Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

  After such a shocking and outrageous conversation, I knew very well that I ought to bid him good evening and ensure we never met again. Part of me was quite ready to do so. But something, some nameless impulse, stopped my tongue and fashioned my words of dismissal into something quite different.

  “Will you allow me to think on it, Mr. Cathcart-Ross?”

  “Of course. I’m grateful that you were gracious enough to hear me out.”

  “I will let you know as soon as I can.”

  “Take as long as you wish.”

  We both stood, and once he had fetched his hat and gloves from the table, he turned to me and we shook hands. I looked him in the eye as he bid me good evening, and was struck by how familiar he seemed. As if there were more connecting us than the tenuous bonds of a shared acquaintance.

  As if he were someone I was meant to know.

  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. Cath
cart-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.”