Chapter 13: Desire

He had only heard of it. A spur-of-the-moment decision, a surge of courage that, while usually at his command, faltered when her fingers brushed against him. He retreated. William Cavendish paused, resting his head on her thigh, gazing up at the woman he was meant to be pleasing. Alicia's eyes held a certain curiosity. She hadn't yet grasped his intent. Her hand, which had been caressing him, withdrew, and she leaned back casually, as if to ask, Why have you stopped? Cavendish's face burned. "I might not be very good at this," he confessed. "Hm?" His eyelashes veiled his eyes, lending him a rather pitiful air. The teeth marks on his lower lip reappeared as he sought courage in a couple of quick kisses. And so, when he finally, tremblingly, leaned in, Alicia realized what he was about to do. She was incredulous. "You...?" Her words were swallowed, her face flushed crimson. He was usually so...this...his teeth were so white, his tongue so adept at kissing. But this. She wanted to call his name, to stop him, but the sound caught in her throat. She bit her fingertip, attempting to pull away, but his hand gently held her in place. He looked at her with hopeful eyes, his face even redder than hers. His nose, his breath, his close-cropped, rather scratchy black hair. And, for some reason, he insisted on calling her name, "Alicia." He offered his hand to comfort her. Their fingers interlaced, and she slowly bent her legs. "Are you uncomfortable?" he asked, concern etched on his face as he tried to get a better look. Alicia buried her face in the pillow, shaking her head. She stifled the sounds caught between her teeth. "Shall we stop?" She gave an impatient shake of her head, and he, with a small smile, continued. His way of describing her was rather peculiar; he liked to compare her to a delicate flower or a sweet pastry. Just the night before, he had nibbled her ear, whispering that she was the most delectable crêpe, drizzled with maple syrup. He spoke in French, murmuring, "Petite crêpe." He was going to devour her, with raspberries and strawberries. He said she tasted of spring. She had thought he was rambling then, and had felt his forehead for a fever. But now, she was utterly speechless. ... William Cavendish felt he was utterly done for. She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him. He was instructed to clean his face, but still, she refused to engage. "Alicia?" He blinked, wondering if it had been that bad. "Next time, I'll surely..." Alicia lifted her head. She could no longer look her cousin in the eye. She saw his pristine white teeth, the tip of his tongue that would occasionally dart out, and her face grew warm. He, too, couldn't meet her gaze. "You want to...?" "I do not." But at the same time, she knew she liked him even more than she had imagined. Why are you so...unclean? Filthy. Alicia wanted to say. And why did she...? I thought you were going to use... In the end, she decided to say nothing at all. He cupped her face, at a loss for what to do, and tried to kiss her. Alicia covered his mouth with her hand. She watched his Adam's apple bob, her face growing even redder. "Why do you men like to kiss there?" "Perhaps it's just me...?" She refused to listen, and he had no idea what she was thinking. Little crêpe. Petites crêpes. Her body seemed to crave his touch even more now. ... Alicia's palate was, to be fair, rather cosmopolitan. She enjoyed traditional English fare, but she also had a fondness for fashionable French cuisine. She eyed the berry and cheese-laden scone before her, then pushed it away, indicating her preference for the pudding. William Cavendish noticed her pursed lips with growing concern. She hadn't let him kiss her that morning, either. She was clearly displeased. It finally dawned on Cavendish what the problem might be. "I rinsed my mouth," he offered. "No." He realized his attempts at pleasing her had not had the desired effect. He had lost his husbandly right to kiss her. They had not engaged in any further intimacy the previous night, as she had quickly tired and fallen asleep in his arms. He had nuzzled her neck. She had seemed to enjoy it, although her frown had deepened. Cavendish was an astute observer. He was clever, and he had deduced that external pleasures were more agreeable to her than internal ones. He looked at his fingers, contemplating. ... The villa boasted a small conservatory. Alicia's father had been a keen horticulturist, and she had inherited his love for flowers. Their family estate featured a magnificent glasshouse, a veritable botanical garden filled with rare and exotic species. There was even a dedicated pinery, an extravagant undertaking in a time when a single pineapple could cost a hundred pounds, requiring an annual investment of ten thousand pounds to produce a mere hundred fruits. Alicia had spent her childhood in these beautiful glass structures, surrounded by greenery and fragrance. She would wander from the orangery to the hothouse, strolling through the Italian-style gardens. He had built one especially for her. Thankfully, their engagement had been long enough to allow for its completion, and he had filled it with all manner of flowers and plants he had sourced. Outside, clusters of ripe berries were in abundance. Their activity for the day was picking the autumn's redcurrants, blackcurrants, wild strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. It was a bountiful afternoon. This would all be made into an accompaniment for their evening meal. Alicia, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, was engrossed in the task, finding it far from tedious. Yet she didn't eat a single one. Cavendish was perplexed. She adored them, surely. "Would you like a crêpe?" he asked suddenly as the sun began to dip below the lake, their work done for the day. This was one of her favorite treats. A suspicious blush crept up Alicia's neck. She glanced at him, then hurried away. William Cavendish was utterly bewildered. Sometimes he did say things he couldn't remember, nonsensical ramblings. At dinner, Alicia finally sampled the raspberry sauce served with the roast. She broke her silence. "You called me a little crêpe before." "Ah?" Cavendish, still despondent over the lack of a kiss all day, was momentarily taken aback. Then he remembered. "You said you were going to eat me, and then last night you...?" His face was now crimson. "Alicia!" "And a crêpe with maple syrup, no less," she pressed on. He fell silent. They stared at each other. "I didn't mean it that way," he finally mumbled. "Hm." But you really are quite adorable. ... "I won't do it again," he promised after dinner, seeking reconciliation. Alicia studied him, then allowed him to kiss her hand. He did not receive a goodnight kiss. ... The next day, Alicia thought about the dream she'd had. The events of that night replayed in her mind, but this time, she seemed to derive more pleasure, more enjoyment from it. She watched as he, unusually quiet, helped her fasten her dress. He wasn't boisterous or loud; he seemed deflated. "I didn't realize it would make you dislike me," he said gloomily as they entered the breakfast room. The table was conspicuously devoid of any pancakes, berries, or cream. She felt as though he were a dirty little puppy, and thus, she had no desire to kiss or cuddle him. But he was rather pitiful. So, during their after-breakfast stroll, she suddenly said, "Good morning kiss." The morning mist hung heavy by the lake. Cavendish froze, then broke into a wide grin. He clasped his hands behind his back and gave her a proper, formal kiss. Their daily activities were varied; he had planned an entire itinerary for their honeymoon. But he let Alicia choose, only providing options. They tried archery, and when Alicia won, he joyfully lifted her and spun her around. His face pressed against her thigh. Alicia's expression turned peculiar. "What is it?" She became aware of a strange sensation within her body. No answer forthcoming, William Cavendish dejectedly deposited her back on her feet. Alicia, for the first time, became conscious of the changes in her own body. ... Cavendish realized he had fallen out of Alicia's favor. In the evenings, she sat far away from him. If he moved closer, she would shift to another seat. He couldn't even hold her hand. They sat facing each other. "You said you would draw me," he recalled, trying to bridge the gap. Alicia looked up at him, then away. "I don't want to." "Oh." "Then do you want to draw tonight?" "Yes." Cavendish rose to fetch her sketchbook. Everything was prepared, and Alicia sat on the sofa, idly sketching the still life before her. An Oriental vase with a few red poppies, a small gold box... He examined the arrangement and added his pocket watch to the scene, a touch Alicia seemed to appreciate. He sat beside her, but she didn't draw him. "I'll go tidy your things," he offered. "Hm." William Cavendish remembered his assigned task and tried to recapture their former joy through it. He found a comfortable spot in the storage room and settled down to look at her drawings. Her life was so full, so rich, and he occupied only a single page in that large box of sketchbooks. He saw her drawings of various buildings; she had been invited to the ancestral homes of numerous noble families and had delighted in sketching their carved stone pillars. Her pony, her hunting dog, her female companions, she liked to draw girls, the distant view of Chatsworth House, the glass windows of Hardwick Hall, the bronze fountain outside Howard Castle. And her maternal grandfather's Cleveland House's Orleans Collection gallery, her sketches of the Venetian school originals, and later, the light and shadow of Baroque art. Many were unfinished, abandoned halfway. William Cavendish had received an excellent education; he was well-versed in many subjects. In literature and art, they could have had much in common. He strived to connect with her. He liked his cousin's drawings. The corners of his mouth turned up in a wistful smile. He reached back to grab another book but accidentally knocked something over. He scrambled to catch it. Cavendish sighed in relief. He was about to put it back, the small, half-worn, gilt-edged, lambskin sketchbook, when a piece of paper slipped out. He was about to gather it up when he saw a glimpse of brown curls. Intrigued, he pulled it out. It was a boy. He had brown eyes, a strikingly handsome face, a youthful countenance, and a soft smile that seemed to radiate gentleness. The portrait was colored, the brushstrokes exceptionally delicate. William Cavendish stared at it blankly. He opened the sketchbook; it was full, overflowing with images of this young man. The artist's gaze, full of tenderness, a shy smile. His hair grew longer, and he became even more handsome, but still retained his youthful, vibrant spirit. Below it was written: R.F.B. 1809 Hmph, not as handsome as me, his nose isn't straight enough. Cavendish closed the book, then opened it again, then closed it. He continued, his face darkening, forcing himself to look. The page with the boy holding a small hunting dog had a yellowed piece of paper tucked into it. It was a Petrarchan sonnet. "I saw on earth a more than angel grace, And a celestial beauty among us here, Whose memory makes me both sad and rejoice..." "So much of sweetness in the wind and air." Cavendish read it aloud. He pursed his lips. It wasn't her handwriting. He knew. Because below it was written: To Lilia. He could write a dozen such poems, each one different. Copying poems was nothing special. Cavendish read it again. "I saw her eyes, that wept so piteously, A thousand times they made the sun to mourn..." And heard words laced with a sigh. Fine, fine, fine. He sat there, and he thought of Alicia's coldness today. He wiped the corner of his eye with his knuckle. ... Her cousin returned in silence. He was much quieter than usual; he wasn't boisterous, he wasn't showing off. She felt as though he were shattered, like the Venetian glass vase she had once cracked, a hairline fracture that remained visible. So he held her, pleading for a kiss. She gave him one. "What's wrong, Cavendish?" she asked him this time. He wouldn't say, making her guess. But she only asked once, and didn't press further. In truth, William Cavendish couldn't bring himself to say it. He feared Alicia's answer. She had been forced to marry him; he had thought she was willing. At the time, his cousin had had a long talk with him, expressing her desire for freedom, to retain her personal will after marriage. Cavendish, listening to her declaration, had seriously re-evaluated this cousin of his. He found it quite interesting and agreed to her terms. Aristocratic marriages didn't necessarily frown upon wives having lovers, as long as the relationship wasn't acrimonious, and as long as there was already a legal heir. The husbands would even acknowledge children born from these affairs. Husbands would take pride in their wives having lovers, as it showed their wives' attractiveness, as long as things were kept discreet, without elopement or divorce, without public displays of affection. Jealousy was considered extremely unseemly. Conversely, men taking mistresses was also accepted, as long as both parties maintained a facade of respectability. This was the unspoken rule of high society. He hadn't cared then because he hadn't loved her. He had also thought that someone as beautiful as Alicia deserved to be adored and pursued by everyone. He wasn't so rigidly conservative, so concerned with his masculinity, so afraid of it being damaged. But now? Cavendish watched as Alicia layered on the paint, her movements languid, occasionally smudging her nose, which he would then wipe clean. She instructed him to read to her, a newly published travelogue. He had changed his mind. He wanted her to love him.