Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

  “Anything is possible for a woman of your daring.”

  “That’s different, and you know it. A man may do all sorts of things that a women cannot even dare to think about.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and his expression was dauntingly serious. “You dare. You dine with me, here in my home, with no chaperone. You are writing a book on the most daring subject imaginable—”

  “Only because you convinced me.”

  “Rubbish. You convinced yourself. You, Caroline, are an adventurous woman. Admit it.” He appended a smile to his assertion, though there was little humor to it. Only admiration, I realized with a start, and beneath it something more. Something that ignited a flame of answering desire deep within me.

  “I’ll admit no such thing,” I said, flummoxed by his charm and convincing ways. He ought to have stood for Parliament. “What of you?” I said, seeking to turn the conversation away from myself. “Have you never thought of marrying?”

  I had thought to provoke another smile from him, and possibly a protest at the constraints of married life, but he frowned and looked away.

  “I did hope to marry, once. Was actually engaged. She—Cecilia—died of a summer fever several months before the wedding. I was away when it happened, in Palestine with Elijah.”

  “You loved her.”

  “I did. It surprised me, you know, how much it hurt. How could it be possible that she should die and leave me? It simply didn’t make sense. Not then, and not for a long time after. I expect you felt the same sort of thing when John died.”

  “I did. I still do.”

  “After she died, I forgot about the idea of marriage, or perhaps I simply lost interest. In the meantime my brother married and produced several heirs, so my parents stopped bothering me about it.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “You’re very kind. But it was a long time ago. I can scarcely remember her face, now. She never sat for a photograph. You do have a picture of John, don’t you?”

  “Yes, thank goodness. I have a daguerreotype that was taken on our wedding day, and also a portrait in oils, a small one, that was done when he was ordained.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “So now it’s only you and Grendel?” I asked, hoping to lighten the mood in the room.

  “Yes, me and my wee Scots beastie, and he loves me despite my faults.”

  “You exaggerate. I’m sure you would have made Cecilia very happy.”

  “I hope so. What of your plans for the future? Do you think to marry again?”

  “I doubt it,” I answered honestly. “I have enough for my keeping, and I’m content in my little cottage. I cannot imagine replicating the happiness I shared with John, so why settle for less?”

  “Why indeed?”

  “He wasn’t perfect, you know. People in the village speak of him as if he were some sort of living saint. But he wasn’t. He could be grumpy, and obsessive about his work, and sometimes he was so busy he seemed to forget I was even there. But I loved him all the more for it, clay feet and all. He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for me.”

  “You must speak to me about him whenever you wish, if you think it will do you good.”

  “It does. I miss everything about him. Even the way he would snore at night. Most of all, I miss...well, I miss having someone to be close with. I hate the feeling of forever being apart and alone. Untouched. Some days it’s unbearable.”

  An instant after the words had left my mouth, I grasped their full import. Surely Tom did not wish to hear of my loneliness, either physical or emotional. How pathetic I must seem. “I beg your pardon. I spoke too boldly, just now.”

  “You did nothing of the sort. Particularly since...well, it encourages me to say something at least a thousand times bolder. Or, rather, I am going to ask you something.”

  Oh, Lord—he wanted another kiss. I knew it. He was nervous, just as he’d been when he’d asked me to write the guide. There was the slightest flush of color on his cheekbones, and the expression on his face, when he looked up and met my searching gaze, was endearingly uncertain.

  “I have another proposal for you, and once more I must beg your pardon in advance if it offends you. I, ah, I rather fear it will, but I cannot help asking all the same.”

  “Go on,” I said, wincing a little at how eager I sounded.

  “You must already know that I’m drawn to you. Very much so. Not only because you are the loveliest woman I’ve ever met, but also because you are...well, you. Brave, intelligent, curious. Infinitely desirable.”

  Why did he persist in saying such things? What did he want from me? “Please, Tom, you mustn’t—”

  “Do let me finish. What I wish to ask you, and again I beg your pardon, if I cause you to feel even the slightest moment of distress—”

  “Just say it, Tom. I’ve never swooned before and I doubt I will now, no matter what you say.” Though if anything were to make me swoon, his complimenting me so fulsomely would be enough.

  A pause, an endless pause, and then his question, spoken so softly I could barely hear his voice above the drumbeat of my heart. “Will you consent to an intimate liaison with me? Become my lover?”

  I must have misheard him. That could be the only explanation. “I beg your pardon? I think I must have—”

  “I want you. I desire you. And I believe you desire me, too.”

  I didn’t swoon, but I did lose the ability to transform thoughts into words. I licked my suddenly parched lips and opened my mouth to speak, but no sound emerged, not so much as a squeak.

  My first reaction, my immediate response, was a flush of startling, all-consuming joy. He had seen what I had wanted, had marked how it matched his own desires, and had set it before me like a rare and costly gift.

  That was the poison of it. I wanted him, but at what cost? I should gain a great deal of pleasure and some moments of companionship, but at the risk of losing my good name, my husband’s good name, and my own peace of mind.

  He wanted me for his lover. I shut my eyes, needing a respite from the intensity of his regard, but it was no use. My mind’s eye brimmed full with the memory of how he had looked at me a moment before. As if he wished to devour me, body and soul, and in so doing erase every trace of the woman I was. The woman I had assumed I would always be.

  “I thought you were going to ask for a kiss, not an affair,” I managed after a mortifyingly long pause.

  “Sorry. I did consider it, you know. Wooing you with kisses, letting things progress more naturally.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t think I could wait, to be honest,” he admitted, the timbre of his voice roughened by need. “The memory of that one kiss has kept me awake for more nights than is good for me. You haunt my dreams. My waking hours, too.”

  Our eyes met, and I saw just how badly he wanted me. He wanted me more than reason, more than sense. More than a man ought to want the widow of a keenly mourned friend.

  I could only sympathize, for I, too, had spent many uncomfortable hours imagining what might have followed that evening, had I not pulled away. It had been enough to enflame my thoughts and leave me restless with unmet, unspoken desires.

  “It hasn’t even been a year since John died. I don’t know if I truly wish to take such a momentous step. If I can take such a step. I’m interested, but I don’t know...”

  “I understand.”

  “When he died, I was sure I’d never be attracted to another man, not ever. Not because I didn’t wish it, but rather because it seemed impossible. So this is all rather surprising.”

  “Of course.”

  “You must find my prevarications very tiresome, but may I think on it? I promise to give you an answer without delay.”

  “Take as long as
you need,” he reassured me, his voice as warm as an embrace. “A woman like you is worth the wait.”

  * * *

  Again a sleepless night in my solitary bed at Mrs. Dawson’s Hotel, again a wearying journey home by hansom cab and railway and donkey cart, the weight of my unmade decision dragging at me like an anvil tethered to my ankle.

  I wanted to go to bed with Tom—of that I had no doubt. But I had been a widow for less than a year, scarcely more than three hundred days. I still woke in the night, reaching out for John, searching for his warmth and comfort in the darkness.

  If I become Tom’s lover I would break no vow, nor would I hurt John. He was beyond such earthly concerns, and even if I could speak to him, ask for his blessing, I felt certain he would give it, although as a man of God he would undoubtedly counsel me to marry Tom rather than fornicate with him.

  I didn’t want another husband, but I did want a lover, very much so. And in Tom I had found the perfect candidate. He lived far enough away that I could only see him at intervals, which would increase our desire for one another while also avoiding awkward expectations. I had my life in Aston Tirrold and he had his in London. He was a confirmed bachelor, while I had resolved to remain single. Neither of us wanted love.

  We would meet once a month, discuss my progress on the guide, and afterward make love. We might even test the veracity of some of my suggestions.

  That alone was enough to put the pen in my hand.

  Moreton Cottage

  Aston Tirrold

  Berkshire

  29 September 1870

  Dear Tom,

  I should like to tell you that I agree to your proposal and look forward to discussing it with you in detail on my next visit to London.

  I am about to begin work on the next Chapter of our guide and will send the pages to you with all haste.

  Yours faithfully,

  Caroline Boothroyd

  Chapter Eight

  I could not have picked a worse subject for my Chapter that month. I had planned for it to be a description of what precisely occurred when a man and a woman made love. What it felt like for the man, as far as any woman might discern, and what it felt like for the woman. I did my best to adopt a rational and objective tone of voice, one that advised but did not presume to judge. I didn’t want to rhapsodize about the act of love, for I feared creating unrealistic expectations for women whose husbands were uninterested or inept. But I also didn’t want to make it seem fearsome, disgusting or embarrassing.

  At times it is tempting to romanticize the act of love by wrapping it up in roses and lilies and garlands borne by Cupid and his attendants. It is certainly easy to do so, particularly if you have developed a true bond of affection with your husband. Yet I would caution you to never forget the deeper urges that govern us, and which, at times, may appear to overpower our better judgment. We are driven to procreate, not merely by the laws of God that bind us, but also by our very physiology. We want—we desire—because we are made that way. There is no shame in admitting it.

  With that in mind, it is advisable that every wife understands the physical nature of the act of love as well as its more cerebral aspects. If you are reading this guide, it is very likely you have but passing knowledge of how human beings reproduce, and therefore possess no real understanding of what occurs, physiologically, when a man and woman make love.

  At the same time, I didn’t want the chapter to be written in too dispassionate a vein, for Tom would be the first to read it, and he would read it only hours, possibly minutes, before he and I turned to one another and began our affair in earnest. I wanted to show him what it would be like with me. I wanted him to know that I would be a worthy lover.

  The problem was that I continually found myself swept away by imaginings of how it would be when I finally made love with Tom. I daydreamed what it would be like between us. The moment when I first saw him unclothed. The look in his eyes when he saw me unclothed.

  The result, predictably enough, was passages of prose that, when I paused to read over them, were so provoking I had to walk away from my desk and busy myself with the garden or find some tiresome chore to occupy me until I was calm again. Even after I had edited and rewritten and re-thought every word I had written, stark, unabashed desire resonated from every page.

  Picture the form of your husband, entirely without garments, and hold it in your mind’s eye. Do not flinch, do not banish it from your thoughts. Is he not beautifully made? Think of his eyes, and how they gaze upon you. His lips, and how they kiss you. His hands, and how they caress you.

  Even those parts of his body that are most private, and might not typically enter into your thoughts, are beautiful—do not shy away from their contemplation; do not tell yourself how ugly or fearsome they appear. Simply think of the pleasure they can furnish and the joy they can bring.

  While I never allowed myself to think of John while I was at work on the guide, at other times he was never far from my thoughts. The anniversary of his death arrived as I was working on my pages, and for once it was no trouble to put my work aside and dwell on other things. Such as how much I missed him, and how quickly the days had passed since he had been taken from me.

  It was a fine day, so I cut the last of my Michaelmas daisies, John’s favorite flower, and took them to his grave in the churchyard at St. Michael’s. Then, restless and melancholy, I walked alone for many hours, not letting myself think of the past, nor of the unknowable future that awaited me.

  After I had finished the Chapter and sent it off to London, I wrote to Marshall & Snelgrove’s on Oxford Street and ordered a set of new undergarments. A year remained before I might begin to dress in any hue other than deepest black, but what I wore under my gown was my business alone.

  They were delivered by the end of the week, beautifully wrapped in rose-scented tissue paper, and were even prettier than I had hoped: a chemise, corset cover, petticoats, drawers and stockings, all but the latter made of fine white cambric and trimmed in narrow bands of broderie anglaise. It was a pity I would have to wear them under my wretched bombazine gown, but they would provide an amusing contrast to what concealed them. I did hope that Tom would be pleased.

  I arrived at Paddington Station on the appointed day, a rainy, almost oppressively dark afternoon late in October, and took a hansom cab straight to the offices of Peregrine Press, as Tom had directed me to do. I walked up the stairs slowly, taking my time, not wishing to appear flustered or out of breath when I arrived.

  Mr. Randall, perhaps having been told to listen for my arrival, greeted me with a friendly smile and led me to Tom’s offices without delay. No one seemed to take any particular note of my presence there, not even Mr. Randall, which was reassuring. It would be so mortifying if his staff were to discover what was taking place between their employer and me. Or, rather, what was about to take place.

  “Mrs. Boothroyd to see you, sir,” said Mr. Randall as he opened the door. Tom was at his desk, marking up a manuscript with his red pencil, but he stood as soon as I entered.

  “Good day, Mrs. Boothroyd. Thank you, Randall.”

  “Do you want me to send along some tea?” asked the clerk.

  At that, Tom looked me straight in the eye, and I shivered at the naked, wanton desire I saw, a mirror of my own intent. “No need. Mrs. Boothroyd and I will be dining out tonight. We won’t be here much longer.”

  The door closed behind Mr. Randall, and I held my breath. Would Tom come to me now?

  “I’m so sorry, Caroline—I have to finish something here. It won’t take me long at all.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. The chair by the window looks very comfortable.” I walked past where he still stood at his desk and sat by the window, not daring to look back. I had thought to distract myself with the view of Fleet Street, but the rain had grown heavier and I
could see little more than the dark, blurred silhouettes of people and carriages below.

  Tom was half a room away, so why did it feel as if he were hovering at my elbow? I could hear his every breath, could sense how tightly he held his shoulders. Could very nearly smell the desire that rose from him, whispering my name, daring me to rise from my seat and rush to his side.

  I felt a soft nudge against my leg. Grendel had come to say hello, perhaps sensing I was in sore need of a distraction. He plopped down next to me, his fur still damp from his last walk, and set a gigantic paw on my lap.

  “What does he want?”

  “The paw? It’s his way of asking you to scratch behind his ears,” Tom answered, not looking up from his work.

  “Why didn’t you ask?” I whispered to the dog, then took off my glove and gave his velvety ears a thorough scratching. When he’d had enough, he fell to the floor, yawned noisily and went to sleep.

  “There—all done,” Tom said presently, turning to face me. “I was worried I’d forget what I meant to say if I didn’t get it down. I am sorry for making you wait.”

  “It doesn’t signify. Grendel and I are fast friends now.”

  “That you are. How have you been? Are you well? Are you ready? I mean—are you ready to go? I thought we might have dinner first. That is...”

  He ran his hands through his hair, which only made him look all the more adorably rumpled, and rolled his eyes in acknowledgment of his clumsy choice of words. “I sound like an idiot.”

  “Not at all. If it helps, I feel a little awkward, too.”

  “It’s almost five already—shall we be on our way? My carriage should be waiting.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Do you mind if Grendel rides with us? Normally he and I walk to work together, but in this rain—”

  “Of course he must come. How else is he to get home in this weather?”