Improper Proposals (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

It was a week before Christmas and I had come to London for the last time that year, having sent my pages on to Tom several days earlier. As had become our usual routine, he engaged the same suite of rooms we always used at Brown’s Hotel and asked me to wait for him there.

Upon my arrival at the hotel, late in the afternoon, the clerk at the reception desk had given me a note as well as the key.

My dear Caroline
,

I’ll come for you this evening at seven o’clock.
We’re going out but you don’t need to dress for dinner.
Best to meet me in the foyer—if I venture upstairs we’ll never get away on time.

In keen anticipation of seeing you again
,

T.C.R.

It was a good thing he didn’t expect me to dress for dinner, since I had only my bombazine gown. There were precious few places I might go so plainly attired, and so evidently a widow in the first degree of mourning. Certainly not the theater, nor any sort of dinner party or social gathering. Most likely he wanted to bring me to his house for the evening. Perhaps he had set up a Christmas tree, or had asked his cook to prepare a special meal for us.

I sent off my gown to be sponged and pressed. I washed my face and hands and tidied my hair. I checked my reflection in the pier glass again and again, pinching my cheeks to bring out their color, biting my lips so they might swell and redden for him.

My gown was returned at a quarter to seven. At five minutes to the hour I tied my bonnet ribbons and lowered my veil, set my wrap about my shoulders and drew on my gloves. At seven o’clock exactly I walked into the hotel foyer.

He was there, as I’d known he would be. Dressed in his workday clothes, which looked rather the worse for wear after a day at the office. We shook hands, a careful greeting offered up for public consumption, and I took his arm and followed him outside to his carriage.

“Where is Grendel?” I asked as he helped me into the brougham. I had expected the dog to be shoehorned inside for the journey back to Tom’s house.

“At home.”

“Then where are we going, if not to your house?”

“To dinner.”

“I’m not dressed properly,” I protested. “You said I needn’t—”

“You don’t. We’re dining with Elijah and Alice, at their home in Hampstead. Neither of them will be dressed to the nines. I promise it will be all right.”

“But what will they think? How do they even know I’m in London?”

“I told them. I said only that you were in town for a short visit and that I was seeing you because of some work you were doing for me. That’s all.”

“Oh, Tom. They will be affronted, I’m sure they will.”

“Please don’t fret. They’re keen to see you. To see how you are.” Folding back my veil, he tried to make out my expression by the intermittent glare of passing streetlamps. “I meant for this to be a happy surprise, not for you to be worried.”

“I’m not,” I promised, smothering my doubts. If I didn’t take care to compose myself, and do so quickly, Mr. Keating and Lady Alice would be sure to notice something was amiss.

“You haven’t been to their house before, have you?”

“No. I’ve only ever met them the one time, at John’s funeral. He used to come into London, to see you and them and his other friends, but I always stayed at home. I didn’t wish to interfere, and there was always so much for me to do...”

It seemed silly now, my never having gone into London with John. He would have happily taken me, but I had always held back, anxious that I would seem like some sort of provincial, countrified drab to his sophisticated, wealthy, powerful friends.

“I think you’ll like their home. It’s one of the older estates, likely a farmhouse in its earlier days, but prettied up at the turn of the century. Still has a large garden, and of course it’s next to the Heath, so there’s plenty of fresh air for the children and dogs.”

“Children? I thought they only had the one. A little girl.”

“Alice is expecting. Was enormous the last time I saw her, a few weeks ago. Not long until her confinement, I should think.”

We occupied the rest of our journey, which lasted close to an hour because of the traffic, with unremarkable conversation. The weather, our plans for Christmastide, our childhood memories of winter. No mention of my latest pages for the guide. Not even a look to signify our hunger for one another. Such appetites would have to remain banked and well hidden until we were safely returned to the hotel.

The Keatings’ house was set well apart from its neighbors, the Heath beginning where its gardens ended, its windows aglow with lamplight and welcome. Mr. Keating and Lady Alice came straight to the front door to meet us, and I was surprised and not a little touched when she embraced me gently, her rounded shape bumping against me in a rather comical fashion.

“Dear Mrs. Boothroyd. We’re so very glad you could join us this evening.”

“Thank you, Lady Alice. I’m honored to be your guest.”

“And you honor us with your presence. Do come in and sit with me by the fire. Such a cold night.” She took my arm and steered me into their sitting room, where a huge fire blazed in the old-fashioned hearth.

“Let us sit a moment and talk, just so I can rest my back for a bit.”

“Is your confinement expected soon?”

“Not soon enough. At least three weeks to go, if not more. Clara took her time in making an appearance, so I’m prepared for a wait.”

“You look very well,” I ventured. I spoke the truth—her complexion was glowing, her face was softly rounded, even her hair was shining. She wore a loose gown that fell, unbelted, straight from her shoulders, its flowing lines emphasizing the beauty of her condition.

“Oh, Mrs. Boothroyd, I look like a ship under sail. Soon I’ll be reduced to having Elijah carry me everywhere. Do you know I cannot even see my feet?”

I couldn’t help but giggle. “I suppose that makes it difficult to negotiate all kinds of obstacles.”

“My mother thinks I shouldn’t even leave the house, now that I’m so far gone. ‘You look perfectly disgusting,’ she told me the other day. ‘Like a brood mare ready to foal.’”

“I wouldn’t say that at all. You look beautiful. I’m sure Mr. Keating doesn’t care.”

Lady Alice’s face suddenly lost its merry expression. “How unkind of me—complaining about something so trivial when you have suffered so much. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“We were so fond of your late husband. Elijah was terribly upset when we heard. I’ve never seen him so sad. I meant to write to you before now, to see if you wished to pay us a visit, but he said we needed to give you some time to recover from your loss.”

“I wouldn’t have made a very entertaining guest. I’m only now beginning to feel like myself again.”

“We were delighted when Tom told us you were coming to London. Are you here long?”

“No, not long at all.”

“Elijah says that you are writing a book for Tom. Are you allowed to tell me anything?” Seeing how I hesitated, she called out to her brother. “Tom, do tell us about your project with Mrs. Boothroyd. She’s too shy to boast of it, I think.”

He and Mr. Keating had been standing by the front window, talking quietly, but at this he approached and stood by my knee, to all appearances unfazed by his sister’s request.

“Mrs. Boothroyd has written a guide to household management. A far superior alternative to Mrs. Beeton’s book.”

“How exciting! And just the sort of thing I should love to read. When will it be ready?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered easily. “But she is making excellent progress with her work.”

He hadn’t lied, of which I was glad. But he hadn’t told her the truth. Nor could he, not unless he wished his niece or nephew to be born a month early, in front of us all, right there on the sitting room floor.

“How lovely,” Alice said. “Elijah—can you ask Cook when dinner will be ready?”

“Any minute now, I gather. Do you need anything? Does your back hurt?”

“Not in the slightest. I only thought to take Mrs. Boothroyd upstairs to see Clara. She’s asleep, of course,” she clarified, turning to me, “but I do love to show her off.”

“You’ll tire yourself,” he protested. “Let me go.”

She agreed, rather regretfully, and I determined then that I would praise Clara to the skies, even if I could only see a tuft of hair peeking out of her blankets.

I followed Mr. Keating upstairs and along a short corridor to the nursery. The room was softly lit, the fire banked low behind its screen, and the nursemaid was busy with her knitting, her eyes fixed on the sleeping child. I wasn’t sure of Clara’s exact age, but she looked to be about two, perhaps two and a half. Her hair was dark, though not as dark as her father’s, and I glimpsed a dimple on her cheek as she smiled in her sleep.

“Did she settle quickly?” Mr. Keating whispered.

“Yes, sir,” the nursemaid answered. “Was good as gold. I told her you and Lady Alice would be up later to kiss her good-night.”

“Thank you, Mary. My wife will come up after dinner.”

Safely back in the corridor, I whispered my praise to Mr. Keating. “She’s darling. How I should love to see her when she’s up and running about.”

“We’ll have you to stay after Alice’s confinement. She’ll be glad of the company, I know.”

“It’s good to see the two of you so happy. John was very fond of you both.”

“He was a remarkable man.” His pale gray eyes fixed on mine, silently conveying the weight of his grief. “I have...well, I’ve been meaning to ask if I might dedicate my forthcoming book to his memory. But only with your permission.”

I stopped short, not knowing what to say, my throat clogged with emotion. “I am honored,” I said at last. “And grateful beyond measure.”

There was no time for more. We rejoined Tom and Lady Alice just as one of the maids—they kept no butler, nor were there any footmen—announced that dinner was ready. We processed into the dining room, timing our steps to the slower gait of our hostess, and arranged ourselves around the round table that had been set plainly for four. No silver-gilt epergnes dripping with out-of-season fruit, no hothouse flowers with their overpowering scent. Only plain white linen, old-fashioned Georgian silver and transferware plates with views of the Alps.

“Elijah dislikes the design,” Lady Alice said, noting my interest in the china. “But I think them very pretty.”

“The perspective is all wrong,” he grumbled. “You’re the artist, Alice. I can’t see why it doesn’t bother you.”

“And you have no sense of whimsy,” she countered.

The room had been decorated for the season, with sprigs of holly and boughs of evergreen swagged over the mantel, windows and threshold, and Cook had prepared a festive meal to match: lobster rissoles, roast ribs of beef and Nesselrode pudding to finish.

“Will you decorate a tree?” I asked as our main course was cleared away.

“Yes, but not until Christmas Eve. Clara has been going mad with excitement at the thought of it. Where will you celebrate the holiday? Will you be with your family?”

“Sadly, no. I only have the one brother, and he lives in India. I expect one of my friends in the village will have me to luncheon on Christmas Day.” I changed the subject after that, not wishing to dwell on what was sure to be a lonely and rather melancholy holiday, my second without John. Nor did I wish her to invite me to stay, as I sensed she was longing to do. A quiet Christmas, a solitary Christmas, would suit me perfectly well.

After dinner, with Tom and Mr. Keating preoccupied by some weighty topic of conversation, Lady Alice and I returned to the sitting room so she might be more comfortable. I brought her a footstool and found a pillow for her back and steeled myself for the inevitable.

“I’m so glad that Tom has taken you under his wing,” she began.

“He has been very kind to me.”

“He said you come to London once a month.”

“Yes. So that we might discuss my work directly, without having to wait for the back-and-forth of letters.”

“Why on earth doesn’t he go to you? Surely it would be easier for him to make the journey. Wretched man.”

“He’s much busier than I. And I do enjoy seeing a bit more of the world.”

“Of course. And you’re right that he is busy with his work. To think that he has achieved so much, and in such a short time.”

“How long ago did he found Peregrine Press?”

“It was about a year before I met Elijah...five years? Something like that. We were so relieved to see him settle down and stick to something. My parents, especially. They used to despair of him.”

“Really? It’s so hard to imagine your brother as anything but...well, anything different from how he is now.”

“Papa confessed to me, not long ago, that he’d once thought Tom would end up as a gamekeeper on someone’s estate, slowly becoming as wild as the animals he tended. Or that he’d go on yet another expedition to some far-off place, and be eaten by a rhinoceros.”

“Aren’t they herbivores?”

“I’ve no idea. Let’s say a crocodile, instead. At any rate, I told Papa that he shouldn’t have worried. I always knew that Tom would find his feet.”

“But you must have been anxious for him. When his fiancée died, for example.”

“He mentioned her? Yes, that was hard, a very hard time. He disappeared for a while, heading out on one journey after another. When he came home, more or less for good, he had changed. I think losing her, and then losing several of his friends to accidents and illness...well, it marked him in some way. On the surface, he seemed like the same Tom he’d always been, laughing and silly and ever so warmhearted. But underneath...I’m not sure. I think—”

“Yes?”

“Oh, never mind me. I forget what I was going to say.”

“He appears perfectly content to me.”

“I think he is. I suppose the only thing now is for him to marry. Then he could have children of his own and stop spoiling Clara. You’d think she was a princess, the way he treats her.”

I saw it, then. The way she looked at me. As if she knew it was too early to hope, for I was so newly a widow, and John was ever-present in our minds, but still she hoped that I might form an attachment to her brother, and settle with him and make him happy.