The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(136)
“But, my dear,” he had protested timidly, in an effort to stop his wife from decimating the rosebushes, “you must admit that intellectually speaking at least it was a brilliant idea. I’m not saying I agree with it, but if you think about it from a logical point of view, in a world dominated by passions, monogamy doesn’t reflect man’s natural state. In my humble opinion the approach a few of our twins have taken is highly intelligent. After all, provided there is no emotional attachment and both sides consent, what is the harm in an occasional extramarital affair?”
“Would you like to put your theory into practice and verify it empirically, my dear?” Jane replied, spinning round with an icy smile as she brandished a pair of pruning shears, which seemed to Wells bigger and more pointed than usual.
“Er . . . I already told you I don’t agree with that approach, my dear. I was simply analyzing the, er . . . the logic behind it.” Despite the dangerous proximity of the pruning shears, Wells couldn’t help ending his apology with a gibe: “But have no fear. I shall follow the example of those twins of mine who have decided to repress their instincts to promote through their wholesome example a system of virtue and integrity they have no belief in.”
“I think that is the most intelligent approach you could possibly adopt, my dear, in my humble opinion” was Jane’s retort.
But those quarrels were part of their new way of loving each other, and both of them discovered that their ensuing reconciliations, habitually enveloped in a pungent aroma of freshly cut roses, made them worthwhile.
Their minor differences resolved, those were happy times again. Wells was delighted to learn that many of his twins had found success as authors, and moreover with the same books he had thrown on the fire in his universe. He was also very relieved to be able to share that old secret with Jane at last, though even more amazed to discover that she already knew. She had crept into his study one day with the aim of finding out why he shut himself away in there every evening and had been unable to resist reading them.
“I thought they were so wonderful, Bertie, that I was mortified when you condemned them to the flames,” she confessed. “Why don’t you go back to writing stories like that? You could do it openly in this world.”
“I don’t know, Jane . . .” He hesitated. “I used to be so . . . miserable. I didn’t realize it, but I was. And I suppose those stories were my way of escaping, a kind of liberation . . .” He took his wife’s hand and kissed it tenderly. “If you want the truth, I no longer feel any need to write.”
“But we are what we imagine,” she said, remembering what the Dodgson from their world had once told her.
“No, my dear,” corrected Wells, smiling suggestively. “We are what we love.”
Jane smiled back at him, and for a few seconds they were content to make eyes at each other, the way they had only recently learned to do. Suddenly, Jane asked, “What if I were to write?”
Wells looked at her, surprised.
“You, write . . . ?” He hesitated, “Well, if that’s what you want . . . But why? And what about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. And I probably won’t even bother,” she replied with a nonchalant air. “I was only thinking aloud . . . Besides, if I did, I would keep it from you, the way you kept yours from me. I have been thinking, and I came to the conclusion that, knowing your twins’ ‘urges’ as well as I do, the only way I can keep you interested is by making sure you don’t know everything about me. I am afraid that if you did, you would get bored and start looking for other . . . mysteries.”
“My dear . . . ,” Wells said, his voice choked with desire as he leaned toward his wife’s mouth, which parted sensually to receive his kiss, “I assure you that in none of the infinite worlds in which you exist could you be considered a boring woman.”
Jane knew he meant it. Much to her relief, she had seen for herself that, in one way or another, all her twins had managed to escape the fate normally reserved for women in their adopted universes. They were without exception brilliant young women who had avoided humdrum existences by pursuing serious intellectual activities, or a wide array of artistic disciplines, and although that meant they were shunned by society, none of them seemed to care. Those infinite Janes enjoyed being part of their husbands’ cultural and political circles, not merely as companions, but as valued and admired colleagues. In fact, none of them fulfilled the roles expected of women in their respective worlds, and Observer Jane felt as proud of that as if she had instructed each of them herself.
And yet it made her equally sad to observe that they all voiced the same complaint: their husbands didn’t love them enough. They all thought, as they pruned their rosebushes with a vengeance, filling their respective houses with reproaches that reeked of freshly cut roses, that their husbands would never understand them or realize how far they were from making their wives happy. But they were mistaken. All of them were mistaken. Observer Jane wished she could tell them everything she knew, about what her Wells had described to her in so much detail, about what all of their husbands felt deep inside, safe from prying eyes: how much they admired and respected their wives, how profound their love for them was, and the terrible impotence they experienced in not being able to show it. Perhaps Wells was incapable of grand romantic gestures in any of the infinite universes, but Observer Jane knew that somewhere deep down he possessed that ability, and it was only a matter of time before it burst forth in one of those worlds, before some Wells showed his Jane what he was capable of doing for love. Indeed, Observer Wells was a case in point: no doubt intimidated by a universe full of discontented Janes, he had developed an unexpectedly amorous nature that would have made Casanova himself turn green with envy. And if her Wells could do it . . . Although he wasn’t just any Wells, Jane reflected proudly, he was a unique Wells. Different from any other Wells. And he was hers.