Chapter 30: A Fit of Pique

William Cavendish was still basking in the afterglow of the previous night's intimacy. Embarrassment, you see, was fleeting. Pleasure, however, was eternal. Or so he told himself. After a perfectly delightful breakfast, he took a turn about the park with Alicia, her arm delicately looped through his. A necessary social nicety, to be sure, but one that nonetheless filled him with an inordinate amount of glee. They exchanged pleasantries with acquaintances along the way, though London was rather desolate at this time of year. Still, how very devoted they must appear! "What has you grinning like a Cheshire cat?" Alicia inquired, noticing the distinct upturn of his lips. "I shall very soon be ten thousand pounds richer," Cavendish blurted out, then immediately regretted his lack of discretion. Ah, Alicia abhorred his gambling. He suppressed a smile, eagerly anticipating her inquiry. "From your investments, perhaps?" the girl mused, after a moment's contemplation. "Not precisely," he replied, deliberately obtuse. Alas, after that single, half-hearted query, Alicia seemed to lose all interest, and the subject was unceremoniously dropped. Cavendish couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss between them. Alicia's concern for him seemed to pale in comparison to her affection for her... her dog. Indeed, no sooner had they entered the Duke's gardens than a certain fox terrier bounded towards them, a furry whirlwind of unadulterated joy. The creature did pause, upon seeing him, and offer a perfunctory bark. Still, it was clear where the creature's loyalties lay. Alicia, her face alight with delight, bent down and scooped the little dog into her arms. "Pippin, shall we have a romp?" The dratted thing was but a female, after all. He could hardly compete. Cavendish could only observe from the sidelines, endeavoring to behave like a mature and understanding husband. Alicia was off to take tea with her lady friends, having forged a new set of relationships with several married ladies of the ton. Today's social call was to Lady Jersey's residence on Berkeley Square. Cavendish, naturally, could not accompany her, as it was a strictly feminine gathering. Instead, Alicia assigned him a task: to pack up her belongings and have them delivered to Devonshire House. She was moving back tomorrow. What? Alicia explained that she had already informed Cavendish's grandparents and parents of her decision. He had been aware, of course, but had conveniently relegated the information to some dusty corner of his mind. The blissful memory of the previous night resurfaced, only to be dashed by the realization that Alicia seemed utterly unconcerned about their impending separation. "You may call on me whenever you wish," she offered, bestowing a chaste kiss upon his cheek. But why should he have to call on his own wife, as if he were some mere acquaintance? He couldn't very well forbid her from returning to her family home. Even the Duke seemed in remarkably good spirits today, no doubt thrilled at the prospect of having his daughter back under his roof. Alicia, it seemed, was accustomed to having her own way. He could have protested, of course. He could have pointed out the potential scandal of their separation, the whispers it would surely incite. His lips parted, but no words emerged. He had promised her freedom after their marriage, that things would remain unchanged. It was the only reason she had agreed to marry him in the first place. He had even planned to commission a new wardrobe for her. The bud of her maidenhood had blossomed, and he could now accurately gauge the fullness of her figure and the graceful lines of her form. The majority of a lady's time, aside from being frittered away at social gatherings, was spent at the dressmaker's, being measured, selecting fabrics, and debating the merits of various lace trims and embroidering styles, an entire day could be consumed there. He had intended to use this as an opportunity to spend time with Alicia. What could be more natural than a husband accompanying his wife to the dressmaker? Though, admittedly, most married gentlemen in London did no such thing, only resorting to such tactics during their bachelor days to contrive an encounter with the object of their affections. He held Alicia's hand, the familiar warmth still present in her palm, and sighed. "He seems a trifle melancholy," Alicia remarked to her mother after Cavendish's departure. "We were much the same before our marriage." She added, "Cavendish used to visit his cousin as a matter of duty, two or three times a week, without fail. Now, things are simply returning to their usual rhythm." "Ah, Ally, Will is merely experiencing the same growing pains as you are, adjusting to the realities of married life," the Duchess gently pointed out. The difference being, of course, that Alicia's response was one of cool detachment, while Cavendish was clearly grappling with a rather more acute case of lovesick anxiety. The girl appeared to ponder this revelation. In her eyes, Cavendish had always been a man of remarkable indifference, yet simultaneously capable of anything. He possessed an uncanny ability to resolve any issue, seemingly impervious to external pressures. His diplomatic career was not solely a product of his lineage, but rather a testament to his own considerable talents and efforts. Why, then, should the relatively minor matter of marriage cause him such consternation? ... Upon returning home, William Cavendish sought an audience with his mother. Lady Diana, finally seizing her opportunity, sat poised and waiting. "What troubles you, Mother?" he inquired, closing the door to his study and feigning an air of nonchalance. No matter what Alicia did, he had to remain the very picture of a mature, steadfast, and dependable husband. Lady Diana voiced the question that had been plaguing her for some time. "Will, what on earth is the meaning of this?" she asked, gesturing towards the bluish mark on his jaw, barely concealed by his cravat. "Have you two had some sort of altercation?" It was not unheard of for aristocratic couples, particularly those in truly acrimonious relationships, to resort to physical violence. Lady Diana could scarcely fathom such a dreadful possibility. Cavendish, momentarily taken aback, quickly recovered and vehemently denied the accusation. "Of course not!" He vaguely attributed the mark to a minor accident, adding that Alicia had been most solicitous of his well-being at the time. His face flushed slightly. They were perfectly fine. Lady Diana, however, remained unconvinced. If all was well, why then was Alicia returning to the Duke's residence so soon after their honeymoon? Still, she spared her son further embarrassment by refraining from further interrogation. After leaving his study, Cavendish stood by the window, gazing out at the distant silhouette of the Duke's mansion, lost in thought. He wondered what Alicia was doing at this very moment. He, too, needed to return to his own life, to cease revolving solely around his wife, lest he risk becoming a tiresome bore. During her visit to Jersey House, Alicia observed Lord Jersey returning with his hounds, having spent the morning hunting in the countryside. His wife preferred the vibrant social life of London, hence their decision not to reside in the country. He acknowledged the visiting ladies with a polite nod and promptly retreated to his study. Their relationship, much like that of many other contented aristocratic couples, was characterized by a comfortable balance of affection and independence, neither overly intimate nor excessively distant. Alicia watched Lady Jersey's younger children, under the care of their nannies and governess, playing nearby. She playfully interacted with them for a moment, and suddenly understood why Aunt Harriet referred to her husband's illegitimate children as "adorable little things." Alicia had already written to her aunt, informing her of her return to London, and anticipated a visit that weekend. The thought of having children with Cavendish filled her with a peculiar sense of wonder. Would they inherit his dark hair? Later, during dinner, Alicia broached the subject of children, a topic she had not given much thought to since their wedding night and the discussion of their marital duties. Cavendish inquired about her sudden interest. Upon hearing her explanation, a smile touched his lips, tinged with a hint of apprehension. He was acutely aware that childbirth could be a burdensome ordeal. He had witnessed firsthand the difficulties his own mother had endured: a fragile constitution, multiple miscarriages, and ultimately, the birth of only one child, himself, which had, of course, given rise to much unwelcome gossip. His grandmother, despite a loving relationship with his grandfather, had been subjected to the inevitable fate of bearing numerous offspring, seven in total, a truly unimaginable feat. Other ladies of the ton had even more, some even exceeding a dozen. For the first time, he seriously contemplated the matter of birth control. He could not bear the thought of Alicia suffering such hardship. He kept these thoughts to himself, instead engaging in a lighthearted discussion about potential names for their future offspring. For a boy, the traditional Cavendish name of William, of course, and for a girl, Georgiana Anne, in honor of his grandmother and mother. A second daughter would be named Elizabeth, after her maternal grandmother, and a second son, George, after Cavendish's grandfather. All meticulously planned. Cavendish toyed with a lock of her hair, finally feeling a sense of genuine marital connection. However, the fundamental issue remained: Alicia was returning to the Duke's residence. He was at a loss as to how to persuade her to stay. Based on their honeymoon experience, his only recourse seemed to be... well, physical persuasion, but Alicia remained remarkably unmoved by his charms. He had made a point of observing himself in the mirror, and could discern no discernible change in his appearance. He was still, as far as he could tell, just as devastatingly handsome as ever. He was utterly vexed. William Cavendish eventually resigned himself to the situation. It mattered not where she resided; she was still his wife. They bid each other goodnight. Unable to sleep, he arose and consulted An Essay on the Principle of Population, which outlined various methods of birth control, emphasizing the male's responsibility in limiting offspring. He pondered these methods with the utmost seriousness. After a perfunctory breakfast with the elder members of the household, Alicia, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, returned home, settling back into her old room. She contentedly tidied her desk, organizing pre-wedding notes and documents, a surge of joy coursing through her. Her former life remained intact, undisturbed by the intrusion of marriage, precisely as she had intended. The inevitable consequence of this arrangement, however, was the rampant speculation that their marriage was nothing more than a sham. What new bride, a mere three days after her honeymoon, would abandon her husband and his family to reside with her parents? The odds at White's betting book soared to an unprecedented 5:1. Upon his next visit to the club, William Cavendish was met with a barrage of sympathetic glances, and an almost palpable increase in respect. Everyone seemed to tread lightly around him, as if fearing he might erupt in a fit of rage. He merely pursed his lips, going about his business with an air of studied indifference. He perused the newspaper, engaged in a game of billiards, enjoyed a drink, and dined. He refused to acknowledge the gossip, clinging to the tattered remnants of his dignity. He was merely respecting his wife's wishes. They dined together daily, they saw each other. That was surely sufficient. There were no kisses, not even a peck on the cheek. Cavendish rested his chin in his hand. He could no longer tolerate Alicia's blatant disregard for him. He could have, of course, shamelessly followed her to the Duke's residence, imposing himself upon her family. But he wouldn't. He wanted her to miss him, to regret her decision. And so, after dinner at the Duke's, the customary entertainment was to listen to Alicia play the piano. Her skill was, as always, impeccable. Cavendish gazed at her intently. He engaged her in conversation, he read to her, just as he had during their honeymoon. The difference was that he was far more restrained now, refraining from his previous liberties, the stolen kisses, the hand that had dared to venture up her calf. Those moments of indulgence now seemed like a distant, fleeting dream. Today was an odd-numbered day, and he waited, with bated breath, for Alicia to invite him to stay. He did not expect her to offer him her bedchamber, of course, but surely the guest room, where he had so often resided before their marriage, would be acceptable. Instead, she bid him a polite farewell. "Until tomorrow," she said, offering a brief, perfunctory embrace. That was all. Before he could even attempt a kiss, she retreated, claiming exhaustion. Cavendish's eyes smoldered with a mixture of hurt and resentment. So, they were truly separated. He had been living in a fool's paradise. Thus, the following day, he did not go to her. He was angry. He would wait for her to come to him. He paced restlessly, accomplishing all his tasks in his study with remarkable efficiency, yet still, his valet brought no word from her. He strode to the window, from which he could glimpse a corner of the Devonshire House gardens. He peered out, his brow furrowed in a slight frown, his resolve wavering. Was Alicia thinking of him? Ah, she must be wondering why he had not come. He should go to her. No, it was only nine o'clock. Was she even awake yet? Breakfast at Burlington House was a rather late affair, not until after ten. Why had she not come to him for breakfast? Oh, she must be taking a stroll in the gardens. Cavendish spotted a flash of color, a familiar skirt, in the corner of the garden. He recognized it instantly. He followed the skirt's progress, moving from his study to the window at the top of the stairs, a different vantage point. A triumphant smile spread across his face. She was coming to him. He had won. Cavendish retrieved a military-issue telescope, observing the scene with meticulous care. Suddenly, he froze. A figure in a brightly colored uniform, astride a magnificent steed, swept off his hat in a grand gesture of greeting. The girl looked up, acknowledging him with a nod. He dismounted, and Alicia smiled. They moved together, out of sight. Cavendish, his heart pounding, raced from window to window, desperately trying to keep them in view. Finally, they disappeared from view altogether. He dropped the telescope, his face contorted in a mask of fury. Who was that infernal scoundrel?!