The Education of Mrs. Brimley (11 page)

“I apologize, sir. My manners must have deserted me.” As well as any sense of propriety, she mentally added.

“Come,” he ordered, tugging at her elbow. “You need to eat.”

He guided her to the salon and to the very table she had visited earlier, only now she noted it had been moved a reasonable distance from the fire. She picked up a piece of toast and slathered a swatch of butter across it. He, in turn, picked up a glass of amber liquid and drank with great swallows.

“You gave me quite a fright,” he said in a low, hypnotic voice.

He held her gaze a moment, then returned the empty glass to the table. He cocked his head and scowled until she popped the buttered toast into her mouth and speared a bit of jumbled egg on her fork.

“Mrs. Brimley, I have apologized for my rash behavior upstairs—”

“Yet not below?”

His lips turned in an indulgent smile. “You, however, have not apologized to me for your deceit.”

Her mouth tightened, and by the satisfied expression on his face, he knew he had struck the mark.

“I had a number of questions. More than what the apparel of a typical day would allow,” she said.

His shuttered eyes stared at her without expression, his mouth thinned, and his dimple was a fading memory. She had hoped to close the discussion, but he didn’t believe her. An ancient ache pulled at her as if she were once again a little girl caught stealing a forbidden sweet.

“In truth,” she confessed, “I did purposefully overdress. I did not wish to disrobe to a dishonorable state.”

“Yet, you wanted honest answers from me.”

She nodded, more embarrassed at acknowledging her deceit than she had felt appearing in her corset. The irony was not lost on her. She dropped her gaze to the plate.

“Mrs. Brimley.” He reached across the table and stroked the underside of her chin. With gentle pressure, he raised her gaze to his. Her pulse quickened at his touch. Already she had experienced a degree of unsought intimacy with this man. She should feel a deep repulsion, or at minimum, a deep resentment. But as her gaze met his, a longing expanded with a dangerous pull of promise and intrigue.

“I still require your assistance to complete my painting, and I assume you still require mine. I propose we continue our original bargain, with a stipulation that no matter what, we will be honest with each other. No more deceits,” he scolded lightly. “Are we agreed?”

She watched his lips, wondering if brandy still burned if tasted from a man’s lips. She wanted . . . all the things a proper lady shouldn’t desire.
Ah, but you’re not a proper lady, are you?
her uncle’s voice intruded.
You’re a tramp like your mother was a tramp. It’s in the blood.

She pulled back from the soft stroke of his fingers. “I have a stipulation.”

“What is that?” He asked, his eyes caressing her as if his fingers still made contact.

“Under no circumstances will you touch me with your person.”

His eyes widened a moment before his brow dived in a frown. He crossed his arms in front of him. “I recall no complaint when I carried you upstairs.”

“I was unconscious, sir.” Heat singed her cheeks before she could marshal control. He would choose the very incident that had so entranced her moments before. “The circumstances of our meetings are immodest at best. I only seek to minimize the improprieties.”

An eyebrow lifted, giving him an imperial air. “No more kisses?”

“Especially no more kisses,” she said, hiding her disappointment. Too much of that tactile knowledge would land her in the “desperate straits” suffered by her mother.

Chambers studied her a moment before a satisfied smile lifted his mustache. He rose, assumedly to check the fire. However, upon his return to the table, he stepped behind her, slowly easing his hands down the sides of her chair.

She stiffened, uncomfortable with him hidden from her sight, yet intrigued by his close proximity. His heated breath stirred the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, coaxing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

“Perhaps you should experience my touch before you so casually dismiss it?” His whisper drew shivers up her spine, while his hand stroked an invisible barrier near her forearm.

She held her breath, afraid her true desires would respond rather than her refined intellect. He waited a few more agonizing seconds, then stood. “As you wish, Mrs. Brimley. Agreed.”

“I have one more request, a favor, actually,” she said, a little giddy from her small victory. As long as he couldn’t touch her, she was safe from the disastrous consequences suffered by her mother.

“In all the activity this morning, I haven’t had the opportunity to ask you some questions. I know that if I hadn’t tried to deceive you, I would have received information to present to my girls. But I’ll be expected to teach them something new, and now . . .”

“Mrs. Brimley, one consequence of undressing you today is the discovery of all the incidentals that women wear for the pursuit of fashion. You have cuffs and collars, panels and skirts . . .” He pointed to the various items, then paused. “I propose I answer one question for each of the representative items that I removed today, provided they are promptly removed when next you enter my studio.”

“Promptly?” She cringed at the idea of starting their sessions in such an undressed state. “Can you define ‘promptly’?”

His frown conveyed more than words. He jabbed a finger toward her plate.

“Agreed,” she said with little enthusiasm before finishing her eggs with two quick bites. She patted her mouth with a napkin, sipped the tea warming by her plate, and then delved into the matter at hand.

“I’d like to discuss the issue of pain.”

 
HENRY BROUGHT HER BACK AS BEFORE, LEAVING HER A discreet distance from the school. She walked the final distance, climbed the stone steps, then paused a moment. Full-bodied chords of an awkwardly played piano piece escaped through the stone and mortar.

Talent night, she remembered. The girls were required to demonstrate their musical progress. Every proper young lady should have some musical talent either through voice or instrument.

Emma was taught to play the piano, primarily to accompany Penelope at various dinner parties and outings. Actually, everything Emma was taught was meant to show Penelope to advantage. She was raised with enough knowledge of social mores to be Penelope’s companion, foil for her beauty, fodder for her conversation. At least in music Emma found a bit of revenge. Penelope never could carry a tune, a fact that was nevertheless blamed on Emma’s crude abilities. Penelope’s performances always signaled the end of a dinner party, which worked to Emma’s advantage. Why prolong an evening of gossiping debutants, lewd laughter, and awkward stares?

An off chord grated on Emma’s ear, rousing her from reminiscing.

The weekly recital should offer a diversion from her entrance. Congratulating herself on her bit of fortune, she opened the oak door as silently as possible. Once inside, she slipped out of her boots and tiptoed across the hall toward the stairs.

“Mrs. Brimley.” Cecilia’s voice stopped Emma in the process of avoiding the squeaky floorboard in the second riser. Her stomach roiled at the summons, but she dutifully turned.

Cecilia stood just outside the music room, a frown etched deeply in her face. “We were beginning to worry about your prolonged absence. Come here please.” Cecilia looked pointedly at her borrowed valise. “Now.”

Just as Emma made slow silent progress toward her, Cecilia left the gathering in the music room and led the way toward the sitting room that doubled as an office.

Without the accompanying clatter of boots, Emma sailed by the music room with only the soft rustle of crinolines. Yet to her own ears, each of her silent steps rang loudly as if someone were tolling a death knell. Sparring with Chambers had exhausted her reserves for intellectual combat. She feared she’d be no match for Cecilia if the older woman challenged her shield of deceit.

The labored repetition of practiced chords slowed as she approached the office. Cecilia waited at the far end of the room. “Close the door,” she said.

Emma noted even the lack of feigned courtesy. Just as she was about to comply with Cecilia’s order, Beatrice hurried in with a piece of handiwork. She quickly glanced at Emma, her eyes wide with alarm, then rushed to a seat near her sister, her head bent over her round embroidery hoop. Emma closed the door.

The headmistress did not bid Emma to sit or in any way make herself comfortable. Emma’s toes wriggled in discomfort on the cool, drafty floor.

“Mrs. Brimley, it is difficult enough to monitor and oversee the whereabouts of our twenty-seven students. I should not be forced to do the same for my teachers. You were hired for your presence, not your absence. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, madam,” Emma answered, feeling much smaller than the loss of her boots allowed.

“I realize life here may be vastly different to the life you enjoyed in London. One might even say difficult in comparison.” Cecilia motioned to the valise. “Were you running away? If so, you are headed in the wrong direction.”

“No, madam. I was not running away.”

Cecilia waited, then sighed in apparent frustration. “Good heavens, child, where were you? We have been worried sick.”

Cecilia’s evident concern made Emma’s admission all the more difficult. She stiffened her back and fixed her gaze on a spot on the wall. “I was visiting Lord Nicholas Chambers.”

Beatrice gasped. When Emma allowed her gaze to drop to Cecilia’s face, she recognized the shocked expression of betrayal. It was the same look that had graced her own features a time or two in the past. Emma’s posture softened, wishing to ease them of the discomfort she had caused, but Cecilia held up a restraining hand.

“Did you not understand that we disapprove of association with Lord Nicholas Chambers? That his reputation could easily tarnish ours?”

“I knew you would disapprove. That is why I didn’t tell you before that I had need of inspecting his library.” She should be alarmed at the ease with which these mistruths rolled off her tongue. She would worry about that later. Right now she needed to pacify the sisters. “Once there, we engaged in a conversation about art, and I lost track of the hour.”

Beatrice continued to punish her captive linen at a frantic pace. The porcelain filigree clock on the mantle ticked in rhythm to the tapping of Cecilia’s foot on a patch of wooden floor. In the elongated silence, Emma realized the notes from the music room had mercifully ceased.

“If it hadn’t been for Lady Cavendish’s claims that you were a lady of high deportment and ethics,” Cecilia said half to herself, “I believe I would have insisted you return to London the minute you inquired about Lord Nicholas Chambers. I knew that brief association would come to no good.” Cecilia stared across the short distance of the room, alternately squinting her eyes and shaking her head in an internal battle. Having apparently come to some conclusion, her face softened. “Still, I suppose your widow’s status does allow a certain latitude. Perhaps this transgression is not as grievous as it would have been otherwise. As this is an isolated incident—”

“I will need to see him again.” Emma braced herself for Cecilia’s reaction.

Beatrice cried out in pain, drawing all eyes her way. She placed her bleeding finger between her lips and shrugged an apology. Cecilia turned back to Emma. “Surely one trip should have been sufficient to take stock of Chambers’s library.”

“He has offered to give me lessons and I have accepted.”

“Art lessons?” Beatrice asked around her finger, her wide eyes suddenly inquisitive. “Lord Chambers is teaching you to paint?”

Emma hesitated, watching enthusiasm build in Beatrice’s eyes. The sisters would believe this falsehood more than the truth. They had already accepted her other deceptions. She worried her lip. One more small lie could conceivably save her position at Pettibone. But this, she silently vowed, would be her last. She nodded.

“Oh, Ce, the best schools offer art lessons for their students.” Beatrice tossed her handiwork aside and grasped her sister’s hand. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mrs. Brimley could teach the girls to paint?”

Conflict played across Cecilia’s stoic features. Emma wasn’t sure whether the lure of offering a better education or purely indulging her sister swayed Cecilia more. It didn’t matter. Emma’s spirits lifted at the chance of reprieve. Surely, she could learn something about painting from her unique vantage as a model.

Cecilia glanced at the valise by Emma’s side.

“Lord Chambers lent me an artist’s smock to modify for my fuller skirts.” Emma quickly improvised, knowing full well it only contained her own excess garments. “As well as some other materials to study before our first lesson.”

“Let the girl go,” Beatrice urged Cecilia. “As long as Lord Chambers doesn’t come to Pettibone, what harm can come of Mrs. Brimley taking art lessons?”

Cecilia relented in the face of the double onslaught. “As long as the school benefits from her education, I suppose we can make an exception in Mrs. Brimley’s case.” Beatrice clapped her hands gleefully.

“However,” Cecilia said, turning back to Emma, “we must know when these lessons are to occur, and suitable transportation must be arranged. It does no good to have you traipsing about the estate.”

“Lord Chambers has offered the use of his carriage for the lessons. The timing can be arranged through Henry,” Emma said, slumping a bit in relief.

“Look at the poor girl,” Beatrice said with sympathy. “She’s exhausted. Let her be off to bed, Cecilia. She has a class in the morning and we have plans to make.”

“Thank you,” Emma replied, feeling the weight of the tumultuous day on her shoulders. Now she needed to figure how to paint, as well as how to be painted, and still maintain her integrity and honor. “I am exceedingly tired.”