Chapter 34: Progress

She went to the game night, anyway. Francis watched his cousin drown his sorrows in drink, saying nothing. He looked utterly miserable, and no one dared approach. He asked about getting along with one's wife. "Why do you ask? Isn't a wife by nature a husband's possession? You've studied law; legally, you're inseparable, not to mention the contractual bond." Cavendish shook his head. "No, that's not what I want." "Lady Alicia, she is quite the charmer, isn't she? Quite the sensation in London these past weeks." The man lifted his gaze. "What?" "Haven't you heard?" William Cavendish had to admit he'd been rather withdrawn lately, playing the part of the obedient husband for far too long. He'd followed the rules, more or less: shared meals, shared a bed, took walks, made polite conversation. And nothing more. "You're remarkably unconcerned about your wife... How are you going to convince them? What a waste of my several hundred pounds." Francis, under the thumb of his father, the Duke of Bedford, was limited to a fixed annual allowance. "In any case, I believe freedom comes first. I can't very well interfere in her life." "If that's what you believe, then what are you worried about?" "...A lover? How absurd." William Cavendish understood that, lover or no lover, he was the only husband. No matter what, she would always return home. After the party, Alicia found her cousin sprawled on a settee, his long legs casually crossed. He raised his long lashes, a certain bewilderment in his eyes, and propped his chin on his hand, gazing at her. "Alicia." "Yes." She handed him a small, gold trinket as he reached for her hand. "What's this?" Cavendish's deep blue eyes, shadowed by his dark lashes, examined it intently. He'd been waiting for her all afternoon, lost in thought. "A prize I won." Alicia was rather good at games of wit, such as Bananagrams, a game not commonly played. She had ruthlessly seized first place. She had remembered to bring him a little gift. Cavendish smiled, his fingers toying with the small gold box. Finally, he attached it to his watch chain. Their roles seemed to have reversed. "Find something to do, Cavendish. You're simply bored." Francis's words echoed in his ears. His mother had urged him to reverse the gossip swirling through London; his father had told him not to neglect his duties. The Duchess had comforted him, telling him not to rush, while the Duke offered him the usual nods of acknowledgment and perfunctory greetings expected of a son. Cavendish resumed his former work. He still waited for Alicia after her classes, preparing her materials, watching her experiments, and enduring her squeamishness during dissections. But Alicia noticed that her husband's presence had diminished considerably. Besides spending time at his club, work was another form of diversion. Cavendish saw it as a way to alleviate his boredom. He appeared at his law firm, donned his black robe, and checked if there were any cases he could take on or observe. He also frequented the London Stock Exchange; the tides of war were ever-shifting. Russia's winter had arrived, and Napoleon, as predicted, was facing supply shortages and attempting to negotiate peace with Tsar Alexander I, who had thus far refused. He inevitably heard news of his wife. Her presence had injected a much-needed dose of excitement into London's otherwise dreary social scene. People were calling her a modern-day Aphrodite. Her every move set a new trend. The gowns she wore, the jewelry she adorned, even her hairstyles were immediately copied by eager socialites. He should have been pleased that Alicia was so popular. He had, after all, helped her choose her wardrobe. As autumn arrived, the light fabrics were replaced with warm velvet. She draped herself in lavish cashmere shawls, each more elaborate than the last, and donned cloaks, furs, and long coats. He waited for her at home, like a proper husband. He helped her remove her hat, her feathered headdresses, the pins from her cloaks, and inquired about her day and her plans for the morrow. But he knew he wasn't satisfied. Alicia, too, faced a predicament. Like all newlyweds, she was constantly questioned by friends and family about the possibility of a pregnancy. Producing an heir was a crucial aspect of aristocratic marriage. Only when both parties proved capable of producing a legitimate heir could the union be considered truly successful. Some newlyweds, like the Lambtons and Francis, were fortunate enough to conceive a healthy child within the first year. Alicia's menses were delayed. The family physician, a Sir Roll, made his appearance with the regularity of an unwanted tax collector, subjecting Alicia to a series of examinations that left Cavendish in an agony of suspense. It was, Sir Roll maintained with maddening calm, "still within the realm of possibility" that an heir might be on the way. Cavendish grew even more anxious. He consulted two married friends, inquiring about what to expect when one's wife was with child. He couldn't fathom that his marriage would progress so rapidly. Alicia stayed home these past few days. She leaned wearily by the fireplace, warming herself by the fire. He stayed by her side, holding her close. The Duke and Duchess, seated on the other side of the room, observed the scene. They had supported this marriage, in part, because Alicia possessed a unique tolerance and patience for her cousin. And Cavendish, of course, had shown unwavering care and attention for over a decade. They could spend their lives together, peacefully. Cavendish was terrified. He recalled the clause in their prenuptial agreement: if the wife died in childbirth or died childless, all property would revert to her family. It was the last thing either of them wanted, but it had to be included. Before his worries could escalate, Alicia's menses arrived the following day. Those in London who had been eagerly awaiting news were either disappointed or relieved. Cavendish, however, breathed a sigh of relief. He began to seriously consider the matter of abstinence, conducting numerous real-world inquiries and investigations. On odd-numbered days, he still went to Alicia. She liked to sleep in his arms. Her brow was slightly furrowed, a sign of discomfort. He had always found his cousin remarkably tolerant, rarely expressing her feelings, so he could never quite gauge her true emotions. They returned to their honeymoon phase, alone, with only each other. He helped her wind balls of yarn, read aloud to her from books, and watched her write in her diary. The enormous telescope on the top floor of the Duke's mansion finally found its purpose. He held her close as they gazed at the stars, identifying them one by one. "I haven't forgotten, have I?" Cavendish raised an eyebrow. Alicia, her face pale, looked at him quietly. She gave him directions, and he carefully climbed onto the windowsill, settling beside her. She looked so fragile. Alicia detested her monthly bleeding; it had plagued her for four years. Though it was a normal physiological process, she often wondered why only women had to endure it. Her emotions fluctuated. She became melancholic, capable of staring at a single falling leaf for hours. He brought her flowers made of stained glass, arranged in a vase. "These won't wither, Ali." He was remarkably attuned to her moods. Alicia's capacity for learning was swift. She slowly realized what she had been neglecting. Like that time he sat in the carriage waiting for her, still wearing his lawyer's robe, staring blankly ahead. Then he had asked if she had had a pleasant day. The young man who helped her into the carriage, out of courtesy, always caught his eye. He would purse his lips slightly, repeatedly rubbing the hand that had touched hers, the warmth of his lips lingering. Alicia touched his face. His recent anxieties had left a shadow of stubble on his upper lip. "Have you been happy these past few days?" she asked. "What?" Cavendish looked up, instinctively replying, "Of course." Then he paused, considering her diamond-shaped face. Actually, no. Why was that? Because she wasn't entirely his; she had others to keep her company. But Cavendish found this reasoning absurd. "Really?" Alicia didn't press further. She got down. "I'm going to bed." These past few days, regardless of the day of the week, he could stay with her, hold her as she slept. Cavendish said that this was what he had initially hoped for. But this blissful period was short-lived. The week ended. During this time, Alicia had, without any prior experience, developed a penchant for toying with him. At first, it was an occasional amusement, simply watching his reactions. Later, she took the initiative. He loved her hands, yet he was simultaneously mortified and thrilled that they touched such an unseemly place. "Look at me, won't you?" His eyes darted away. Upon hearing her request, he gazed at her, their blue eyes reflecting each other. She controlled his desire with minimal effort. William Cavendish's pride was shattered. He had allowed her to do something so disrespectful to herself. Unfortunately, it became a habit, as if she had discovered a new continent. His pride was forced to rebuild itself. She enjoyed toying with him this way. "You can't do this." She remained silent, placing her index and middle fingers against his lips, forbidding him to kiss her. In the following days, she continued this behavior. "I loathe you, Alicia," he complained. "You're always tormenting me." She didn't react. "I said I loathe you." "That's the third time this week you've said that," Alicia noted the tears glistening on his eyelashes. "And each time, you end up... kissing me." He pinned her down. Cavendish sought advice from married men, always suspecting that he wasn't doing enough to please her. To his surprise, the consensus was, "Why should you please your wife?" Society advocated for female chastity and purity, with intimacy reserved solely for procreation. But it was truly wonderful. Cavendish realized that he wasn't entirely a failure in marriage; at least in this aspect, he excelled. They were so boorish. They didn't know how to do it like I do. He smirked. Wait. Only lovers needed to please each other. A husband's role was to guide his wife, one passive, one active. He and Alicia had fallen into an unusual pattern. It was just as Francis had questioned, "Is it possible that you're doing it wrong?" "What?" "You're acting more like a lover than a husband." He took him to the trending event to see the spectacle in his wife's VIP section, where everyone was vying for entry, eager to chat with her and the other ladies. She was the most radiant of them all, her neck adorned with magnificent jewels, her shoulders now fuller, more womanly. Cavendish realized he still couldn't be just a husband. He wished he could be her lover. He began to feel jealous. From the opposite VIP section, he watched, repeatedly. The gallants were so attentive to her. If only he were one of them. No, he couldn't bear the thought of her having another husband. The memory of last night's intimacy and today's social triumph overlapped, and Cavendish's lips felt parched. Lady Cowper pointed to the other side of the venue. "Alicia," she called, their familiarity allowing her to use her first name. "Yes, Emily?" Lady Jersey continued, "Our dearest Mr. Cavendish, what is he doing over there, lurking about?" She covered her mouth with her fan. Alicia blinked. She found his behavior rather amusing. Cavendish brazenly entered his wife's VIP section. He had made up his mind. He couldn't continue like this, always the weaker one. He had to make Alicia see him. He snatched a glass of champagne from a passing server, casting a disdainful look at the young man beside him. He leaned against Alicia, engaging her in conversation. She, without any pretense, offered him her hand, a rare smile gracing her lips. They were a striking couple, their intimacy evident. He blocked all the men who tried to approach her. From that day forward, William Cavendish's reputation in London soared, earning him the moniker of "the Jealous Husband."