Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

  It had taken me an age to sort through my things, for I needed to set aside pieces that were stained or frayed or required any sort of special attention. Only once the wicker hamper was empty did I realize there were no soiled rags from my monthlies. Not in the hamper, not in my bedroom, not anywhere in the cottage. Not that there ought to have been, for my usual practice was to put them to soak as I was done with them, then wash them separately.

  I sat at the kitchen table and thought hard, attempting to remember the last time I had bled. Not in January, not in December...it had been November. Three full months ago.

  As the truth flattened me, I thought of all the other signs that had been there, ready for me to read. I had been tired, terribly tired, and for the first time in my life had resorted to having a short afternoon nap in order to carry me through the day. I had felt off my food, but had attributed it to boredom with my limited late-winter pantry. Yet my breasts had felt fuller than usual, and my waist, too, though I ought to have lost weight from my meager diet.

  I was the stupidest woman alive, to have had the proof of my ruin there, right in front of my eyes, for more than a month, and yet I had managed to ignore every single sign. Soon I would begin to show—I had a slight frame, there would be no hiding it—and then what would I do?

  I was cold, clammy with panic, chilled to my very marrow by fear of what would surely happen next. I would be found out. I would be cast out. My baby and I would become pariahs.

  Think, I told myself. Simply think, and a solution will come. Perhaps not ideal, certainly not anything to be found in a fairytale, but I would think of something.

  First I would write to Tom and tell him I could not come to London this month.

  Then I would conjure up a place where I might go, a quiet village far from here, where no one had ever heard of me, and where I might live, a respectable widow, with the baby whose father had tragically died before he or she was born. I had some money, a small annuity from my late parents, and I had saved almost all the money that Tom had paid me while we worked together on my guide.

  It would have to be enough.

  28 February 1871

  My dear Caroline,

  It has been two weeks since you wrote of your indisposition and asked for some time to recover. In all that time I haven’t heard from you once, and I am desperately worried for you. Are you well? Is there anything you need? May I call upon you?

  Please respond as soon as you are able.

  With my fondest regards,

  Tom

  Moreton Cottage

  Aston Tirrold

  Berkshire

  4 March 1871

  Dear Reverend Pascoe,

  I write to you in the hopes that you might direct me to a suitable residence for let in your village. I visited St. Agnes often in my youth and have very fond memories of it. You likely do not remember my family but we frequently attended services at the parish church during our seaside vacations in Cornwall.

  I am recently widowed and am experiencing some difficulties with my health, which I hope may be remedied with the help of some fresh sea air. To compound my woes, I am also expecting a child, my first, and cannot bear to remain in the home where my husband and I were once so happy.

  I should be so grateful if you could make some inquiries among your congregation to discover if any of them might have a modest cottage that I might lease for a year or two.

  Yours faithfully,

  Mrs. John Boothroyd

  The Rectory

  St. Agnes, Cornwall

  March 18, 1871

  Dear Mrs. Boothroyd,

  Allow me to extend my deepest sympathies, not only regarding the calamitous loss you have suffered, but also as concerns the news that you have been left to bear your child alone, with only the guidance of our Lord as your mainstay.

  I am delighted to report that there is a perfectly suitable cottage for let in our village. It is located centrally, on Town Hill, but is only a short walk to the seaside. The building itself has five rooms, is in good order with no sign of damp, and is furnished (though modestly). If you are interested I invite you to contact the owner, Mr. R.M. Helyer, at his residence: Penrose House, Quay Road, St. Agnes, Cornwall.

  I should add that while we do have a midwife in our village, a perfectly competent woman, we have no resident physician. For that reason you may wish to delay your arrival until after the birth of your child, but of course I leave such decisions to your better judgment.

  May the Lord support you in your time of need and grant you the grace to bear the cross you have been given.

  Yours faithfully,

  Rev. David Pascoe

  22 March 1871

  Dearest Caroline,

  It occurs to me that I may have offended you when last you were in London, or hurt you in some way, and that is the reason for your continued silence. I pray for it to be so, for the alternative—that you are hurt or injured or lost to me—is too terrible to contemplate. I beg you, please write to me and set my mind at ease.

  Tom

  It was settled. I would remove to St. Agnes in a fortnight, giving me ample time to pack up my possessions and bid farewell to my friends. As I’d done with Reverend Pascoe, I told them only that my health warranted the move. I promised to write as soon as I was settled. I promised I would visit.

  I lied.

  Once I left Aston Tirrold I would never return, never look back. For the future of my child I had to leave everyone I knew behind.

  I had debated long and hard on what I should tell Tom. How much I should share with him. He deserved to know about the child, but if I were to tell him, he would coming charging to the rescue, special license in hand, and he would be tied for life to a woman who did not love him.

  I was terribly fond of him, of course, but I did not love him. Could not love him. And I would not ruin his life in this way.

  26 March 1871

  Tom,

  The reasons for my not having written are quite complicated, but in the end they may be reduced to one concern: I no longer wish to be your lover and I wish for our association to end. I am sorry to be so blunt but I think it best to be clear on this matter.

  I will always be grateful for your support and concern and I will never forget our friendship, nor the time I passed in your company.

  I expect to be gone from Aston Tirrold quite soon so please do not write to me again at this address.

  Caroline

  Chapter Sixteen

  I began to pack up my life, stuffing it into a series of wooden crates lined with straw, but before I’d had the chance to do much of anything, my morning sickness, so mild initially, bloomed into a debilitating case of all-day and all-night sickness. I could keep nothing down, not even the driest morsels of toast. Soon I was so ravenous I could have cheerfully eaten one of Moreton Cottage’s old oak floorboards, had I not been sure I would vomit it up straight away.

  Somehow, over the course of not much more than a week, I had managed to pack up most of my belongings. All that remained was the kitchen, but the task of wrapping each plate and cup and glass with sheets of old newsprint was infinitely wearying, not least because the smell of the paper, ink-sharp and tannic, was profoundly nauseating. Already this morning I had retched up my breakfast—mere crumbs of dry toast and water—and my stomach had not yet settled enough to allow me to try again.

  I would sit at the table for a moment and see if that helped. Perhaps I might try to wrap the dishes from here. I only had to reach—

  The front door, which let straight into the kitchen, swung open with no warning, startling me so much I dropped the plate I was holding.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Tom stood in the doorway, angrier than I’d ever seen him—far, far more upset than
the day I’d been so late arriving in London—and he was brandishing a sheet of notepaper.

  “‘I no longer wish to be your lover’?” he barked, advancing upon me. “This is how you say farewell? This is how you end things? With a goddamn fucking letter?”

  “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I thought it would be easier—”

  “Than what? Than trusting me enough to tell me the truth, face to face? I would never have done this to you, Caroline. Never.”

  He sat in the chair next to mine, breathing heavily, and I tried not to look at him. I didn’t want to see how tired he was, how travel-worn and disheveled, how sad and despairing.

  He stared at me, no doubt taking in the pallor of my skin and the lankness of my hair, left unwashed these many days. Understanding dawned, and with it came compassion, his anger melting away. “But you’re not well, not well at all. Whatever is the matter? I can help you. I can—”

  I shook my head, mustered my last ounce of strength and looked him in the eye. “I’m not sick, Tom. I’m pregnant.”

  To his credit, he didn’t look away. He was surprised, certainly, and more than a little taken aback by the news. But there was something else in his gaze, and it made me more wary than ever.

  “Were you...oh, God, were you never going to tell me?” he asked, his voice catching. “Do you blame me? I thought the precautions we took would be enough, but evidently—”

  “I was wrong to keep it from you. I see that now. But I didn’t want you to feel obliged to help me.”

  “Obliged? What sort of man do you think me?”

  “I think you the best of men. Likely the best man I’ve ever known. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. Why I wanted to protect you.”

  “From the knowledge that I have fathered a child?”

  “From your sense of honor. You would have insisted on marrying me, but you told me, when we first met, that you didn’t wish to marry.”

  “Christ, Caroline. We’d only just met. And that was before I knew you. Before I—”

  “Don’t say it,” I pleaded. “Please don’t say—”

  “Before I fell in love with you.”

  “Did you not mark my own feelings on the matter? I told you I was content as I was. I said I never wanted to marry again.”

  “That was before you knew me,” he persisted. “Admit it.”

  “Don’t do this to me. Please, Tom.”

  “Do you think I would make a poor husband? I know I can’t hold a candle to John, but I would try to live up to his example. I swear I would.”

  He would not stop until my heart was splintered through. “I’m sure you would make a perfect husband for...for a woman who truly loved you.”

  “And you don’t? You make a poor liar, Caroline.”

  Why would he not believe me? “I cannot love you. I will not.”

  “You already do, my darling.” He smiled at me, his features aglow with tenderness and compassion. I was unworthy of such consideration.

  “Not once have I ever said, not in word or deed—”

  “Rubbish,” he insisted. “I see it in your every look, your every touch. Why will you not admit that you love me? It’s the truth. I know it is.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why do you fear it so much? You know I will never hurt you.”

  “John said that, too, when he courted me. And he hurt me worst of all.”

  A terrible, oppressive silence fell between us. He didn’t understand. I had to make him understand.

  “Not long after John and I were married, there was a fire at my parents’ house. Mother and Father both perished. I thought I would expire from the pain of losing them. I thought, then, that I would never suffer anything worse. I thought I had plumbed the depths of grief. And then I lost John.” I shut my eyes tight, wishing I could shield my heart from the agony that speared it through.

  “I held him in my arms and watched the light fade from his eyes, felt his body grow cold. I longed for death, too, or at least oblivion. The pain I felt, then and now, was beyond enduring. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.”

  Tom reached for me, offering the solace of his embrace, but I held up a hand to warn him away. “When they buried John, they buried my heart. I will not resurrect it, not even for you.”

  “If I could bring him back to you, I would. I would do it in a heartbeat, Caroline, even though it would be the death of my hopes and dreams. But the thing is...I do know how you feel. Not because of Cecilia, though I will always mourn her loss. I know because I felt it yesterday when I opened this letter.” He glanced at the offending piece of paper, where he had tossed it on the table, and I knew he longed to destroy it. “In that moment, I felt as if you had pulled my beating heart from my chest and crushed it before my eyes. So I do have an idea of how you felt, my darling. I have a very good idea of it.”

  “Why do you torment me so? Why won’t you let me be?” I whispered.

  “Because I love you. As I know you love me.”

  He had defeated me. “You know I do. God help me, but I do.”

  “There, now,” he soothed. “The sky hasn’t fallen. The world hasn’t ended. We love one another, that’s all.”

  “What now? What do you want from me?”

  “Perhaps I ought to court you. Win your affections in a more conventional manner.”

  “You did go about things in a rather backwards fashion,” I said, and the memory of it was so sweet I almost smiled.

  “We both know you’d have been horrified if I’d appeared with flowers in one hand and a book of sonnets in the other.”

  At that I dared to look him in the eye. I had hurt him, to my everlasting shame, but in his gaze I saw nothing but steady, unwavering affection and concern. I reached for his hand and held it tight.

  “From the beginning, Caroline, I wanted you. But it scared the hell out of me. Not least because I’d never met a woman who could make me consider marriage, not in all the years since losing Cecilia. And there you were, standing in my office, mad as a hornet because I had kept you waiting, and I was smitten. Instantly plagued by visions of courtship and marriage and babies.”

  “I had no notion you felt that way.”

  “Thank God. Of course, your feelings were equally opaque. So I told myself I would find out, one way or another, how you felt. I began with the notion of the guide, not only because I thought you were a fine writer, but also because I wished to know you better.”

  “So your second proposal...?”

  “I was certain that if I could get through to you, find a way to burrow past your defenses, that I would have a chance. Hence my suggestion that we become lovers, without so much as a whisper of romance to leaven it.”

  “Yet it worked,” I admitted.

  “We will be happy, Caroline. I swear we will. And if we suffer, we suffer together. If I should die, you will not be alone. You will have our children, and my family, too. You will never be alone again.”

  “I so wish I could believe. Simply believe, and leave the fear behind.”

  “Then do it. Come with me, and leave all of it here, in this cottage.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “First come here. Let me hold you.”

  I reached out, blindly, my eyes stinging with long-suppressed tears. He enfolded me in his arms, cocooning me in the sanctuary of his touch, and the wave of regret that swept over me in that instant was simply overpowering. How silly I had been. How silly and selfish and pig-headed.

  I began to weep, great racking sobs that left me gasping and red-faced and sniveling like an ill-humored child. He ignored all that. Instead he led me to the door, took down my shawl and set it upon my shoulders.

  “Come, now. We’ve a train to catch.”

  “To London?”
r />   “To London. I’ll hold you in my arms, all the way there, and the train will lull you to sleep. I think you’ll feel better after that.”

  “Where shall we go when we arrive?”

  “First to my parents, so they may meet my affianced wife. Then to St. Peter’s Eaton Square, to ask that the banns be called. And then, if you are not too tired, we’ll collect Grendel and drive out to Hampstead. Your newest niece is anxious to meet you.”

  “What of my things? I need to pack a bag—”

  “Leave everything. I’ll have new gowns made up for you straight away. We’ll buy anything else that you require.”

  “It will only take a minute or two,” I protested.

  “Leave it all. We’ll lock up the cottage and sort everything out once we’re married. Do you wish to let anyone know?”

  “Mrs. Jones. She’ll mind it for me until we return.”

  “Very well. To Mrs. Jones, and then to Didcot to catch the train.”

  “How did you get here from the station?”

  “I hired a carriage. A rather tumbledown thing, and the horse is nearly as ancient.”

  He waited patiently as I found my reticule and locked the door, and only then did I think to ask a question that had been bothering me all this time.

  “What of my guide? What did you think of the final chapter?” I asked, the weight of the past weeks finally slipping from my shoulders.

  “It was perfect. There is one rather large problem, I’m afraid. It concerns the manuscript as a whole.”