Chapter 58: Daughter

The arrival of this child had them pausing their travels, remaining for a time in Florence. Alicia was suffering greatly, listless and unwell. Cavendish took over, penning letters to their family and friends on her behalf. She dictated, and he wrote, recording the day's events in her journal. Another significant matter occupied their thoughts: the formation of the London Astronomical Society, of which Alicia was a founding member. That had been in November of 1819; a simple calculation revealed that both their children's birthdays fell in the spring. George, affectionately nicknamed Georgie, had been born in May, just as the London Astronomical Society was formally established. With its subsequent Royal Charter, it became the Royal Astronomical Society, and his mother's name, Alicia—a woman who dedicated her life to the study of the heavens—would shine brightly throughout the annals of history. As if mirroring the burden he had caused in the womb, George Augustus, named for his grandfather, was a sensitive child, quiet and prone to tears. He resembled his mother, yet was not entirely the same. He later grew into a strikingly handsome young man, albeit with dark hair that caused his father a touch of chagrin, and deep blue eyes. His nose and lips were his father's, but the shape of his face, his forehead, and his eyes were undeniably his mother's. He was the most beloved grandchild of his great-grandfather, the Marquis of Stafford, who, upon seeing him, murmured, "Eliza." Perhaps to ease his longing, the Marquis returned to his London residence, purchasing and expanding Stafford House from the Royal Duke of York. And so, Little Joe was raised at his great-grandfather's knee, and upon his mother's death, ultimately inherited the title of Duke of Sutherland. Georgie was a scholar, undeniably clever, preferring the seclusion of his studies to social gatherings. He was serious and meticulous, with a habit of pursing his lips, a gesture that contrasted sharply with the ready smile often seen on his father and elder brother's faces. His scientific interests were clearly influenced by his mother. His innate curiosity and quiet, introspective nature reminded his parents of their ancestor, the scientist Henry Cavendish, their great-granduncle. The future eighth Duke of Devonshire, in his memoirs, would later adopt a lighthearted tone, self-deprecatingly referring to his own perceived mediocrity. He'd claim that his younger siblings had inherited their parents' intellect, each achieving remarkable success in their own right. He, on the other hand, possessed no outstanding talents—a clear display of humility, for he was one of the most generous lords of the century, patronizing countless endeavors. He was more than capable of shouldering the responsibilities of a great family; he and his brother simply shone in different spheres. The brothers were remarkably close. Willie, from a young age, was a spirited child, robust as a young bull calf, running wild, rolling in the dirt, and tanning his skin a deep brown. George rarely ventured outdoors. He was prone to illness, exceedingly shy, his long eyelashes drooping, the scrutiny and attention of strangers making him profoundly uncomfortable. Willie, clearly eager to include his three-years-younger brother in his games, saw him as a delicate porcelain doll, with large, fluttering eyes framed by thick lashes, and skin whiter than alabaster. He would try to pull him along, but Little Joe, unsteady on his feet, would inevitably tumble, fat tears welling up and spilling down his cheeks. Willie, after a flurry of frantic attempts to comfort him, and finding himself utterly unsuccessful, would simply join his brother, sitting on the ground and bursting into loud sobs. The governess and nursemaid stood by, utterly helpless. Such incidents were not uncommon. William Cavendish had to admit, with a sigh, that the two boys often left him quite frazzled. He relied on his lawyerly habits, striving for fairness and impartiality. He would scoop George up in his arms, and Willie, instantly distracted, would scramble up and cling to his father's legs, giggling and chattering. He never told his sons that a man shouldn't cry; instead, he'd say, "There, there, Georgie, my dear. It's perfectly alright to cry. It's simply the most honest expression of what you're feeling." Though he often engaged in heated debates in political matters, standing firm in his convictions, at home he was always a gentle father. Perhaps too involved in this aspect, too soft, lacking a necessary degree of firmness. Alicia took her eldest son's hand, helping him to his feet. "Were they quarreling again?" "Not precisely, my dear. See for yourself." William Cavendish chuckled, lifting the other child. Willie was six years old now, yet he could still carry him with ease, despite being a man of thirty-seven. Fine lines had begun to appear at the corners of his eyes, and though he might bemoan the fact, there was no escaping the sharper angles of his cheeks and the subtle weathering of time. But Alicia, in his eyes, remained eternally youthful. Georgie wiped away his tears, clinging to his mother, reaching out for a hug. Alicia kissed his plump cheek. Willie, waving his arms, leaned in from his father's embrace, and the brothers pressed their cheeks together, their brief squabble entirely forgotten. The year was 1823. Initially, Cavendish had been deeply concerned about his wife's health. She had grown thin rapidly, her complexion pale, suffering from nausea and a loss of appetite. Only the mild Florentine climate allowed her to bask in the sun on the balcony. William Cavendish remained constantly by her side. Both were haunted by the memory of a loved one lost in 1818. It was Viscount Althorp's wife, Esther Acklom, the eldest son of Earl Spencer. She had been a heiress, the only daughter of a country squire, with an income exceeding twenty thousand pounds a year. The Viscount had married her to settle his family's debts, while she, in turn, would gain the title of Countess. It was 1814, and what began as a marriage of convenience had blossomed into genuine love. They adored each other, and Esther was eager to provide an heir. She finally conceived in late 1817. She was terrified of the prospect of childbirth, and her fears, sadly, proved prophetic. On June 11, 1818, she died of a fever shortly after giving birth; the child, too, did not survive. Mother and child were laid to rest in the family vault at Brington. The Viscount was nearly driven mad with grief, shutting himself away in the manor house that had held so much joy for the couple, spending his days reading the Bible, desperately seeking solace. He vowed never to remarry, even if it meant the absence of an heir. Alicia and Cavendish had attended the somber funeral. The successive deaths of mother and child had cast a pall of mourning over the Spencer family. Cavendish rested his head on his wife's lap. "I know I'm thirty-four years old," he confessed, "but I can't help but worry ceaselessly." "I love you," he murmured, kissing her hand, his lips brushing against the cameo ring on her middle finger. At twenty-five, Alicia was as radiant as a flower in full bloom, radiating a gentle, maternal glow. The corners of her mouth curved into a tender smile. He tilted his head, attempting to kiss her. She possessed a calming presence, effortlessly dispelling his anxieties. They wrote of these events honestly in their letters. The Countess of Bessborough also resided in Florence, finding the climate agreeable. The companionship of family offered a measure of comfort. On January 29, 1820, King George III, the monarch who had reigned for fifty-one years, passed away. Throughout his life, he had striven to restore royal authority, witnessing the Seven Years' War, the American War of Independence, the French Revolution, and a host of other historical events, only to end his days in a state of madness. His wife, Queen Charlotte, had preceded him in death two years prior. Alicia's mother had been deeply saddened, mourning the loss of her godmother. Princess Charlotte, too, was heartbroken; she had received little affection from her parents, who viewed her as a pawn in their power struggles, finding solace and protection only with her grandparents. The Prince Regent ascended the throne, becoming George IV. He planned an unprecedentedly lavish coronation. The new king was unwilling to grant his wife the title of Queen, and the divorce proceedings against Queen Caroline became the talk of the town that year. Alicia and Cavendish, like many others, supported the Queen, and the Prince of Wales also fought for his mother's rights. Lord Brougham's courtroom defense became one of the most brilliant episodes of his career. George Augustus was born amidst this turmoil. His parents, while they were still able to travel, returned to England after the winter, for London boasted the finest physicians, and they were unwilling to take any chances. The delivery, however, was remarkably smooth, taking even less time than his elder brother's. The baby was thin and small, and the couple feared he might not survive. But he thrived, growing stronger with each passing day. Princess Charlotte of Wales, having given birth to her eldest son in 1817, had also given birth to a princess in April of 1819, also named Charlotte. William Cavendish devoted his time to caring for his wife and children. He was immensely happy, watching this new little being, observing him as he slowly unfolded, and then finding, with delight, the features that resembled his mother. They spent their time in the countryside, and at Christmas, their various relatives gathered, a rare occurrence, staying until the New Year. After all, with a new king on the throne, everyone was eager to attend the grand coronation, retrieving their long-stored coronation robes. The new King, George IV, had a rather nostalgic vision, requiring those attending the coronation to wear Tudor or Stuart-style attire. New robes were commissioned. On July 19, 1821, the coronation took place. The ceremony was a spectacle, with throngs of people, monarchs from across Europe in attendance, followed by a grand and extravagant banquet. The total cost was a staggering two hundred and thirty thousand pounds. George IV did not succeed in divorcing his wife, but neither did he grant her the title of Queen. On the day of the coronation, he refused to allow Queen Caroline to attend, and a month later, the perpetually unfortunate Queen passed away. Catherine Tierney-Long, a woman with whom Alicia had enjoyed a brief friendship, found her husband had squandered his fortune and fled abroad to escape his debts. Fortunately, her own portion remained untouched, yielding an annual income of seven thousand pounds. She still held onto hopes of a happy family, believing that a child's upbringing required the presence of a father. At Long-Wellesley's request, she traveled to Paris, where they could continue to live a life of extravagance. But soon, she would face the misfortune of her husband openly flaunting his numerous mistresses, shamelessly humiliating her, and contracting a venereal disease. Upon returning to England, she would face a battle for custody of her children, and ultimately, at the age of thirty-five, her life would be tragically cut short. Long-Wellesley was declared bankrupt, and Wanstead House, a mansion rivaling the Palace of Versailles in France, faced the prospect of being auctioned off. Due to restrictions imposed by ancestral wills, in 1822, the interiors were auctioned first, followed by a cleverly devised scheme to fell the trees and sell the building itself, broken down into its constituent stones. The centuries-old landscaped gardens became timber, and the exquisitely crafted stone sculptures were sold as building materials. Due to the economic depression, the interior decorations, which had cost three hundred and sixty thousand pounds a decade earlier, were sold for a mere thirty thousand. Alicia and Cavendish purchased two bronze chandeliers, along with portraits of Catherine's ancestors—priceless treasures—which they sent to her. This magnificent building, constructed in the early 18th century at a cost of two hundred and seventy thousand pounds, the first Palladian-style structure in England, was sold for a paltry ten thousand pounds for demolition. Such bankruptcies were not uncommon, a consequence of the extravagant excesses of the aristocracy. The roar of the machines in Manchester heralded a new era. After 1830, a group of millionaires, who had amassed their fortunes through the textile industry, would rise, demanding voting rights and parliamentary seats, stepping onto the political stage. On November 11, 1821, the Countess of Bessborough passed away peacefully in Florence, surrounded by her children. Her death marked the end of an era, the final curtain falling on the age of the aristocracy. From that time onward, it seemed, Alicia and Cavendish's friends and family began to pass away, one after another. In 1824, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony premiered. They attended the performance in Vienna, witnessing this monumental work of the human spirit. The final movement, with its choral rendition of the Ode to Joy, was profoundly moving. William Cavendish was, at this time, appointed British Ambassador to Austria. Throughout the 1820s, he served as both Ambassador to France and Ambassador to Austria, culminating his distinguished political career. Alicia, as the Ambassadress, was surrounded by this vibrant world, radiating her own brilliance. The people of Paris and Vienna regarded her as a muse; her upswept golden hair shone, her elegant figure gracing countless paintings and sculptures. Her finest years were spent in these two cities. Her drawing room was filled with social luminaries; her salon was a coveted invitation. Upon her return, she saw her husband with their two children, one in each arm. "Willie and Georgie have been waiting for you," he said. Alicia couldn't help but laugh. Perhaps it was an accident, but shortly after the premiere of the Ninth Symphony in 1824, Alicia gave birth to their eldest daughter. She had become so confident that she attended the performance while heavily pregnant, without the slightest concern. Georgiana—the name might have seemed outdated by then. But it carried with it the echoes of generations past. Georgiana Victoria; Victoria, to commemorate the victory at Waterloo. Her nickname was "Vicky," and, just like the circumstances of her birth, she brought enduring joy to the family, growing up amidst the splendor of Vienna and Paris. She was brave and daring, and her maternal grandparents, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, adored her especially. A girl who lived a life filled with joy. She was the one who most resembled her mother, though her personality was a hundred times more exuberant. She seemed never to tire, and in an era when Romanticism had popularized an aesthetic of delicate, frail, and demure femininity, she never concealed her unrestrained laughter and rosy cheeks. Another one with dark hair, and green eyes, at that, a rather uncommon combination. William Cavendish couldn't help but lament, with a touch of wistful resignation, that his wife's golden hair, it seemed, would ultimately end with their generation.