Improper Proposals (6 page)

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?”

Tom fetched his hat and coat, not bothering with gloves, and whistled to Grendel, who sprang to his feet as if a rabbit had just bounded past his nose. We all processed along the hallway and down the flight of stairs into the carriage, my valise having been transferred directly from the care of Mr. Randall to the coachman. Or so I hoped.

It was rather a tight squeeze in the brougham, which had been designed for the comfort of two normal-sized human passengers. Although there was room for Grendel to stand at our knees, he was such a large creature that he couldn’t help but press against our legs. As the carriage began to roll down the street, jouncing here and there over patches of rough pavement or cobbles, I found my legs pushed ever more firmly against Tom’s. He didn’t seem to mind, for not only did he make no move to pull away, he instead set his near arm across the back of the seat, almost as if to cradle me.

In any other circumstance, such an embrace would have felt comforting, even soothing. Tonight, it was not far short of torture. Had I been parched with thirst, and had a cup of water held only inches away, I could not have suffered more. We touched, yet were cruelly separated. We breathed the same air, yet could not dare a kiss, not here, not yet.

And when would that moment come? He had told Mr. Randall we would be dining out. Were we truly going to sit across a table from one another, in public, and attempt to engage in conversation? I should rather be flogged than endure such sustained agony.

I had paid no heed to our destination, conscious only of the man sitting so near to me, and was taken aback when the carriage suddenly pulled to a halt in front of Tom’s townhouse. Did he mean for us to dine at home and then proceed to his bedchamber upstairs? Deep within me, a flicker of shame stuttered to tremulous life.

“No, don’t get out. I have other plans for us. Come, Grendel.”

The dog leaped out of the carriage, transparently glad to be home, and ran inside as soon as the front door was opened. Tom disappeared inside, too, emerging moments later with a small leather bag. As soon as he was seated next to me, the carriage set off again.

“Where are we going?” I asked, still apprehensive. If he were to say he had a set of private apartments—the sort of apartments where a mistress might be kept, for instance—I decided I would risk a broken neck and leap out of the carriage.

“Brown’s Hotel. It’s in Mayfair, on the far side of Green Park. I thought you would prefer it to my house. My servants are discreet, but I think we’ll both feel more at our ease there. Is that agreeable to you? If not, we could go somewhere else. Though I’m at a loss...”

“I think it’s a fine idea. Thank you,” I assured him, secretly delighted by his evident uncertainty. A man with a string of lovers as long as his arm would not be so nervous over the arrangements for his latest
affaire de cœur.

It was a short ride indeed to the hotel—we might have walked there with ease, if not for the driving rain. I only had time to form the vaguest impression of the building we were entering, for as soon as the carriage had stopped, a pair of footmen came forward, huge umbrellas at the ready, to help us down. What little I saw of the hotel bespoke luxury, calm, comfort and wealth. There were finely paneled walls, shining marble floors, tastefully arranged furnishings.

We hurried through the foyer and up the main staircase, Tom having taken my arm, and were shown to our rooms without his having so much as signed a piece of paper.

And then we were alone.

We stood in a sitting room, not overlarge, its small table set for dinner. On the far side of the chamber was a door, only half open, which I took to lead to the bedroom. At least I very much hoped it did.

Not knowing what to say, I removed my bonnet and shawl, both quite damp, and drew off my gloves. These Tom took from me, setting them on a table by the door before removing his own hat and coat.

He walked over to the dining table and lifted the silver covers one by one. “I think we both ought to eat. I don’t want you to wilt away on me.”

Though my appetite had vanished, I obligingly took my seat and allowed him to fill my plate with a slice of cold game pie, cod in oyster sauce, a slice of roast mutton, some buttered potatoes and French beans. He took at least double that for himself and, after filling our glasses from the bottle of white wine that had been left on ice, proceeded to methodically inhale his dinner.

I picked at my food, wishing I could do it justice, and tried not to drink too much of my wine. I wasn’t hungry, nor was I thirsty. I only wanted one thing.

“They’ve left an apple tart for pudding. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “Tom—”

“I know. Enough torture.”

He took my hand and we walked together from the sitting room to the bedroom. The bed had been turned down, the gaslights aglow in their sconces, and coals burned merrily in the hearth.

I stood in the middle of the chamber, as ignorant as a virgin bride of what was to follow. Should I approach him? Should I say something? If only I could be certain of what to do.

And then he was before me, his hands in my hair, and he was tipping my head, bending me back so I felt unsteady on my feet and ready to swoon from the anticipation of this moment. His lips hovered so close, his breath a whisper on my skin, and then his mouth covered mine, the touch of it so lush and enthralling that I forgot to breathe.

He moved from my mouth before I was nearly done with the kiss, but then he pressed his lips to the curve of my brow, the indent below my ear, the hollow of my throat, and those caresses were so distracting and delicious that I couldn’t bring myself to complain. His mustache and beard were soft against my skin, wonderfully so, and yet just abrasive enough to set my nerves alight.