Chapter 37: Tolerance No More

It had come to William Cavendish's attention, with no small measure of chagrin, that his wife, the esteemed Lady Alicia, had developed a rather peculiar fondness for watching him weep. The catalyst for this unfortunate hobby, it seemed, was the Earl of Percy, who, encouraged by persons unknown and possessing a rather thick skull, had resumed his fervent visitations. Day in and day out, the Earl flitted about, a veritable whirlwind of cloying affection and saccharine sweet nothings, quite oblivious to the fact that there was, in fact, a husband in residence. One whom he pointedly ignored. They would read together, the Earl offering up shy smiles that would make a schoolgirl blush. William, meanwhile, would linger in doorways, torn between the urge to flee and the morbid fascination of observing, while the suitor remained utterly unperturbed. A lesser man might have been driven to madness. William Cavendish merely simmered, his countenance darkening by the hour. Evenings at the opera were no better. A parade of gentlemen, each more foppish than the last, would traipse through their box, engaging in idle chatter or, more often, simply staring at his wife with an expression that could only be described as naked adoration. It was enough to make a grown man gag. William's life, it appeared, had become overrun with such creatures, and he found himself, to his utter dismay, quite unable to derive any satisfaction from his current situation. He did not wish to be merely a husband, even the sole husband. It was true that only he could kiss her—though others could, and did, avail themselves of the hand-kissing ritual with alarming frequency. He could share her bed each night, or every other night, or every third night, depending on the whims of the calendar, and revel in the fleeting tranquility of their shared slumber, even if he couldn't linger until the first blush of dawn. Her golden hair would drape across him, and she would nestle against him in her sleep, a picture of serene contentment. And for a brief, shining moment, all would be right with the world. But to confront his wife directly about her... admirers? Preposterous! It would be too forward, too suspicious, too utterly devastating to his already wounded pride. And so, he endured, indulging in a curious blend of magnanimity and jealousy. Magnanimity towards his wife, of course, and jealousy towards the veritable swarm of gentlemen buzzing about her. Cavendish knew every gown she owned, each one meticulously commissioned by his own hand. Every detail, from the delicate floral embroidery to the precise shade of lace and ribbon, even the precise arrangement of the pleats, was etched into his memory. Thus, when he arrived to collect her on this particular day, he noticed, with a jolt, that Alicia had changed her dress. Though it appeared identical to the one she had been wearing earlier, he knew, with the certainty of a man who has personally selected every button, that the original had featured a pair of mother-of-pearl buttons with a spiral pattern at the cuffs. He had chosen them with painstaking care. Now, however, they had been replaced with gold buttons encased in silver. He helped her into the carriage, his gaze fixated on the offending buttons. Why would she change her dress, and into one so remarkably similar? He shouldn't doubt her, yet he couldn't help himself. This internal conflict was rather tiresome. How had he become such a suspicious, petty, stubborn, and irritable husband? He had never envisioned marriage to be like this. No wonder men were warned against the perils of jealousy. Alicia's destination that day was the Duke of Dorset's residence. The Duke, a mere stripling of nineteen, had inherited his title at the tender age of five upon the untimely demise of his father. Now, he was, in all likelihood, the most esteemed young bachelor in all of England. Cavendish himself had once, in a moment of levity, dubbed him "the little Duke." George John Frederick Sackville. The Duke of Dorset was connected to both the Cavendish and Leveson-Gower families through marriage, though the latter connection was closer. The little Duke's grandmother was the sister of Alicia's great-grandfather. His father, the previous Duke, had sired her at the ripe old age of nearly fifty. The present Duke of Dorset, having lost his father early and been raised by a rather forceful mother, was known for his frail health and a rather volatile temperament. He was not particularly close to anyone, save for Alicia, whom he regarded as a beloved family member. Alicia, in turn, was quite friendly with his sister, Lady Elizabeth Sackville, who was her age. Lady Elizabeth was to be engaged to the Earl of Delaware in the coming autumn and had thus returned to London. The Duke of Dorset, as a dutiful brother, had naturally accompanied her. He was rather pale, the result of a rather dramatic episode the previous year. He had been the most, shall we say, enthusiastic of Alicia's suitors, which, given his usual behavior, was hardly surprising. He had, in a fit of passion, attempted to slit his wrists with a paper knife, only to be discovered in the nick of time. It was this incident that had spurred the Duke and Duchess to hasten their daughter's engagement, lest she be further entangled with such unstable individuals. This rather scandalous affair, naturally, had been hushed up, known only to the closest of confidants. Lady Elizabeth, though understandably shaken by her brother's actions, maintained her friendship with Alicia. Alicia, for her part, seemed utterly unfazed by the whole affair, greeting the Duke with her usual warmth and then repaired upstairs to the drawing-room with Lady Elizabeth. Where they had tea and Alicia's dress was dampened. Elizabeth had ordered the same one made, as she had admired the pattern. So, she lent it to Alicia to change into. Alicia was oblivious to her husband's subtle change in demeanor, as he masked it well, appearing only slightly preoccupied. This preoccupation, however, manifested itself in a rather more pronounced manner later that evening, when he gripped her wrist with a surprising intensity. In bed, she would always sweetly call him "Will," and kiss him, and embrace him with a smile. The places her fingers brushed against drove him wild. "Alicia, do you love me?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "Yes," she murmured, her cheek flushed a delicate pink. "Will I be your only one?" he pressed, his fingers tightening around hers. He had been asking her such questions with increasing frequency of late, to the point of tedium. "No," she replied with a light laugh. Fine cotton, woolen blankets, and linen undergarments tangled around them. In the languid aftermath of their lovemaking, Alicia was often more inclined to conversation. She rested her head against his chest. His fingers stroked her long hair, tracing the contours of her scalp. Cavendish inquired about the Duke of Dorset, and Alicia recounted the day's events with a casual air. He was unaware that the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had inquired about their daughter's feelings for Dorset, only to be met with a firm denial. In a way, her cousin was the only one out of all those men that she could accept. Alicia related how Dorset had professed his undying love for her. She had asked him, "How much do you love me?" "Enough to give my life for you?" It was the sort of melodramatic declaration one found in the sentimental and Gothic novels she so adored, the kind where the protagonists were forever sacrificing themselves for one another. "Yes, I would," he had vowed. She said it so casually, as if it were magic, easily capturing his heart and mind. "Would you?" And thus, the scene had unfolded. He had sought to prove something. Cavendish stared at his wife, his heart pounding in his chest. "I do not wish to marry him. Dorset is still a child," she declared, "A stubborn, fragile, easily broken child. More of a child than I am, even." She looked at him, these words could also be used to describe him. "Then why me?" he asked, guiding her hand to cradle his face. "You are my cousin. We grew up together. We are of the same blood." Alicia gazed at him intently. "You told me that yourself, did you not?" She did not mind his involvement in her life. He was that to her, and nothing more. He felt as if he were drowning. She had so effortlessly tamed him, and now he lived in constant fear that she would withdraw her gaze, that she would abandon him at any moment. "Alicia, I..." His tears fell before he could articulate his thoughts. He exhaled heavily, rendered speechless by the intensity of his emotions. He felt a complex mix of emotions for her, hating her, loving her, and wanting her to look at him, to torment only him. She tilted her head, observing the tears that streamed down his face, his blue eyes evasive yet still captivatingly bright. "I do so love it when you cry," she murmured, offering a comforting kiss to his long eyelashes, her passion more fervent than usual. William Cavendish realized, with a sickening clarity, that this very vulnerability was what Alicia found most appealing. The very thing he had strived to conceal was precisely what she seemed to love. He kissed her with a desperate ferocity, biting her lips, tears of frustration and torment streaming down his face. He must be mad. Alicia was quite content with her husband. He was, in her estimation, the most suitable type, and she could not fathom replacing him with anyone else. She thought she only had him. They had reached a peculiar equilibrium in that regard. His earlier anxieties had dissipated, for he had come to realize that Alicia held none of them in high regard. But at the same time, she felt the same about him. It wasn't love, merely that they were close relations, having grown up together. It could have been anyone else. If he hadn't existed, she might have married Titchfield. Cavendish couldn't imagine it. This forced him to confront the fact that he was no different from those he looked down upon. "Alicia?" Her companions teased, inquiring why her husband no longer accompanied her to various social events. Alicia pondered this for a moment. He likely had his own affairs to attend to, she reasoned. She was neither troubled nor suspicious. If only Cavendish possessed half her nonchalance, he could live a life of blissful contentment. William Cavendish, meanwhile, found himself at Jackson's Saloon, a gentleman's boxing club, seeking an outlet for his turbulent emotions. He felt that something was amiss, that he had somehow transformed into a different person. He was a man of considerable refinement, his elegant demeanor belying his skill as a pugilist. He sparred with his fellow members, his punches swift and powerful, his movements precise and unforgiving. It was into this maelstrom of masculine aggression that the Earl of Percy, for reasons known only to himself, stumbled, issuing a challenge. William Cavendish, in no mood for pleasantries, did not hold back. He left the Earl with not an ounce of dignity. The Earl was repeatedly knocked down, only to rise again, his appearance increasingly disheveled. He wiped the blood from his nose, and the cheering crowd fell momentarily silent. When the time was up, Cavendish was declared the victor. He pulled the young heir to his feet and sighed. "What are you doing?" William Cavendish offered him a drink. He realized they were just a bunch of children. He had inexplicably gotten mixed up with them and was now bickering. "Why did she choose you?" "What?" They entered a small salon and closed the door. "Do you think that if it weren't for me, she would be with you?" Cavendish mused. "The reason," he sat there. The Earl of Percy glared at him resentfully. From a young age, his mother had told him that his most suitable match was Lady Alicia. He had fallen in love with her at first sight. With her golden hair and pure blue eyes, she was more beautiful than anyone else. He considered himself a knight, and she was the princess he was sworn to protect. But William Cavendish's appearance had changed everything. He was always the one closer to Alicia, and now he was even going to marry her. The Earl of Percy had spent over a decade vying for her affection. That conversation in the garden, and the unequivocal rejection and comparison, had completely crushed him. Cavendish frowned. He had heard of the failed negotiations for their betrothal. The Duke of Northumberland was autocratic and unyielding, refusing to make any concessions. "Lord Percy, is it possible that even without me, you would not have achieved your desire?" Cavendish stated the truth bluntly. "You have only just come of age. Can you escape your father's influence? If you were to marry Alicia, what could you offer her?" The Earl of Percy's face paled. This was the reality he least wanted to face. "How much is your annual allowance?" His estates were entirely in his father's hands, or rather, under his control. "Eight thousand pounds. But I can give her everything." "If your father disagrees, if there is a conflict, can you obtain it?" The Earl fell silent. "No." He pushed the glass of brandy towards him. "You should first achieve independence, Lord Percy." He rose and left him behind. He had, in a single day, effectively neutralized all potential rivals. He wondered why he had ever considered them a threat. The Earl of Sunderland protested, "You don't even have a title. You won't inherit the dukedom for another hundred years." He paid him no mind, not to mention the massive debt his father, the Marquess of Blandford, had incurred, which would require a substantial dowry to settle. The Earl of Sunderland was confident, believing himself superior in every way, what with the title of Duke of Marlborough and the magnificent Blenheim Palace. "What is the 149th line of the Iliad?" The Earl of Sunderland, in the midst of his argument, paused. "What? Who remembers that!" "I do, and so does Alicia. We both know it by heart. Lord Sunderland, you should return to Oxford and continue your studies, complete your translation and imitation of the Iliad." William Cavendish didn't even look at him. He wanted to shout, "Next!" Let them all come in so he could deal with them quickly. The Earl of Sunderland went back and flipped through the book, carefully counting the lines in that commonly used translation. (Why not the original ancient Greek? Because he was an unlearned man and found it a headache.) He counted all the way to the 149th line, which read: "And swift-footed Achilles, with an angry look, answered him, 'Shameless, how can any Achaean obey your words with a light heart...'" The Earl of Sunderland was recalled to Christ Church, Oxford. As for the Marquess of Titchfield, who had joined the army, he arranged for him to be sent to Brighton, that seaside town. The 10th Hussars stationed there would be a good fit for him. His father readily agreed to such training for his son. And there was Viscount Belgrave, who was well-behaved. He dug out his great-uncle, the famous scientist Henry Cavendish's unpublished experimental records and manuscripts. Richard Grosvenor, who was thirsty for knowledge, naturally wouldn't go out anymore. It was so simple. Why had he been so troubled? Now, only his wife remained. Alicia noticed that her surroundings had suddenly become much quieter. Her husband was always staring at her, and then he would get up and go out to drink, spending a great deal of time on boxing, horsemanship, and shooting. He was carousing. He returned even later than she did, no longer waiting for her at home like a proper husband. He waited for Alicia to get angry with him, to quarrel with him. She used to hate it when he did this, and he loved to tease her. But now, nothing happened, and he could no longer bear it.