Improper Proposals (3 page)

Chapter Four

I considered Mr. Cathcart-Ross’s proposal for the
remainder of the evening and for the entire endless night that followed. In the
morning I was no nearer to a decision than I’d been when we had said farewell,
and my indecision left me fretful and uneasy as I packed my valise and began the
long journey home.

There was no possibility of my agreeing, none whatsoever. He
was very nearly a perfect stranger, despite his longstanding friendship with
John, and as such should not have spoken of such private things with me. He
should have known how keenly I suffered, how terribly I missed my husband.

And yet I could not fault his reasoning, nor his evident
sincerity, for in his words I discerned an echo of my own unvoiced, unaired
convictions. As the miles passed and my discomfort faded, I realized, rather to
my chagrin, that he was right.

That evening I sat alone in my little kitchen, sipped at my
cooling cup of tea and thought back to my wedding day. I had been all of
eighteen years old. I had been deeply in love with my new husband. And I had
been terrified beyond belief.

On my wedding night I had known nothing, absolutely nothing, of
what would occur. A week before, my mother had taken me aside and spoken darkly
of “a man’s needs” and my “duty to submit.” She had told me that in return for
enduring John’s “attentions,” I would one day be rewarded with a baby. And that
had been all, for Mama had been so ill at ease that I had not dared ask a single
question.

By the time John had come to me on our wedding night, more than
an hour after I’d been put to bed, I was quite beside myself with fear. Through
all the months of our courtship he had been so gentle, so affectionate, that it
seemed impossible he should now wish to injure or abuse me.

I had shut my eyes tight, praying silently for the strength to
endure the coming ordeal. Then he’d climbed into bed, wearing only his shirt and
trousers, and drawn me into the shelter of his arms.

“Why are you afraid, my darling?” he’d asked.

“I promise to be good,” I had whispered, fearful that one of
the servants might hear. “I know I must do my duty.”

A sigh from John, and then, “Did anyone tell you what to
expect?”

“Mama told me it would be unpleasant. She said I was to submit
to you, and on no account must I resist.”

Another sigh. “Caroline, will you turn to look at me?
Please?”

I’d been relieved to see that he appeared almost as uneasy as
I. Perhaps he might decide to relent, if only for tonight.

“Your mother, God bless her, told you a great untruth. What we
are about to do will not be unpleasant—at least, I very much hope it will not.
And if you do feel any discomfort, you must be honest and tell me so straight
away.”

“Yes, John.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I have never done this
before, either.”

“You haven’t? But Mama told me you would know what to do.”

“I do. At least I have a fairly good idea. But I’m nervous,
too. I want you to enjoy this.”

“What are we going to do? I so wish I knew what to expect.”

“I will tell you, in a minute. But first, will you let me kiss
you?”

Before the night was done I had learned a number of things.
One, that my mother had been wrong, entirely wrong. There had been nothing
shameful or disgusting about what John and I had done. Quite the contrary,
although we were rather shy with one another at the beginning, and I spent most
of the night covered in nothing more than blushes.

And two, I had discovered that the minor discomfort I
experienced at the beginning—and which John had assured me would not be
repeated—was as nothing compared to the entirely delightful feelings that had
overtaken me several minutes later.

From there, our lovemaking had only improved. John had been
attentive and sensitive, always keen to ensure my satisfaction, never troubling
me if I were overtired or ill. As our intimacy had grown, so too had our
devotion to one another, and apart from my failure to conceive we had been
entirely content with one another and with married life.

I stood, casting aside the cobwebs of the past, and walked out
to my garden. The path needed sweeping and the rosebush in the corner needed
deadheading, but rather than put myself to work I sat on the little bench under
the quince tree, gripped by an unfamiliar sense of indecision.

I had written my book of household management in order to
enlighten other women, and in so doing lift the burden of ignorance under which
so many labored. Might I be able to perform a similar service with the
unorthodox guide that Mr. Cathcart-Ross proposed? The anxiety of not knowing how
to properly stoke a range, for example, was as nothing compared to the
anticipatory terror I had felt on my wedding night. To free even a single woman
from such fear was a laudable goal.

If only I knew more about Mr. Cathcart-Ross and the sort of man
he was. Of course he had known John for years, and my husband had spoken of him
often, always with great affection. But I barely knew him, for he had been
abroad both at the time of my wedding and when John died, and in the years
between he had never visited us in Aston Tirrold. Yet I felt certain my husband
would never have been friends with someone who was untrustworthy or given to
nefarious schemes, no matter how longstanding their connection.

I had to admit I liked Mr. Cathcart-Ross, liked him very well
indeed. I had passed less than an hour in his company, but I felt sure he was a
decent man, with perfectly honorable intentions. He spoke the truth when he said
he wished to save women from fear—of that I was convinced.

Was I capable of actually writing about such things? How would
I contain my embarrassment in regard to the guide’s subject matter? Merely
thinking
about the work made me ill at ease. And what
if anyone were to discover what I was doing? We would have to proceed with
extreme caution, for if our correspondence were to be intercepted my reputation,
and by extension my husband’s, would be damaged irreparably.

That night I lay awake again, feeling as never before the
absence of my beloved at my side. John would have known what to do, and he would
have clarified matters with the help of one simple question.
What do you believe is right?

As the first glimmer of dawn began to soften the eastern sky, I
made my decision.

I would write the guide. I would write it to honor John and his
memory. Had he not been the staunchest advocate I had ever met of education and
knowledge? Had he not condemned the antiquated ways of thinking that kept girls
and women ignorant and powerless? It was—and here I had to stifle a giggle—a
very odd way of honoring him, but then he had been a singular man.

Dressed only in my nightgown and wrapper, I sat at the kitchen
table and composed my response to Mr. Cathcart-Ross, laboring over at least half
a dozen ridiculously elaborate versions before deciding a simple reply would be
best.

Moreton Cottage

Aston Tirrold

Berkshire

21 July 1870

Dear Mr.
Cathcart-Ross
,

After a great deal of reflection on the
matter I would like to agree to your proposal and I very much hope we can
come to mutually satisfactory terms.
I
await your response and in the meantime remain
,

Yours faithfully
,

Mrs.
John Boothroyd

Peregrine Press

183 Fleet Street

London

26 July 1870

Dear Mrs.
Boothroyd
,

Allow me to express my delight at your
decision to accept my offer.
I
should also like to once again apologize most sincerely if
at any point during our previous conversation I had occasion to cause you
anxiety or distress.
While the contents of the proposed guide may well be
considered improper
,
I
assure you that my intentions are anything but.

You asked for terms under which you might
begin work on said guide.
I
herewith offer you an honorarium of £3 10s
a
month while you are at work on the composition of the
guide
,
and I further promise to recompense you
for any expenses you may incur
(
travel
costs
,
postage
,
et
cetera
)
.
Once the guide has been published
,
I
will pay you ten percent of all revenues
(
net
)
that Peregrine Press
realizes from the sale of the guide.
You will also be entitled to the same percentage from any
and all future editions of said guide.

If you wish to accept these terms
,
please inform me by return post.
I
would also welcome your devising an outline of how you
propose to structure the guide.
This you may deliver to me at your earliest
convenience.

If you do not find it unduly burdensome I
respectfully request that you visit my offices in London at least once a
month so that we may easily discuss the progress of your writing and
together make such amendments as we both agree are editorially
necessary.

I
eagerly anticipate your reply.

Yours faithfully
,

Tom Cathcart-Ross

I began work on the outline the next day.

I had written my household guide at my kitchen table, for the
weather that past winter and spring had been particularly cold and wet, and the
nearby range had kept my fingers from freezing through. Rather than resume my
work there, however, I moved to a small desk in my bedroom, which sat before the
chamber’s single, west-facing window. There I could smell the late roses as they
were warmed by the afternoon sun, and be charmed by the green-gold shadows that
fell dappled and bright across the worn oak of my desktop.

With little else to divert me, I finished the outline within a
few days, and after posting it to London, I began work on the guide proper. Some
days I worked from the moment I awoke in the morning, pausing only for cups of
tea and a hastily prepared sandwich, continuing on for hours until my writing
hand cramped in protest. And other days, when my work provoked achingly acute
memories of John, I set down my pen after only an hour or two and went to tend
my garden.

Of my work for Mr. Cathcart-Ross I said nothing. I had several
close friends in the village, close enough that I had told them about my book of
household management. Since my return from London, they had asked me, any number
of times, if I’d had any news. If I’d found a publisher. Part of me longed to
confide in them, not least because I wasn’t at all certain my knowledge of
marital relations was sufficiently comprehensive for the task at hand. With the
different perspective of other women I might ensure accuracy, and thereby better
serve my readers.

But it would be folly to breathe so much as a word, even the
merest syllable, of what I was doing. So I hemmed and hawed and said only that I
was still in search of a publisher for the household manual, which was true
after a fashion, and was presently occupied with other work. It was easy enough
to put them off, for I had always been the person in whom people confided,
rather than the other way around. All it took was a question or two on my
part—How is your mother? Were you able to vanquish the aphids in your rose
bushes?—and they soon forgot about my literary ambitions.

In a little more than a month I had completed two entire
chapters, which I sent to Mr. Cathcart-Ross after making fair copies of both,
mindful of his earlier warning. The first was a general introduction to the
guide, while the second was a sensitively rendered description, described in
wholly tasteful terms, of the sort of preparatory activities that often, though
not always, preceded lovemaking. I was careful to remain objective throughout,
and to use correct physiological terms rather than resort to vulgar
euphemisms.

I received his response, together with a check for my monthly
honorarium, by return post.

22 August 1870

Dear Mrs.
Boothroyd
,

Chapters received and read.
Are you free to come to London next week
,
say the twenty-eighth?
Await your reply.

T.C.R.

Chapter Five

“So, Mr. Cathcart-Ross. What do you think of my chapters?” It was an inelegant beginning to our conversation, but I could wait no longer.

Never before had time moved so slowly as in the days between his last letter and this moment. It was an unscientific sentiment, to be sure, but one that exactly captured my state of mind. “Received and read,” he had written. Not, “I have read your chapters and they are excellent,” or even, “Your chapters are so woefully written that an editorial intervention from the heavens is required to rescue them.”

I had contemplated replying with a direct question: do you like the chapters, yea or nay? But I had hesitated, not least because I knew so little of publishers and their expectations. In all likelihood he’d dashed off the note without thinking twice, assuming I would be content to hear his thoughts at a week’s distance.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and I was tired. I had come directly from Paddington Station to the offices of Peregrine Press, every mile of my long journey showing on my dusty face and disheveled person. Fortunately Mr. Cathcart-Ross hadn’t seemed to notice, shaking my hand and greeting me warmly and offering me a cup of tea. Grendel had been happy to see me, too, snuffling at my hand before returning to his patch of sun in front of the big bay window.

My publisher’s appearance was, once again, less than pristine—tie pulled loose, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirtsleeves folded back haphazardly. He had a smear of ink across one cheekbone and there were pencil shavings clinging to the fine wool of his trousers. Despite my waspish mood, I found him rather endearing.

And that put me into an even worse mood, for it reminded me of the unwanted effects such charm was having on my thoughts, even when I was occupied with matters that had nothing to do with Mr. Cathcart-Ross and the work he had set me to do. Reaching for the tea canister in my kitchen that morning, I had glimpsed my arm and, unbidden, the very different image of his finely muscled forearm had flown into my head, followed shortly thereafter by the memory of his hands, ink-stained and callused as no gentleman’s ought to be.

He smiled broadly, his eyes meeting mine without hesitation. “I like your chapters very much. They aren’t perfect, of course. But I’m confident we can address their shortcomings.”

I bristled at his words. “What is wrong with them?”

“Very little. Some repetition, a few awkward phrases here and there. Several passages that are rather more clinical than I’d like.”

“But we agreed on that. To take the high road, as it were. Otherwise no woman I know would ever dare buy it.”

“You’re quite right. But I also don’t want something that reads as if a physician or cleric had written it, with all due respect to John. The entire point of this exercise is to offer advice from the woman’s point of view. And your point of view, if I may be so bold, is that of a woman who delighted in the act of love.
That
is what you need to show.”

“I see,” I said, though in truth I couldn’t envision how I would make such changes.

“Please don’t fret, Mrs. Boothroyd. I’m certain we’ll get it right. If you wish we can go over the pages now, but may I suggest something else?”

“Yes?”

“You had a long journey today. Why don’t you return to your hotel, have some time to yourself, and then come and dine with me this evening?”

“I, ah, I couldn’t possibly impose,” I stammered.

“Not at all. I should welcome the company at dinner. And we’ll be at our leisure to go through the pages. Do say you’ll come.”

As a widow, I did enjoy a certain amount of latitude in such matters. But to dine alone with a man I scarcely knew, in the privacy of his home? That was not the sort of behavior my friends in Aston Tirrold would understand if ever they were to learn of it.

“My servants are discreet,” he added. “And we’ll be able to speak frankly, without the worry of being overheard. You must admit it would be difficult to discuss your chapters in a public dining room.”

“I suppose you have a point,” I admitted.

“What time would suit you for dinner? Eight o’clock? Yes? I’ll have my carriage collect you at half past seven.”

“Thank you.”

“My clerk, Mr. Randall, will come down with you. Excuse me a moment.”

He opened the door of his office and called down the corridor. “Randall! Drop what you’re doing and come here.”

I went to pick up my valise, which I’d left by the door, but Mr. Cathcart-Ross had already passed it to his clerk.

“He’ll see you downstairs and hail a hansom cab for you. Enjoy your afternoon.”

I shook his hand and tried not to notice how close he stood to me, so close that my skirts brushed against his legs as I moved past. “You’re very kind.”

“Not at all, not at all. Until this evening, Mrs. Boothroyd.”

* * *

The afternoon and early evening passed slowly, though in the best possible way. Once I was settled in my chamber—I had taken a rather larger room this visit, with a proper bathroom just down the hall—I changed out of my bombazine gown and sent it off to be sponged clean and pressed, a small but worthwhile luxury.

I took a long bath, lounging in the tall copper tub until the water had cooled and my fingers were as wrinkled as a walnut. And I wondered what to do about the problem of Mr. Cathcart-Ross.

The difficulty was that I liked the man, liked him far more than was proper or even desirable. He ought not to have been so likeable.

When I’d first written to him, I’d pictured a man in his early middle years, running to fat, expensively upholstered in a finely tailored suit, with improbable whiskers that gave him the air of a kindly walrus. Instead he was tall and handsome, unpretentious and kind. A man who could be no older than his mid-thirties and looked a decade younger. A man who, though physically dissimilar to my late husband, was very like him in one respect: he listened to me. He truly seemed to be interested in what I thought.

And I was to dine with him this evening, alone, and we would talk of love and passion and I knew, I simply
knew
he would force me to resurrect thoughts and feelings that I had decided to bury with John.

But Tom Cathcart-Ross did not seem like a man who would tolerate half-truths. He would demand more, perhaps more than I was willing to give. Dare I embrace the spirit of our enterprise as wholeheartedly as he wished? Could I bring myself to write truthfully of the passion I had shared with John, or would the remembrance of all I had lost be too much to bear?

Enough.
I was being ridiculous, was letting anxiety and fear get the better of me. Mr. Cathcart-Ross had said only minor revisions were needed, likely no more than simple adjustments to the tone of the narrative and my choice of vocabulary. He wasn’t asking me to excavate my heart.

My bathwater was cold, the hour was growing late, and I needed to return to my room and dress for dinner. I ought to be on my way. Instead I closed my eyes and thought of him.

I thought of how he would enter the room, not troubling to knock, his expression unaccountably serious. How he would crouch at the side of the bathtub, one of his hands trailing upon the surface of the water, brushing against the trembling skin of my shoulder, sinking beneath to trace the curves of my bosom with a gentle, lingering touch.

I would look him in the eye. He would seem a different man entirely, his gaze unblinking, hot, relentless. I wouldn’t have the strength to look away, not even when his hand moved to my thigh, just was mine was now moving, tickling and stroking the delicate, hidden skin hidden beneath the water, until he reached—

A sharp knock at the door dislodged me from my reverie.

“Hello? Is the bath occupied?” The voice was cultured, and presumably belonged to a fellow hotel guest.

“Yes, but not for long,” I called out, lunging from the bath and drying myself hastily. “I won’t be a moment.”

Thank heavens the interruption had come when it did. What had I been thinking, to indulge in such private imaginings in a place where any passerby might hear me so plainly? I wrapped myself in my robe, gathered my bathing things and drew the stopper on the bath. The hallway beyond was empty, the other guest having vanished. I hoped she would still have time for her bath.

My gown was waiting for me in my room, clean and crisp and smelling of lavender water. I’d never been one to follow the latest fashions, although I had a fairly good idea of current styles and silhouettes. But John and I had lived modestly, and had taken care to be seen to be living modestly, so I had learned to be content with a small wardrobe of gowns that were suitable for my role as a vicar’s wife.

Tonight, uncharacteristically, I yearned to set aside the deadening black of my widowhood, to make the most of my looks before the last blush of youth had faded entirely. Every last one of my gowns—and I had but five that were fit for wear outside the house—were so conventional that they all but induced catatonia in observers. I longed for a train that swept the floor, for an overskirt that was pleated and ruched just so, for a bustle that was more than an abbreviated afterthought.

Most of my clothes had been dyed black after John’s death, but the gown I now wore had been purchased so I might have something fine to wear to his funeral. One of my friends had driven to Didcot, the market town nearest to our village, and had brought it back from the dressmaker there. It fit me, it was suitable and it was even moderately stylish. I hated it.

I had been careful not to dampen my hair in the bath, though the heat and steam had encouraged it to curl at my temples and nape. I brushed it out, twisted it in a low chignon, and pinned it carefully in place. Then I dressed myself in layer after layer of undergarments, finishing with my horrid gown. And that was that. I had no jewelry, no flowers for my hair, no adornments save my wedding ring.

A large looking-glass was affixed to the front of the wardrobe. I stood for a moment in front of it, examining the woman before me. I had been lovely, once, but my fair hair had darkened, my fair skin had freckled, and my once-slim figure had become rounder than I liked, though John had often told me he found it pleasing. Even my hands, roughened by housework and my hours in the garden, were no longer pretty.

And then I turned away, for there was nothing I could do to change the way I looked, nor was there any reason I should care. I was having dinner with my publisher, no more.

I tied my bonnet ribbons under my chin, drew on my gloves, collected my reticule and, last of all, drew my widow’s veil over my face. Though it was too sheer to truly hide my features, it would make it difficult for anyone to identify me at a distance, if ever it came to that.

The carriage, a black-lacquered brougham, was waiting at the curb. The coachman was all smiles as he helped me inside, ensuring I was settled before taking his seat and whistling to his horse.

We headed east on Bayswater Road and traveled for about a mile before turning south onto Park Lane. Soon we were in the heart of Belgravia, a district I’d never visited before. It was dauntingly impressive, the simple white facades of its houses both beautiful and forbidding, its leafy squares surrounded by high wrought-iron fences and locked gates.

The carriage turned onto a narrow side street, turned again, and almost immediately drew to a halt in front of a brick-fronted town house. Though humbler than its grand cousins around the corner, it was a fine building all the same. Exactly the sort of pied-à-terre one would expect for an aristocrat like the Honorable Thomas Cathcart-Ross, youngest son of the Earl of Huntington.

A maid was at the door to greet me and take my bonnet and wrap. “Good evening, Mrs. Boothroyd. Mr. Cathcart-Ross is in the library. Please follow me, ma’am.”

The library was a larger version of his office at Peregrine Press, only far tidier, and although there was a large desk by the central window the focal point of the room was a great marble fireplace. It was flanked by a pair of leather-covered wing chairs, each with its own brass-framed campaign table. In lieu of a hearth rug there was a mountain of shaggy gray fur—Grendel, stretched out contentedly, drawn to the spot by memories of winter comfort.

Seeing me, Mr. Cathcart-Ross rose from one of the wing chairs and came forward, a most genuine and welcoming smile upon his face. He had changed for dinner and looked very well indeed in his Prince of Wales coat and trousers, his tie in place, his hair combed neatly off his brow. Despite my earlier conviction that ours was to be the model of a professional relationship, I couldn’t suppress the flare of desire that surged through my veins at the sight of him.

It was only my natural feminine reaction to a handsome face and form, that was all. Nothing I couldn’t smother with a bit of effort.

“Good evening, Mrs. Boothroyd. May I offer you a glass of sherry before dinner?”

“Yes, please. Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you. Much too large for me, but it’s close to the Press.”

I sat in one of the wing chairs, carefully not to tread on Grendel’s plumy tail, and waited for Mr. Cathcart-Ross to bring me my sherry. I looked up, my eye caught by an arrangement of paperweights on the mantel, and then, noticing the unusual painting above, looked even higher.

It was a simple view of a riverbank, the spire of a church in the distance, and all about the scene there were trees in bloom. I stood, moved a little closer, and examined the painting with greater care. The paint was applied in a most haphazard fashion, dribbled and dabbed and pushed about, with few visible brush marks.

“Do you like it?”

“I do,” I answered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I bought it in Paris last year. Artist is a man called Camille Pissarro. Quite unknown.”

“The way he’s applied the paint to the canvas is...unusual.”

“I know. Though I’ve been seeing it more and more among modern painters, especially in France.”

There didn’t seem anything more to add to that strand of conversation, for I knew absolutely nothing about art, modern art in particular. So I fumbled and struggled and finally said the first thing that came into my head. “You look very well tonight,” I said, and promptly wished I could swallow all five words.