The Education of Mrs. Brimley (16 page)

Any doubts Chambers may have had about the suitability of the young widow for Artemis had dissipated the moment she had imagined herself in the role. She had transformed before his eyes from a charming, though prim, intellectual into an exciting, sensuous goddess. Her strong, lithe body held enough womanly curves to make a painter yearn to try sculpting. When she arched her back in the act of dropping the towel, it was all he could do not to throw himself at her feet. Modeling obviously unleashed the goddess within, and he probably was the only man alive privileged enough to know of her existence. He smiled, feeling a bit of self-satisfaction at his discovery, a privilege indeed.

With the schoolteacher as his model his success at the Royal Academy show was virtually guaranteed. His talent would be validated. How he’d love to see his father’s face when he heard the news.

Thomas appeared at the door with a tray. “Henry has taken Mrs. Brimley back to the school, sir. I thought you might be in need of a bit of refreshment.”

Chambers waved him off. “I think I shall just sit here a bit longer. The young widow has given me some things to consider, plans to make, and so forth.”

“She will be returning then, sir?”

Chambers smiled. “Yes, I believe so.”
She’ll be back in my studio if I have to drag her myself.

“Very good, sir.” He left.

Yes, Chambers thought, very good indeed. Miss Brimley would return. When she did, his painting would prove to her what a true beauty she was. If along the way she discovered for herself that a respectable, virtuous woman could indeed be aroused—his grin spread wider—so much the better. Her own feelings of arousal would help her understand and forgive her mother for the circumstances of her birth. The challenge, of course, would be to find a way without touching her.

The problem with you, my son, is that you always run from a challenge. You sabotage your chances before you begin.
His father’s words echoed in his head, but for the first time, his words brought forth a smile. His father never understood that not all challenges were worthy of pursuit. But this one—Nicholas looked back at his sketch—this challenge he would not fail.

A WINTER STORM SETTLED IN THAT NIGHT, MAKING trips to Black Oak impossible. It was just as well. Chambers had challenged her to think of her mother and a woman’s passions in a much different light then that suggested by her uncle. Those thoughts kept her in a daze, forcing her to move through her classes like one of those clockwork toys on exhibition in London. Even beginning a new topic in her literature class, Greek mythology, failed to rouse her from introspection.

One day ran into another without reprieve. Unsure how long the storm would keep them confined indoors, Emma doled out her newfound knowledge about intimacy in dribs and drabs to her eager students. The inclement weather tested everyone’s reserves, making for short patience and quick tempers.

Emma found partial respite by joining Cook in the kitchen before Henry arrived to take her home in the evening. It was a quiet, settling time. She could plan her lessons, listen to Cook’s pleasant banter, and sometimes, after Cook had left, attempt her hand at a poem or two.

“I think Yorkshire winters suit thee, Mrs. Brimley. Tha’ cheeks have a pinch more color and a little more flesh in places becoming a lady.”

Emma smiled. “I suspect the additional flesh is a testament to your cooking more so than the winter, but yes, Yorkshire and Pettibone agree with me.” She could have added Chambers to her list of “agreements” but suspected Cook would not approve.

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Beatrice voiced behind her.

Emma turned around, surprised at the newcomer. It just showed how unobservant she’d been of late, as Beatrice’s perfuse lavender scent tended to arrive long before the woman herself.

“Would you care to join me for a cup of tea?” Emma asked, more out of politeness than a genuine desire for company. She had hoped to work on a new poem dedicated to her mother after Cook’s departure.

“Yes, thank you,” Beatrice said. Cook hurriedly slipped a fine porcelain cup in front of the younger sister. Emma removed the flowered tea cozy from the pot Cook had left by her elbow, and poured hot liquid into the cup. She offered Beatrice sugar and cream.

“This is quite pleasant, isn’t it?” Beatrice said, once all the little ceremonies surrounding the preparation of a proper cup of tea were complete. She waved away an offered plate of sweets. “Have to mind my girlish figure, you know,” she said, patting her ample hips.

“Begging th’ pardon, Miss Beatrice, is there something that’d be wanting before my man comes?” Cook asked with a bit of concern.

“No, no. You go along home. I was just a bit restless and saw the light. Don’t let me keep you.”

Cook’s face brightened. “Thank thee, ma’am, then I’ll be saying my good nights. God willing, I’ll be back in the mornin’.” She hurried out the door before an afterthought could call her back.

Cook’s enthusiasm to join “her man” warmed Emma more than the hot tea. Since her discussion with Chambers about her mother’s demise, the world had seemed a lonelier place without someone to confide in.

After abandonment by two suitors, she had assumed marriage was not to be her destiny. She hadn’t regretted that conclusion as she only had to look at her uncle and his wife to see that marriage was not all fat-cheeked cupids and lacy hearts. They may have been morally correct and properly married by society’s standards, yet neither party showed the least bit of enthusiasm for the other.

“How long have Cook and Henry been married?” Emma asked, thinking they must be recently wed given the enthusiasm Cook displayed on rushing home. The nuptials must be too fresh for reality to have set in. “She seems so very happy.”

“I believe it’s been twenty-some years,” Beatrice replied with a sigh. Emma noted the subtle shift in her voice, the longing in her sigh. This was a different Beatrice than the one who bent her head by candlelight to finish an embroidery project. “Henry has been good for her,” she said wistfully. “And she for him. They’re two of a kind, perfectly suited.”

“And you, Beatrice? Have you never found someone for whom you were perfectly suited?” Emma asked, suddenly curious about the younger spinster sister.

A spot of color bloomed in Beatrice’s cheeks. “Many years ago, there was a young man I was fond of. I thought perhaps . . .” She shook the memory from her face. “But my parents felt it was not a good match and that I should wait for someone more worthy.” She smiled thinly over her cup. “I’m still waiting.”

They sat in silence a moment before Beatrice asked, “Tell me of your husband. Was it a good match?”

“I suppose we weren’t married long enough to truly test the union,” Emma improvised, quickly gathering her guard. “But I would prefer not to discuss it. It’s still too painful.” With a practiced bow of her head, she pretended deep sadness.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought talking might help a bit.” Beatrice patted her arm in sympathy. “Truth be told, I’m a bit envious. Your marriage may have been brief, but at least you have experienced one.” She withdrew her hand. “Some things, I fear, Cecilia and I will never sample.”

A chilled current, set in motion by Cook’s departure, swirled about the room. Beatrice pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Sometimes on these cold nights, I wish I had a man to go home to, like Cook.”

Emma glanced at her. Could that be true? Would she, herself, grow to resent not having experienced a man’s attention in her later years? Did her mother, after all the pain and suffering,
not
regret her indiscretion? That proved a novel thought, one she would have liked to share with Chambers. What would he say to the concept? Emma felt her own cheeks warming. She could well imagine his lazy smile, his cocked brow, and a quick offer of assistance to remedy her own lack of experience.

“Enough ruminating,” Beatrice said with a slight shake. “What’s done is done. Cook would say, ‘Everyone must row with the oars he has,’ and we have you now to provide our missing oars.” Beatrice patted Emma’s hand. “So tell me, what do you think of our young ladies?”

“They seem very young,” Emma said with a smile. Although her physical years were not far past those of Elizabeth, her experiences of late had aged her beyond measure of months and years.

“Yes.” Beatrice laughed. “Young and ready to take on the world. How do you compare our young ladies to those in London? Can they compete?”

Her eyes glittered with affection. Emma wasn’t fooled by the lightness of the question. “They have charm,” she said, “when they wish it, and pleasant enough features.” How could she say that the Pettibone girls lacked the sometimes cruel determination of the social set in London? That cold shoulder was hard enough to experience and impossible to teach. “I’m sure they will make fine wives.”

“Yes,” Beatrice agreed with the satisfaction of a proud mother hen surveying her brood. “If we can just gain them the exposure to catch the eye of potential husbands.”

“Are there no suitable gentlemen in these parts to court the girls?”

“Merchant’s sons and farmers.” Beatrice shook her head. “Fine, strapping young men, but not the sort our ladies are aiming for.”

“And that would be?”

“Why landed gentry, of course.” Beatrice drew back in surprise. “A gentleman with a heritage to fall back upon in hard times. A gentleman who can offer our ladies the kind of life we’ve prepared them for.” She leaned in closer to Emma and lowered her voice. “Many of the girls have generous dowries. They have the means within their grasp.”

Emma wisely kept her opinions to herself. A merchant’s son, trained in business, should not be overlooked in favor of a perceived bloodline. A paper lineage didn’t always guarantee a substantial future. A man with his wits about him, however, could carve out a satisfying life for himself and his family.

“Have you thought of a ball to display their talents?” Emma asked. “That seems to be the way of it in London, although in these parts I suppose—”

“A ball? That’s a wonderful idea!” Beatrice’s eyes widened as if she were a young girl once more, anticipating her first ball. “We shall have to get some musicians, but Monsieur Philippe is sure to have some ideas. I’ll have to talk to Cook about the refreshments. Cecilia will adore the idea.”

Beatrice glanced quickly to Emma, but that rushed glance confirmed Emma’s dawning suspicions. “You’ve been planning this for some time.”

“Balls are not unheard of here in the country,” Beatrice confessed. “We were unsure of how to proceed. But with your knowledge of society, I know a proper ball would be a successful endeavor.”

Realizing she had once again been effectively manipulated, Emma sighed. First, she’d discovered she was to teach bedroom etiquette, a subject she knew nothing about. Then she’d been cornered into teaching painting, another area of which she knew little. And now she was to arrange a ball. At least this was something she had some experience in, even if all her experience was of a derogatory nature. Penelope had made sure of that.

“And Cecilia?” Emma asked. “Does she support this proposal?”

Beatrice fidgeted with her shawl. “I told Cecilia that you were the answer to our prayers, and I was right. We had hoped to attract a simple widow to teach our girls the requisite skills needed for the marriage bed, but when we read Lady Cavendish’s glowing letter of reference regarding your fine social abilities and manners, we knew that such a woman with a fine London address, no less, would give our girls the advantage they needed.”

Beatrice hurried out of the kitchen to seek Cecilia. Emma prayed Cecilia, keeper of the household accounts, would recognize the folly of this enterprise—a considerable expense for no guaranteed profit.

The wind howled down the chimney in the kitchen. Emma drained the last of her tea, letting the germ of Cecilia’s imagined reaction take root. She sighed a breath of relief. Cecilia, the practical one, would put the idea to rest, sparing Emma the additional duties of organizing a ball.

 
THE WHOLE SCHOOL RALLIED BEHIND THE PLANNED ball with enthusiasm and determination. Even Emma eventually found pleasure in the girls’ bubbling enthusiasm. The date selected for the endeavor, early May, remained sufficiently distant to dismiss. Much could happen in March and April that would render the idea of a ball unpalatable. Too distracted with maintaining her charade, Emma could not project that far into the future. She was contemplating how to maneuver her way out of this latest predicament when Cecelia discovered her in the library.

“I wonder, Mrs. Brimley, if you could accompany me into town. I’d like to order the ball invitations and your expertise in this area would be appreciated.”

Cecilia’s stern countenance combined with the capricious nature of a ball rendered her almost comical. Emma raised her brows.

“My expertise?”