Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

  I didn’t need to look up to know he was staring at me. Examining my features, searching for clues, wondering what twist of fate had brought this small, plain woman to his door.

  “Let me begin by telling you how very badly I felt at hearing the news of John’s death. I hope you received my letter.”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  “I was abroad at the time. Otherwise I certainly would have been at his funeral.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “But I believe that my sister and brother-in-law were able to attend.”

  His brother-in-law, the famed explorer and alpinist Elijah Philemon Keating, had also been a friend of my husband. “Yes. I was honored that Lady Alice and Mr. Keating took the trouble to come all the way to Berkshire.”

  “We were all very fond of him. How have you been managing?”

  “Tolerably well. Mr. Cathcart-Ross, I—”

  “Of course. You have a manuscript for me. In your letter, you said you had written a guide of some kind.”

  “I have. A guide to cookery and household management.”

  “May I ask what prompted you to write it?”

  I couldn’t recall the last time anyone had taken such an interest in me. I dared to look up, to meet his gaze. We were close enough now that I could see the color of his eyes. They were an ordinary hazel, an utterly unremarkable shade, but all the same I had trouble looking away.

  “After John died I had nothing to do. I’d always been so busy, so occupied with helping him in his work. I’d never once thought of what I would do without him. I fretted over it for days and days. Then I recalled a conversation I’d had on the day of John’s funeral. It was with one of our parishioners. When she’d first come to our village as a new bride, a few years earlier, she’d struggled with her duties, with the work of running a household. So I wrote out my favorite recipes for her, for cookery as well as for soap and cough mixture and the like, and made it into a booklet. She told me that she treasured it. That she found it far more useful than Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management.”

  “So you’ve written your own version?”

  “Yes.” I opened the folder and extracted the manuscript I’d begun nearly ten months before. “Here it is.”

  “Judging by its size, you aren’t intending your guide to have the same scope as the Beeton book, are you?”

  “Not at all, and I believe that is one of its strengths. Did you know the Book of Household Management is more than a thousand pages long? Or that it contains something like nine hundred recipes? Granted, many of them are quite good, but taken as a whole I find it overwhelming rather than instructive.”

  “And your guide is different?” he asked, leaning forward, his expression earnest. Despite my earlier impression of him as rather ordinary-looking, there was something terribly compelling about his face.

  “It is. My book is a simple, straightforward volume of advice on how to approach cooking and housekeeping on a limited budget, with the help of only one or two servants.”

  “It’s all your own work? Your own recipes?”

  “Entirely my own, or adapted from family recipes. I would never dream of claiming someone else’s work as my own.”

  “A laudable stance, Mrs. Boothroyd. May I look at your manuscript?”

  I struggled to conceal the burst of elation that leaped within my breast. “Of course. I apologize for my poor hand.”

  “Nonsense. Your handwriting is perfectly legible. Better than most of my clerks.”

  He began to read through my pages, turning them over speedily, his head bent low over the table. After a quarter hour or so he sat up straight and rubbed at his eyes.

  I dared not ask him what he thought of my work. If he were to criticize it, or dismiss it out of hand—

  “This is excellent, Mrs. Boothroyd. You say you haven’t written before?”

  “Nothing. Apart from letters, of course.”

  “Of course. All that being said, and of course I haven’t yet read it through, I don’t think I can publish it.”

  “Oh,” I said, at a loss to conjure up any further comment. Hadn’t he complimented it only moments ago?

  “As you may know—perhaps John might have mentioned it to you—Peregrine Press specializes in travel guides and memoirs.”

  “He did. But I’d hoped that if you weren’t able to publish it yourself, you might suggest another firm.”

  “I can, certainly I can. But I’m not certain I ought to do so.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To put it baldly, there’s no demand for books like yours. Mrs. Beeton’s book and its iterations have more or less cornered the market.”

  “But you said yourself that I write well. And I know my recipes are good, for I’ve used them all for years and years.”

  “I don’t doubt they are. But the sad truth is that Mrs. Beeton’s name alone sells those books. Never mind the poor woman has been in her grave for these five years.”

  “Are you saying my guide is unpublishable?”

  “Not at all. I’m certain you could walk out of here and find a publisher for it straight away. But he’d pay you a pittance. Worse, every last one of your ideas would end up in someone else’s book, without proper attribution, before the end of the year.”

  The weight of his words fell on me like a blow. He meant well, I was sure of it, but he had no idea what my guide had meant to me in those early days, alone in my little cottage, with no one to care for and no other work to do. It had become my lifeline, my future, my repository for those few scraps of hope that hadn’t died with John.

  I very much wished, then, that I had not drawn back my veil, for my eyes burned with suppressed tears and my mouth was trembling in the most embarrassing fashion.

  “I am very sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Cathcart-Ross. Perhaps it would be best if I took my leave.” I reached forward, meaning to retrieve my manuscript, but he pulled it from my grasp, his gaze intent upon me.

  “How long are you in London, Mrs. Boothroyd?”

  “Only the one night.”

  “May I ask where you are staying?”

  “At Mrs. Dawson’s Hotel for Ladies, in Bayswater. Why do you ask?”

  “May I keep your manuscript for the night? I’ll return it to you in the morning. What time does your train depart?”

  “Not until ten o’clock.”

  “Very well. I can’t promise anything, Mrs. Boothroyd, but you are a fine writer and I’m not insensible to the effort you’ve put into writing your book. I will do what I can to help.”

  I had to blink very hard, but was able to stem the tide of my traitorous tears. “You are very kind.”

  He stood and held out his hand. I took it, once again mesmerized by the way his fingers engulfed my own.

  “I will call on you tomorrow morning. Good afternoon, Mrs. Boothroyd. Oh—there is one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please tell me this isn’t the only copy of your manuscript.” Merely voicing the possibility seemed to alarm him.

  “It isn’t. I wrote out a second copy and left it at home.”

  “Thank God. You’ve heard the story of Thomas Carlyle and his history of the French Revolution, haven’t you? He’d just completed it when the maid tossed the manuscript on the fire. Poor devil had to rewrite the entire thing.”

  I found a smile for him, then, despite my worry over the fate of my book. “It’s July, Mr. Cathcart-Ross, and the hearth in your office is quite cold. But I appreciate your concern all the same.”

  Chapter Three

  As I had nothing else to occupy me that afternoon, I walked the four miles back to my hotel rather than bear the expense of another hansom cab. The afternoon was fine and not too warm, and once I h
ad left behind the noise and clamor of the Strand and reached the peace of Green Park, I felt quite at my leisure. I continued west through Hyde Park and, after finding a vacant bench on the banks of the Serpentine, there spent an hour in contemplation of its calm waters and resident swans, trying all the while to suppress the torrent of worries that Mr. Cathcart-Ross’s comments had provoked.

  I reminded myself I hadn’t written my book to enrich myself, but rather to enlighten others. That I might still do, for it would be easy enough to have my book printed privately and distributed to friends and neighbors. Or I might make use of it in piecemeal fashion, offering up extracts to one or more of the ladies’ journals that were so popular among women of my acquaintance.

  With those comforting thoughts in mind I returned to my hotel, a white-stuccoed town house on Leinster Terrace, and retreated to my room on the fourth floor. Though modest, it had the advantage of facing west, with a view of the garden, and as such was wonderfully quiet. I changed out of my bombazine, for its hem needed to be sponged clean of the mud and muck of London’s streets, and replaced it with a simple morning gown of fine black wool. It was too plain for evening wear, but what did it matter? I would be eating alone, as I had done at nearly every meal for the past six months.

  In the end my manner of dress was of no account, for I was the sole occupant of the dining room. Presumably my fellow guests had chosen to take their evening meal in their rooms, or were abroad at the theater or other happy pursuits. My supper of oxtail soup and Dover sole was perfectly adequate, though I judged the fish to be overcooked, and as soon as I’d finished my currant pudding I retired to the library, taking my glass of Madeira with me.

  I had decided to make an inspection of the ladies’ journals on display there, the better to judge if extracts from my book might find a home in one or more of them. Once again I found myself alone, so I settled at a leather-covered table and began to leaf through a recent copy of The Young Ladies’ Journal. It was diverting enough, and attractively illustrated, but the few pages devoted to domestic advice were next to useless, and the recipes I read were hopelessly imprecise. “Bake until done” or “add a sufficient amount” was hardly the stuff of modern cookery.

  “Mrs. Boothroyd?” One of the hotel’s maids stood at the door of the library.

  “Yes?”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, for the interruption. There’s a gentleman here to see you. Mr. Cathcart-Ross. He’s waiting for you in the visitors’ lounge.”

  Now this was unexpected. Had he not said he would call on me in the morning?

  “I see. Thank you.” I stood, smoothing the creases from my skirts, wishing there were a mirror in the library so I might inspect my face and hair before going forth to meet Mr. Cathcart-Ross. My hair was still gathered tightly in its coil of plaits, fortunately, and after running my tongue over my teeth, I was fairly certain no stray crumbs of my supper were caught in my smile.

  Why had he come so early? Might he have changed his mind?

  The lounge was separated from the hotel’s foyer by a low half wall topped with a row of columns, the better to ensure correct behavior among guests. I paused at its entrance, for there was no door upon which I might knock, and then, rather than announce myself, I simply stared at Mr. Cathcart-Ross.

  He stood with his back to me, my leather folder in his hand, a top hat and gloves set on the table beside him. He was dressed in evening clothes, his tailcoat and dark trousers the work of some exclusive tailor, and his hair had been combed off his forehead with some care. Earlier, at the moment of our first meeting, I had thought him ordinary-looking. Pedestrian in his appearance. I now realized I could not have been more wrong, for he was the sort of man who was made to be noticed, the sort who attracted attention simply by standing and being. It was quite an extraordinary talent, though I suspected he was entirely unaware of it.

  I cleared my throat, at which he turned and came forward to shake my hand. His fingers were still stained with ink.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Boothroyd.”

  “Good evening,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I do beg your pardon. I’m dining with some friends who live nearby. And, well, I wanted to tell you that I read your book. I thought, if you wished, we might discuss it.”

  “Of course. You have time?”

  “Yes. I’m not expected until nine o’clock.”

  “Shall we sit? May I ring for anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I went to the nearest settee and there took some time arranging my skirts about me, hoping my hands would cease their trembling before I was done. But then, rather than place himself at a properly remote distance, Mr. Cathcart-Ross sat mere inches away, so close that the tip of his boot vanished under the pooling hem of my gown. I folded my hands in my lap and squeezed them together tightly.

  “As I said, I read your book this afternoon.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And it’s very good. Well written, original, interesting. You have no small talent in that regard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I still don’t think I can publish it. But I do have...that is, I have an idea, and I thought I might share it with you. If you are interested. I mean, if you care to hear me out.”

  I looked up at him and was taken aback by the expression on his face. He was uncomfortable. Nervous, even. It was so at odds with his confident manner and polished exterior that I suddenly felt anxious, too. What was he about to tell me? Did he have some secret to impart in regard to John?

  “Is anything the matter, Mr. Cathcart-Ross?”

  He met my gaze without hesitation. “If I appear nervous, it’s because I am. I came here tonight to propose something to you, but I find myself hesitating.”

  “How bad can it be? You’ve already turned down my manuscript.”

  “What I’m about to propose is improper in the extreme. Before I say anything more, you must promise that if I cause any offense, you will tell me directly. I will then endeavor never again to speak of the matter.”

  “Now I am the one who is nervous,” I said, appending a smile to my comment.

  “As you probably know, John and I became acquainted at Cambridge, and in the years since, although we saw one another infrequently, I considered him a close friend. I suspect most people he knew thought of him in that way.”

  “Yes. I used to chaff him about it. How within five minutes of making a person’s acquaintance he had learned his or her entire life story. And he had such a memory for names and faces.”

  “The people of your village were very fortunate in their vicar.”

  “This is all very congenial, Mr. Cathcart-Ross. Yet you alluded to something quite the opposite.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. The thing is...when I did see John, and when we had occasion to speak at length, I was always impressed by how well he spoke of you. How content he was in his marriage and how blessed he was in his choice of wife. You made him very happy.”

  I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, for I’d never been at ease with compliments, particularly those of such a personal nature. “Thank you.”

  “And, well, I had the particular sense, though of course John and I never spoke directly on the matter, that, ah—”

  “Yes?”

  “That you and John enjoyed—good God, this is difficult—that you enjoyed a high degree of connubial bliss.”

  It could not be possible. He could not have possibly said what I was quite certain he had, in fact, just said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That you were most content in, ah, your private relations with one another. If I am mistaken in this regard I do beg your pardon, most sincerely. But if my instincts were, are, correct—”

  “I...I...” was all I could stammer out by way of reply. Had
the few sips of Madeira I’d consumed earlier gone straight to my head? Might I be imagining this entire conversation?

  “What I want to say is that I do want you to write a guide for Peregrine Press. Not a household manual. What I want, instead, is a guide for married women. An entirely unconventional guide, but one that I believe is very badly needed.”

  “This makes no sense,” I said faintly.

  “Instead of instructing young wives on how to roast a chicken or darn a sock or ease colic in an infant, I want you to write a guide that will tell them, plainly and directly, what they might expect from marital relations with their husbands. It will tell them that it could and should be a pleasant experience, and not a shameful necessity to which they are bound to submit.”

  Belatedly I remembered the public nature of the visitors’ lounge. I scanned the space, then the foyer beyond. To my great relief we were entirely alone.

  “Why on earth are you asking me to do such a thing?” I asked, my voice little more than a whisper. “Are there no women amongst your acquaintance who might agree to such an unusual request?”

  “Likely there are. But none of them, I’m sure, can write as well as you. And few have had the benefit of such a happy marriage. Allow me to assure you—I don’t mean for this guide to be prurient in its description of marital relations. I want it to be helpful. Instructive, even. For that’s the best way to banish fear.”

  “Fear?”

  “I have sisters. I have a good idea of how little they were told before their wedding nights. And I can well imagine how bewildered they were. Not that my brothers-in-law are brutes, of course. But wouldn’t it have been better if Charlotte and Louisa and Alice had known what to expect?”

  “I...I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then say nothing, not yet. Think on what I have said, and decide if you agree with me. If you do, write to me at the Press.”