of friends. But now, here in this cramped carriage, amidst the rumbling wheels and the scent of dust and impending doom, she offered no such argument. Instead, she merely captured his hand, the one resting possessively upon her shoulder, and held it tight. Two and a half years of marriage, punctuated by a six-month separation that felt like an eternity, and yet… it felt new. The warmth of her hand in his, the gentle pressure of her body against his, the sheer audacity of her presence here, in this war-torn corner of Europe, in the heart of March… it was a defiant act of spring, a blooming of hope in the face of uncertainty. He was, quite simply, as besotted with her as she, perhaps, was with him. Cavendish lowered his head, confessing, in a rush of whispered words, his anxieties: the nightmares that plagued his sleep, the frantic letters penned and dispatched, the agonizing wait for a reply, the wild schemes he'd concocted to smuggle messages back to England. He had to tell her, to reassure her, that he was alive, that he would return to her. "But I am here," Alicia stated, her voice calm, resolute. A statement of fact, not a question. He hadn't found a solution; she had. It was… remarkably Alicia. She felt, with an unwavering conviction, that all obstacles had been swept aside. Despite the perilous journey, despite the looming threat, she knew, with a certainty that bordered on the divine, that she had done the right thing. And why? Alicia tilted her head, her gaze meeting his. He had changed, subtly yet undeniably. There were new lines etched at the corners of his eyes, a sharpness to his jawline that hadn't been there before. And yet… he remained undeniably him: the same exquisitely sculpted features, the ridiculously long eyelashes, the eyes, a deep, fathomless blue that seemed to hold the very depths of the ocean, the mouth, perfectly formed, neither too full nor too thin, and presently curved in a faint, questioning smile. But something had shifted, irrevocably. She loved him. The realization, no longer a tentative hypothesis but a proven theorem, struck her with the force of a revelation. Alicia raised her hand, her palm finding his cheek, a silent communion. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, and she knew, with absolute certainty, that he felt it too. And so, as twilight deepened into night, and the moon cast its pale, ethereal glow through the carriage windows, they clung to each other, a haven of warmth and love amidst the gathering storm. "God," he breathed, his lips brushing against her hair, a fervent prayer whispered into the darkness, "let it always be this way. Let us always be together." Alicia listened to the rhythm of his heart, a frantic tattoo that gradually slowed, steadied, mirroring her own. "Yes," she agreed, a soft, unwavering affirmation. It was, after all, inevitable. Brussels, that bustling hub of anxious anticipation, was presently overflowing with a polyglot of humanity, all chattering in their various tongues, all scheming and plotting, all bracing themselves for the inevitable clash of arms. Alicia, ever the pragmatist, had dispatched her ever-reliable staff ahead to secure suitable lodgings. One could not, after all, wage war on an empty stomach, or without a decent cup of tea. News, as it had a habit of doing, spread with the speed and ferocity of a wildfire. The resident aristocracy of Brussels – a rather mixed bag, truth be told – were all aflutter with the intelligence that the Baroness Clifford, or rather, Alicia, the only daughter of the illustrious (and immensely wealthy) Duke of Devonshire, had arrived, accompanied by her (presently militaristic) husband. William Cavendish, it was well known, was a personage of some importance within the diplomatic circles of Vienna, and had subsequently been attached to the embassy in Paris, with whispers of his eventual succession to the ambassadorship. His presence in Brussels, therefore, was entirely unsurprising. But hers… that was a different matter entirely. The looming specter of war had prompted a number of the more… sensible members of the nobility to contemplate a hasty retreat to the (relative) safety of London, with their families and (most importantly) their valuables in tow. Others, however, remained, clinging stubbornly to their continental existence. While the memory of Napoleon's past… exploits… sent a shiver down their collective spines, the allure of a more… relaxed lifestyle proved too tempting to resist. The European climate was, undeniably, superior to that of England, the social strictures were considerably less rigid, the cost of living was delightfully low, and, most importantly, they had spent the better part of a year transforming their rented residences into miniature palaces. To abandon them now, unless faced with imminent annihilation, was simply unthinkable. The Duke of Richmond and his (rather extravagant) family were among this latter group. The previous Duke, you see, Cavendish's maternal uncle, had, in a fit of… eccentricity… bequeathed the bulk of his fortune to his illegitimate daughter (by a French mistress, no less!), while the dukedom and entailed estates had passed, somewhat reluctantly, to his nephew. The current Duke and Duchess were a pair of… spirited individuals, renowned for their lavish spending, their prodigious offspring, and their rapidly accumulating debts. England, with its tiresome creditors and its even more tiresome social constraints, held little appeal. Brussels, on the other hand, offered a haven of (relative) anonymity and continued extravagance, a lifestyle befitting their (somewhat inflated) sense of self-importance. Cavendish, through a rather tenuous line of kinship, was (however distantly) related to this illustrious family. And so, until such time as a more suitable (and permanent) residence could be secured, Alicia and William found themselves the (somewhat reluctant) guests of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. Yes, despite the escalating tensions, the palpable sense of dread that hung heavy in the air, they had chosen to remain in Brussels. Cavendish, it must be said, had never questioned Alicia's… fortitude. Her decision, while perhaps surprising to some, came as no shock to him. Napoleon, that persistent thorn in the side of Europe, had, with his characteristic lack of consideration, reconvened his army. The British and their allies, in a flurry of frantic activity, were assembling their forces in the vicinity of Brussels. The Duke of Wellington, that paragon of military brilliance, had been (somewhat unceremoniously) plucked from the diplomatic wrangling in Vienna and dispatched to this… volatile… location to assume command of the combined forces. His seasoned veterans, the heroes of the Peninsular War, were, alas, engaged in a rather inconvenient conflict across the Atlantic, in that tiresome business with the Americans. Consequently, the ranks were filled with… enthusiastic… but undeniably green recruits, freshly arrived from England. William Cavendish, in a moment of (perhaps misguided) patriotism, had been entrusted with a position of considerable responsibility: aide-de-camp to the great Wellington himself. He did, of course, possess a certain degree of military experience. He spent his days (and a considerable portion of his nights) immersed in the chaotic business of training troops, relaying orders (often contradictory), and participating in endless (and often fruitless) strategy meetings. The Duchess of Richmond, a woman of… unconventional… methods, and a close (some might say too close) acquaintance of the Duke of Wellington, had taken it upon herself to… bolster… morale by hosting a seemingly endless series of lavish banquets. These affairs, while providing a welcome distraction from the impending doom, did little to alleviate the underlying tension, and served primarily to deplete the city's already dwindling supply of champagne. Logistics, as always, were a nightmare. The requisitioning of food, the transportation of ammunition, the procurement of horses (many of which appeared to be on their last legs) – it was a Herculean task, barely managed amidst the chaos and confusion of impending war. The winds of war, quite literally, howled through Brussels. The interruption in communication, a rather inconvenient development that had persisted since late March, was finally, blessedly, resolved in early April. The news from England, amidst the international turmoil, was dominated by a single, contentious issue: the Corn Laws. This piece of legislation, debated with the ferocity of a pack of starving wolves, finally passed through Parliament on the 15th of March, a mere handful of days after Alicia's departure. Its purpose, ostensibly, was to protect domestic grain prices and, more importantly, the substantial land rents enjoyed by the nobility and gentry, by imposing hefty tariffs on cheaper, imported grain. The Tories, those staunch defenders of the landed aristocracy (and their own, rather substantial, pockets), had emerged victorious. The small farmers, too, had cause for celebration, though one suspected their rejoicing was somewhat more… muted. Alicia, in her correspondence with her parents (a flurry of letters dispatched across the Channel), addressed the matter with her usual blend of astute observation and dry wit. She first, of course, reassured them of her continued well-being, declaring her intention to remain in Brussels until the political (and military) landscape became… less… turbulent. She couldn't, she admitted, predict the future with any degree of accuracy, but she vowed, with a touch of melodrama that even she found amusing, to return by Christmas, accompanied by her (increasingly indispensable) husband. Her father, the Duke, responded with a letter overflowing with paternal concern, urging her to accept the protection of his loyal retainers, who would, naturally, be delighted to escort her back to the safety of England should the… unpleasantness… escalate. Her mother, the Duchess, ever the advocate of experience, countered with a letter brimming with encouragement. She wholeheartedly approved of her daughter's adventurous spirit, declaring that witnessing a war, with all its attendant chaos and upheaval, would be a most educational experience. The Corn Laws, predictably, ignited a firestorm of controversy, both at home and abroad. The newspapers, once they finally arrived, were filled with impassioned debates, and the salons and clubs of Brussels (those that remained open, at least) echoed with the heated arguments of the numerous British expatriates. The Whigs, predictably, were outraged. William Cavendish, a man of decidedly Whiggish sympathies, declared the legislation a 'monstrous regression." 'Had I been in England," he stated, with a dramatic flourish that Alicia found both endearing and slightly ridiculous, 'I would have cast my vote against it, with all the fervor of a… a… well, a very fervent Whig. Though, I confess, it would likely have made little difference." He was, to put it mildly, distraught. The pressures of the month had mounted, a relentless accumulation of responsibilities: the demands of the embassy, the exigencies of the military, the incessant meddling of Parliament and the government. The seeds of this legislative… abomination… had been sown the previous year. The wartime disruption of grain imports had sent domestic prices soaring, along with the land rents collected by the fortunate few. With the (temporary) cessation of hostilities in 1814, grain prices had plummeted, but the rents, alas, remained stubbornly high. The farmers, understandably, found themselves in a rather… precarious… position. The solution, naturally, was to either reduce the rents (a notion that was met with stony silence from the landed gentry) or to impose protective tariffs. The noble lords, with a breathtaking display of self-interest, opted for the latter. The other European powers, understandably, expressed their… displeasure… by raising tariffs on British manufactured goods. But, in the grand scheme of things, defeating Napoleon was deemed a matter of slightly greater urgency. The Emperor, upon his rather dramatic return, had been greeted with an outpouring of (somewhat misguided) enthusiasm from his former soldiers and the general populace, and had swiftly amassed a formidable force: 140,000 regular troops and 200,000 volunteers. Louis XVIII, the hastily restored Bourbon monarch, had fled Paris with a speed that would have impressed even the most seasoned marathon runner. The Seventh Coalition, that ever-shifting alliance of nations united by their shared antipathy towards Napoleon, was rapidly (or, at least, as rapidly as such things could be managed) reassembling. On the 13th of March, a treaty was signed, and on the 25th, each of the major European powers pledged to contribute 150,000 men to the impending conflict. The final tally was… impressive, if somewhat daunting: the anti-French coalition boasted over 700,000 troops, while Napoleon, with a mere 280,000, faced a rather… significant… numerical disadvantage. Despite this overwhelming disparity in manpower, an air of profound unease permeated the British and Allied ranks. The prospect of facing Napoleon, even with a vastly superior force, was not one to be taken lightly. And, to add to the general air of disquiet, the British and Prussian forces had yet to formally join forces with their German and Austrian counterparts. Napoleon's strategy was, as always, brilliantly audacious. He would strike first, driving north into Belgium, aiming to capture Brussels and, in doing so, sever the British lines of communication and supply. Alicia and William, therefore, found themselves residing in a city that was about to become a pivotal point in history, a chessboard upon which the fate of Europe would be decided. They were, of course, fully aware of the inherent dangers of their situation. Yet, they had chosen to remain, to stand on the very precipice of war. Intelligence, or rather, the lack thereof, was a constant source of frustration. The Allied powers required a full three months to mobilize their forces for a decisive assault on Paris. The various nations had agreed to launch a coordinated offensive between the 27th of June and the 1st of July, converging on the French border from all directions. Napoleon, with his characteristic cunning, intended to exploit this window of opportunity, launching a preemptive strike against the British-Dutch and Prussian armies. These combined forces, totaling a mere 200,000 men, presented a far more… manageable… target. His ultimate goal, his last, desperate gamble, was to cripple the British and Prussians, thereby delaying (or, perhaps, even preventing) the advance of the larger Russian and Austrian armies. Throughout late April and May, as Napoleon meticulously laid his plans, Alicia and William clung to each other, savoring every precious moment of their (increasingly uncertain) future. They shared a sense of… premonition, a subtle yet persistent awareness that the coming days would be unlike any they had ever known. In the quiet evenings, wrapped in each other's arms, they discussed the impending conflict, meticulously analyzing Napoleon's likely strategies, debating the possible avenues of attack. And then, there were the moments of… ordinary… life, the small, seemingly insignificant details that took on a heightened significance in the shadow of war. The fear that gripped Brussels, the shared anxiety that permeated every conversation, every interaction. England, too, was gripped by a similar sense of foreboding. Lady Diana, William's mother, dispatched a letter expressing her profound disapproval of her son's… imprudence. She could not, she declared, condone his decision to remain in Europe, let alone his acceptance of a position on Wellington's staff. 'My dearest Will," she wrote, her handwriting (usually so elegant) betraying a hint of agitation, 'surely you must realize that the interests of the family outweigh any considerations of personal glory. The Cavendish name requires no further embellishment; it is, in itself, a sufficient testament to… well, to everything. This… adventure… is utterly unnecessary, and frankly, rather foolish." William and Alicia read the letter together, exchanging a look of mingled amusement and exasperation. There was, she had to admit, a certain… logic… to his mother's argument. Cavendish cleared his throat, his expression shifting from amusement to a sudden, unsettling seriousness. 'Alicia," he began, his voice unusually grave, 'she has a point. My presence here, on the brink of battle, is… irresponsible. Utterly irresponsible." They had no children. The legal ramifications of his death, particularly concerning the inheritance of his title and estates, were… complex, to say the least. Common law offered little protection to widows, and the authority of equity law, while considerable, was not absolute. The title, and the vast majority of the Cavendish holdings, would pass to his uncle, and subsequently to his uncle's own (rather numerous) offspring. Alicia's position, in such a scenario, would be… precarious. And what if… what if something worse were to happen? In that instant, Cavendish saw, with horrifying clarity, the full extent of his folly. He had to make arrangements. He had to ensure that Alicia would be provided for, that she would be safe. She should remarry, of course. But could she… would she… find another man who… He couldn't bear the thought. 'I must remain by your side," he declared, his voice firm, resolute. It was his duty, his responsibility. And yet, a part of him, a small, rebellious voice, whispered of a different path, of a life lived not in the shadow of duty, but in the pursuit of… something more. Every able-bodied man was expected to fight. He bore the weight of two burdens: honor and responsibility. 'No, Will," Alicia said, her voice surprisingly strong, her eyes shining with an unwavering conviction that both humbled and inspired him. 'You must do what you were born to do. What you are destined to do." She had, with those simple words, given him permission to do what he had longed to do for nearly three decades: to live, truly live, for himself. He had yearned, as a young man, to fight, to prove himself, to earn his place in the annals of history. But his destiny, as the future Duke of Devonshire, had dictated otherwise. He had been confined, bound to a life of privilege and responsibility, his future inextricably linked to that of his cousin. He was, of course, content. He was, in fact, happy. But there had always been… another path, a road not taken. And now, Alicia had, with her characteristic boldness, offered him that choice. William Cavendish looked at her, his heart swelling with a mixture of love, gratitude, and a profound sense of… awe. He reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers, a silent vow passing between them. 'We shall face this together," he said, his voice husky with emotion. 'Whatever may come." 'Yes," she replied, her gaze unwavering. 'Together. Always." By May, Napoleon's intentions became chillingly clear. Intelligence reports, though often conflicting and unreliable, pointed towards a planned advance through Mons, a strategic move designed to cut off the British-Dutch forces from their supply lines and prevent the arrival of reinforcements. Communication between the allied nations remained… problematic, to say the least. The entire army was on edge, a coiled spring waiting to be unleashed. They slept together, not in the intimate sense, but simply… together. The shared warmth, the comforting presence of the other, served to calm his frayed nerves, to provide a fleeting respite from the constant, gnawing anxiety. Alicia, normally so detached, so seemingly unaffected by the turmoil around her, was… changed. She observed, with a quiet intensity, the endless processions of soldiers marching through the streets: the scarlet coats of the British, the blue of the Prussians, a kaleidoscope of uniforms, a river of men flowing towards an uncertain destiny. She saw their faces, etched with fatigue, with apprehension, with a grim determination. She saw, too, the camp followers, the women and children who trailed in the wake of the army, their lives uprooted, their futures uncertain. The war had ended, so briefly, only to reignite with renewed ferocity. And then, she saw it: the uniform. The crisp, new uniform that had been delivered for William, along with the gleaming saber, the polished pistols, the magnificent warhorse that awaited him. A wave of emotion, raw and unfamiliar, washed over her. He would wear that damned bicorne hat, that symbol of military authority, and she, Alicia Cavendish, Baroness Clifford, would personally send him off to battle. 'It's merely an aide-de-camp position," William said, attempting to inject a note of levity into the conversation, a feeble attempt to mask the underlying fear that gnawed at both of them. But Alicia knew, as did he, that the role of an aide-de-camp was anything but safe. They were the messengers, the eyes and ears of the commander, tasked with galloping across the battlefield, delivering orders, relaying intelligence, navigating a landscape of chaos and carnage. Bullets and cannonballs, as everyone knew, were notoriously indiscriminate in their choice of targets. Death was, of course, the ultimate horror. But there were… other possibilities, equally terrifying. A crippling injury, an amputation, blindness… the list of potential horrors was endless. And even those who escaped physical harm often carried the invisible scars of war: the tremors, the headaches, the nightmares that haunted their sleep. What would become of them if… if he were… maimed? He couldn't bear the thought. He wouldn't be able to tolerate himself, and he refused to burden her with his… brokenness. He would end it, swiftly and cleanly, just as he had once ended the suffering of a wounded warhorse, a single shot delivering oblivion. It had been a mercy, a necessary act of cruelty. But this… this was different. This was Alicia. He had vowed to spend his life with her. Alicia, as if reading his thoughts, gently turned his face towards her, her gaze unwavering, her voice firm. 'Whatever happens, Will," she said, her words a solemn promise, 'you must come back to me. Alive." He didn't offer his usual, playful retort, the teasing "And if I don't?" that had become a familiar refrain in their banter. Instead, he met her gaze, his eyelashes trembling slightly, and nodded. 'I will," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. 'I promise." 'I promise."