Chapter 18: An Evenly Maddening Arrangement

The fleeting night came to an end. Ah, the even-numbered days. Those damnable even-numbered days. After trailing after her like a lovesick puppy, Cavendish was promptly rebuffed by Alicia. He was utterly crestfallen. It seemed no amount of intimacy, however passionate, could shatter this absurd rule. "A goodnight kiss," she declared, her words carrying the weight of a royal decree. How cruel she was! And yet, it filled him with such tenderness. Their lips met, tongues intertwined in a passionate dance. Dissatisfied with their first attempt, she demanded a second. Alicia rose onto her tiptoes, relishing the way his hands roamed across her waist. His touch, his caresses, were always so exquisitely precise. Yet, just as he yearned to venture further, she deemed it sufficient, pushing him away with a gentle but firm hand. "Goodnight," she murmured. ... Her response tonight was markedly different; he could detect a certain fondness, a flicker of affection, perhaps, in her actions. This realization brought a wide, hopeful grin to his face. But then, her rejection. He'd attempted to follow her inside, to no avail. He pleaded to simply watch her as she slept, or even as she read or penned her diary before bed. Alicia, with a perplexed frown, had simply shut the door. Yet, in a gesture of appeasement, she had caressed his hand. "Cavendish, you're talking nonsense again," she'd said, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement, before barring him entry. Heavens above, how were they ever to share a bed? Though, try as he might, he couldn't recall a single instance of a noble couple actually sleeping together. His own parents, and even his grandparents, paragons of marital decorum as they were, maintained separate chambers! Cavendish's mind was a tempest of conflicting emotions. He felt as though he were being driven to the brink of madness. Did Alicia love him? Or did she not? He ran a hand through his hair, utterly bewildered by his own state. Was this what it was like to be in love? Why couldn't Alicia be... Oh, but if she didn't love him, that was even worse. He found a peculiar solace, not in fantasies – no, he restrained himself from such thoughts, for Alicia was an angel, the picture of purity – but in petty theft. He'd pilfered a mother-of-pearl button from her bodice and a delicate teardrop pearl from her hem. He made a mental list, imagining the day when Alicia would be as tormented as he was, begging him for a kiss. Ah, but no. Better that he alone should suffer. ... Alicia leaned against her pillows, deep in thought. She decided, in the spirit of fairness, to inform her mother in a letter that she'd recently developed a fondness for kissing her cousin, as it brought her a certain degree of pleasure. She pondered the reasons behind her enjoyment of his kisses, yet her insistence on maintaining a certain distance. In her diary, she praised her cousin for yet another virtue: his skill in the art of kissing. Setting aside the fact that she had no other experience for comparison, Alicia offered an impartial assessment: his kissing technique was likely above average. ... Cavendish's newfound hobby was discovered the very next morning. Channeling his frustration at being ignored, he decided to pester Alicia during her morning routine. He watched her dress, fiddling with her belongings, and even picked up a few strands of golden hair from her brush. "You enjoy stealing things," Alicia remarked, her gaze fixed on her reflection in the mirror as she put the finishing touches on her coiffure. "I've noticed." What? Under Alicia's disdainful gaze, he sheepishly produced the glittering hairpin he'd swiped. "I..." Cavendish began, searching for a suitable explanation. He thought better of it and remained silent. He stared at Alicia's serene, almost indifferent, countenance. He'd been miserable, but the sight of her, as always, instantly lifted his spirits. He hadn't slept properly in days. Cavendish held out the dragonfly hairpin. "Here," he offered. She took it, examined it briefly, and then instructed him to place it in her hair. A smile curved his lips as he approached, carefully fastening the pin to one side of her elegant chignon. "Four of my stocking garters are missing," Alicia announced, taking inventory. "Two earrings, a brooch, a pendant, and several buttons and lace trimmings from my dresses." "I was considering calling for the local constable." Cavendish's face flushed crimson. He gently caressed her neck, murmuring, "Alicia." "You're utterly shameless," she declared, ignoring his plea for forgiveness. He possessed nothing of hers, not even a lock of golden hair or a miniature portrait. They had bypassed the traditional courtship, leaping directly into a physical relationship. Alicia didn't bother to ask what he did with her belongings; she forgave him easily enough. Rising onto her toes, she tilted her head back, offering him a kiss. He gazed at her braided hair, woven into a wreath like golden wheat. He suddenly felt himself falling in love all over again. "Pray, bend down in the future, Cavendish. I abhor tiptoeing," she commanded, adjusting her hair with a practiced hand before gliding from the room, leaving him in her wake. He touched his lips, a wide grin spreading across his face. It took him a moment to register her departure, and then he hurried after her. Alicia resumed her usual habits at home. A stroll before breakfast, a circuit around the estate to breathe in the fresh air. Having risen far too early, Cavendish couldn't help but yawn. He trailed behind her, playfully tugging at her sash as he went. "Was it you who wrote in my notebook? R.F.B.," Alicia inquired, a sudden recollection. "Ah," Cavendish tried to change the subject. "Yes," he admitted, reflecting on the absurdity of his behavior during those days. "Just don't write in the green notebook," Alicia said, her gaze fixed on the cattails swaying by the lake and the birds taking flight. That was her calculation notebook, and she needed to refer back to previous entries frequently. She attempted to make her cousin understand her routines, to respect her boundaries. He agreed. ... During breakfast, a footman delivered the post. They casually perused their correspondence. Although they were on their honeymoon, Wimbledon was, in fact, not far from the outskirts of London, a mere thirteen miles distant. A letter sent promptly could be received the very next day. Indeed, if Alicia so desired, she could depart for home at this very moment, arrive by afternoon, and return by evening. However, neither of them was inclined to such an undertaking. Newlyweds on their honeymoon were expected to embark on a grand tour, visiting various estates and relatives. Yet, they remained stationary. They simply continued their daily routines in their cozy villa. Cavendish explained this, fearing that their relatives might suspect some discord between them. But... William Cavendish's eyes fell upon a letter from his mother. It was boldly signed: Lady Diana Russell-Cavendish. Having inherited her father's wealth, she was entitled to retain her maiden name. Furthermore, as the daughter of a Duke, and with her husband yet to acquire the title of Earl, holding only the title of Baron, she was addressed by her pre-marital title. Aristocratic tradition dictated that, within the same rank of nobility, a daughter held a higher position than a younger son but a lower one than the eldest. The title of "Lady" for daughters of Earls and above superseded any honorary titles or informal peerages. Thus, after her marriage, and until her husband became an Earl or a Duke, Alicia would always be addressed as "Lady Alicia." Cavendish broke the wax seal, opened the letter, and instantly felt a headache coming on. Lady Diana had perceived that they were not entirely harmonious. At the very least, they lacked the expected intimacy of a newly married couple. Given the additional clause in the will, her father, the Duke of Bedford's estate, valued at 100,000 pounds in annual income, would be inherited by her daughter's male offspring, provided they adopted the surname Russell. And then there was the canal trust left by Alicia's maternal great-uncle, the Duke of Bridgewater, yielding 120,000 pounds annually, a sum that continued to grow. This childless Duke had bequeathed his fortune to the son of his favorite sister, Alicia's maternal grandfather, the Marquess of Stafford. The Marquess had no younger brother, only a half-brother from a different mother. This meant that Alicia was the sole heiress. "Will, you must win your cousin's favor, fulfill your duties as a husband, and refrain from any further capricious behavior," the letter urged. "...Show some sincerity. At least ensure that, after the honeymoon, there will be no further cause for concern regarding this marriage." They needed to be certain that the couple had consummated their marriage, that there were no physical impediments, that they were capable of producing offspring to inherit the fortune. After all, both sets of parents and grandparents had been rather lacking in progeny. Was it truly his fault? Did he appear so inattentive, so unreliable? Oh, right. They also had that ridiculous odd-numbered and even-numbered day agreement. And as if that weren't enough, there was also the additional requirement of a specific number of times, rigidly enforced. William Cavendish's expression shifted through a myriad of emotions. He felt a surge of indignation. Alicia had never even been to his bedchamber; she had no notion what it looked like. He let out a bitter laugh. "Did you hear me?" Alicia's inquiry pulled him back to the present. "What?" "We're going riding later," she announced, instructing him to pass the salt with an air of entitlement. Splendid! Alicia wanted to go riding with him. Cavendish beamed. ... As she finished her soup, she casually inquired, "What does the letter say?" She would read him excerpts from her parents' letters, of course, only the parts that were suitable for sharing. Reading letters aloud was a common form of family entertainment. The Duke of Devonshire, a man of mild temperament, was rather indifferent towards his new son-in-law. His letter contained only the usual pleasantries and polite expressions of affection. The Duchess was fond of him, but her concern was merely that of an aunt for her nephew, coupled with an interest in his adjustment to his new status. Cavendish folded the letter. He had no desire to burden Alicia with such matters; he loathed the words "responsibility" and "duty." They had been bound by such concepts since birth. "My mother sends her regards, Alicia. She inquires about your honeymoon," he reported. "Everything is well. Please convey my thanks to Lady Diana," Alicia replied. They exchanged these formalities. Cavendish penned a reply: "Dearest Mother, Upon reflection, I believe I should be a tad more amiable towards Alicia." Yes, indeed. It was all his fault for being too aloof with his cousin.