Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

  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, h
is 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.

  He grinned, evidently pleased by my compliment, though I doubted it meant much to him. Likely he heard such things every day, falling like pearls from the lips of the beautiful young aristocratic women he met at balls and soirées and dinner parties.

  “I know I usually look like something the cat’s dragged in, but I decided to make an effort tonight. If only to reassure you I’m a respectable sort. Look,” he said, holding out his hands. “No ink stains. My housekeeper had me soak my fingers in some vile concoction.”

  “I’m honored,” I said, and in truth I was. Just then, in the instant of silence that fell after my response, my stomach growled. Loudly. So loudly that I knew he had heard.

  “I could pretend I didn’t hear that, but I won’t. You must be hungry.”

  “Ravenous. I’m used to country hours, I’m afraid. Normally I’m abed by nine o’clock.”

  “Then let me see you fed,” he said, and offered me his arm.

  Chapter Six

  The dining room was steps away, just across the entrance hall, and though it was a large chamber, as fully wide and long as the main floor of my little cottage, it had been made cozy with candlelight and the welcoming aromas of our first course.

  The table was set for two, a banquet of heavy white linen, monogrammed sterling cutlery, glittering crystal and bone china plates so thin they were nearly transparent. Between us sat a low arrangement of late dahlias and early chrysanthemums, flanked by candles in filigreed silver holders.

  A pair of footmen in simple livery ladled out our soup, then retreated silently. “They’ll bring in the courses but otherwise we’ll be alone,” my host explained. “My butler is beside himself, but I’m more than capable of refilling your wineglass without assistance. And we can speak freely this way.”

  “Thank you,” I said, surprised by his gesture. The few aristocrats I’d known seemed to regard their servants as little more than pieces of furniture, incapable of following the conversations of their betters, and deaf to any snippets of gossip they were able to discern.

  We spoke of the developing hostilities between France and Prussia while we consumed our asparagus soup, turning to the weather during the fish course of poached salmon with capers. Our conversation moved to travel as we ate our main course, a roast filet of veal with garden peas and new potatoes. Mr. Cathcart-Ross had visited nearly every corner of Europe, I learned, and had been to the west coast of Africa, the Near East and even South America. He admitted to a desire to see Australia and New Zealand but wasn’t sure he could bear the long sea voyage. As I had never traveled farther than the Midlands, my contribution to that portion of the evening was minimal.

  By the time our pudding was served, a pretty tart of greengage plums, I had drunk down two entire glasses of white Burgundy and was feeling considerably less anxious about the work that awaited us once our meal was done.

  “Shall we return to the library?” he asked presently. “There’s room for us both to sit at my desk and go over your pages together.”

  He saw me seated comfortably in his own chair, then fetched a side chair and set it next to me. Rather than sit down, however, he began to undress, removing his coat, his waistcoat and his tie. Finally he pulled out his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

  “Forgive me,” he said, responding to my expression of alarm. “I find it much easier to concentrate if I’m comfortable. I would invite you to do the same if I didn’t think you would have a fit of the vapors.”

  He was teasing me; that much was plain. “I am perfectly comfortable,” I lied, praying that he didn’t notice how red my face had become. I might have daydreamed of him disrobing in front of me, but that didn’t mean I actually wished for such a thing to happen. “As for the vapors, I’m made of stronger stuff than that. You aren’t the first man I’ve seen in his shirtsleeves.”

  “Fair enough. Would you like a glass of brandy? I have some very fine Armagnac.”

  “No, thank you. My head is fairly spinning already.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” he said, sitting down at last. “Here are the pages you sent me—you’ll see I’ve made a fair number of annotations already. Normally I leave the fine editing to one of my clerks, but given the subject matter I think it best to handle it myself. Once the manuscript is complete and polished up, I’ll hand it off. Not before then.”

  “I suppose that’s for the best.”

  “I won’t catch everything, but I think I’ve made a good start.”

  “What are these notations?” I asked. “What does ‘stet’ mean? And what is this backwards P?”

  “The P is a pilcrow, and it means I want you to break here and begin a new paragraph. ‘Stet’ indicates that I’ve changed my mind—see here? I’d crossed out several words, but once I’d read the sentence through a time or two I decided I was wrong. So I wrote ‘stet,’ which means ‘let it stand.’”

  “There are a great many marks,” I said, feeling rather mortified at what a poor job I’d done with my first draft.

  “Ignore them for the moment. It’s the notes I made in the margins that are important. Look through them now and let me know if you disagree with anything I’ve written, or if there’s anything you don’t understand.”

  I hunched over the pages and began to read in earnest. As he’d promised earlier, his concerns were few, and for the most part turned on matters of clarity and evidence. It isn’t enough to state that women are kept in ignorance was a typical notation. You need to describe the ways that truth is kept from them, as well as the unhappiness that can result. This is where you make your case for the guide—where you demonstrate why it is needed.

  Before long I was at the beginning of my second chapter, the one where I described the sorts of preparatory a
ctivities, as it were, that often preceded lovemaking. Although the ardent kisses and caresses that were typical of such moments were likely to alarm most new brides, in my opinion they were a necessary precursor to the act itself. I had said so, right at the beginning of the chapter, although in the most tasteful way possible.

  Mr. Cathcart-Ross tapped the manuscript with his forefinger. “This, here, is a problem. You say,

  A woman’s natural delicacy and sense of modesty may prove to be an impediment in those first moments of intimacy she shares with her new husband. He is very likely to touch her in a way that seems disagreeable or indecent, while she, in turn, is quite as likely to reject his advances. This can only result in disappointment for both and a consequent lack of felicity in the marital relations that follow. The author of this guide sincerely counsels her reader to attempt to suppress such a reaction and to not only allow her husband the liberty of touching her person freely and without resistance, but also to welcome such an interest and, further, to attempt to actively participate in such activities.

  “This is so different from the rest of what you have written,” he observed, “it might as well have come from someone else’s pen. What were you trying to say here? In plain English, mind you.”

  “I meant to say that it can be very surprising, that’s all. To go from sharing a kiss with one’s fiancé, no more, and suddenly he wishes to touch one’s limbs or, ah, one’s bosom. I am certain it must be very disconcerting for some women.”

  “Then say so. If it seems embarrassing, imagine you are speaking to a trusted friend. How would you counsel her?”

  “I...well, I would tell her that before her husband makes love to her he will wish to touch her. That he will not only kiss her mouth but also her neck and shoulders and breasts. He will want to see her legs, will almost certainly wish to see her unclothed.”