The Education of Mrs. Brimley (2 page)

“You are obviously a man of learning and appreciation,” she said, releasing the curtain. She slid back to her original seat. “Do you share my passion for the great poets?”

A soft snore was her only reply. Whether he had truly been awake, or only dreaming, she knew not. That he slept now emboldened her beyond the realm of etiquette. A flash of excitement shivered down her spine. In spite of her general dislike of dandies in principle, she admitted a certain curiosity about one so well made who knew his way around a poem or two.

She leaned close to see more detail of his face, only to be repelled by whiskey fumes. Still, she had glimpsed black hair curling gently on his brow, lending him a cherub’s sweetness that was challenged by a masculine thin sweep of mustache and a day’s growth of stubble. A dark angel with a devilish brand, she decided, worthy of a poem himself.

Excited by the thought, she rummaged in her bag for a stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper but stopped abruptly. His eyes, fringed with long black lashes, opened with apparent difficulty. He blinked several times before squinting at her.

“Am I dead?”

An odd question, but then she remembered her mourning attire. “No sir, you are not.”

He relaxed a moment, then turned his head slightly as if searching for other passengers. His brows dived in a scowl.

“Am I married?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer. His kid gloves hid any evidence of his matrimonial state, but his expression of instantaneous alarm and regret suggested he was referring specifically to her. An old ache stirred in her bosom. Even in his drunken state, he could ascertain that she was no beauty.

“No sir, we are not.”

“ ’Sgood.” He closed his eyes and settled back in slumber, leaving her with a vague sense of insult and disappointment.

The carriage slowed, then turned. They must be approaching the school. With a bit of regret, she took a last long glance at his lordship, wondering whether to credit his pleasant countenance or his obvious command of the romantic poets for the piqued interest fluttering about her rib cage.

Silly girl,
she could well imagine her uncle saying.
It’s your stays that are too tight. No man with his looks would be interested in the likes of you.

She banished the thought with a shake of her head. She had left both Uncle George and her cousin Penelope behind in London. If only she could leave her memories of them behind as well.

The carriage slowed to a halt. In a moment, the opportunity to share words with this handsome stranger would vanish. She took a deep breath.

“Thank you for your company, sir. I wish we—”

His audible snore scattered her words. Before she could gather them again, the carriage door opened. The sturdy arms of the driver helped her out.

“Mrs. Brimley.” A stout woman with graying hair tucked neatly under a lace and ribbon cap waved enthusiastically from the steps. “We’ve been so anxious for your arrival.”

Surprised, yet pleased by the warm welcome, Emma smiled. Perhaps her plan to come to Yorkshire had not been so flawed after all. The bulky pyramid of wool and petticoats rushed forward. Beneath heavy matronly lids twinkled eyes like those of a young child on holiday.

“We’ve been . . . oh, my goodness!” The woman’s jowls dropped.

“Is something wrong?” Emma asked, trying to ignore the stab of alarm beneath her stays.

“You’re so young. We were expecting a much older woman.” Concern clouded the woman’s features, then rapidly dissipated. “Never mind. My sister will simply have to adjust.” She turned her attention to the driver. “Henry, take Mrs. Brimley’s belongings upstairs, if you please. Cook prepared a basket for your troubles.”

A cloth-draped basket passed Emma’s nose on the way to the driver—warm hearty scones by the smell of it. Her mouth watered. Fleeing her uncle’s household had left no time to fill her stomach with anything more than fear and anticipation.

“Come along, dear. Cecilia would like a word with you before you settle in.” The older woman practically hauled Emma up the stone steps to the front door. Just before entering, Emma stole one last look at the carriage. She could have sworn she saw the flash of a silver-tipped walking stick holding back the curtain a moment before it fluttered back into place.

Her brows lifted. Had he truly been asleep? A man like that couldn’t possibly be as intrigued with her as she was with him. Could he?

“This way, dear.”

 
EMMA FOLLOWED HER NEW EMPLOYER TO A SMALL SITTING room decorated with an overabundance of needlework doilies and lacy antimacassars, some the bright white of recent work, others with a yellowish tint of years past. Oval photographs of serious young girls covered the green walls. Emma studied their solemn yet fresh faces.

“Those are graduates of the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” A sharp voice, laced with pride, spoke from behind her. Emma turned to see a tall, stern-faced woman dressed entirely in black.

“You must be very proud of them,” Emma replied. Another widow, she supposed. They must migrate to schools like this, the women without husbands and means to live in more fashionable locations. Perhaps that would explain why the school insisted its new teacher be a widow as well.

“Mrs. Brimley, I am Cecilia Higgins, headmistress of the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.”

Emma rendered a slow and proper bow.

The headmistress nodded approval, then motioned her to sit before settling herself in a chair directly opposite. “Please remove your veil, Mrs. Brimley. I wish to get a closer look at you.”

Emma worried her lip and complied. Although pleased to rid herself of the gauzy nuisance, the black lace had shielded her from close scrutiny. As she pulled the barrier back over her hat, she feared discovery of the fraud she portrayed.

The headmistress leaned forward, squinting. “Beatrice mentioned that you were much younger than we had anticipated. Sometimes my sister leaps to wild conclusions, but in this instance, I can see that she is correct. When exactly did your husband depart, Mrs. Brimley?”

“He died in a tragic carriage accident nearly eighteen months ago. We married young, but alas, we were not married long.” Although she had rehearsed it well, the lie still warmed her cheeks. Emma dropped her gaze. With luck, the headmistress would interpret her blush as something else entirely.

The woman waited a moment, touching the tops of her steepled fingers to thin, dry lips. “The length of your marriage is not important to us, but as I explained in our correspondence, it is mandatory that our new teacher have experienced marriage in her lifetime. Perhaps the girls will relate to a young widow more than they would to an older one.”

The woman’s frown lessened, which Emma interpreted to signal acceptance. Her own smile born from relief threatened to surface, but Emma suppressed it, sensing it would not be appropriate.

The older woman rose from her chair and strode to her desk. “You have already met Beatrice. She teaches needlework and the French language. I teach proper etiquette, grooming, and household management. You will be responsible for—”

“Proper elocution and literature befitting young ladies,” Emma interjected, the suppressed smile bubbling to the surface. “Indeed, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yes . . . well . . . there is one other subject you will be expected to teach. One that I did not mention in my letter but that should not be a problem given your experience.”

The older woman avoided eye contact. Observing her uneasiness, Emma felt anxiety as well. Perhaps, if she reassured the headmistress as to the versatility of her own instruction, the conversation would return to its former easy discourse.

“Mrs. Higgins—”

“
Miss
Higgins,” the other woman corrected. “Neither my sister nor I ever married. That is the crux of our difficulty.”

Confused, Emma mentally revisited her own education, trying to imagine how spinsterhood might prove difficult in the conduct of a school. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“Pettibone School for Young Ladies serves clientele of the first order,” the spinster said. “The wealthiest merchants and industrialists in the area send their daughters to us to mold into fine young women suited for marriage to gentlemen of the highest quality.”

“Yes, yes, you mentioned that in your letters, but I still don’t understand.” Emma’s concern blossomed into foreboding. The headmistress was clearly uncomfortable with this topic. Why would this unsettle her so?

“One of our patrons has suggested, quite correctly mind you, that the Pettibone School provides little in the way of instruction to prepare the girls for the intimacies of marriage, particularly the wedding night. Our patron quotes Mr. Copland’s definitive work on practical medicine that successful procreation can only be achieved if both parties are . . . well . . . agreeable to the process.”

High color stained Miss Higgins’s cheeks. Fortunately, the older woman seemed oblivious to Emma’s own distress.

“As the generation of heirs is a desired goal of marriage, we must prepare our girls for their ultimate responsibility.” Cecilia brought her gaze in direct line with Emma. “And teaching this, therefore, will be
your
responsibility.”

Emma’s foreboding exploded to full-blown panic. “But what if—”

“I must say that I am not in favor of this course of study,” the headmistress interrupted with a frown. “I believe certain behaviors”—she waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss them—“should remain unmentioned in polite society. However, our patron was quite emphatic. Therefore, I must insist that if you are not agreeable to teaching this subject matter, we will make arrangements to send you back to London.”

Emma’s panic plummeted into despair. London, she knew, was not an option. This was not the time, she supposed, to confess she had no more knowledge about the subject of intimacy than the girls she was expected to teach.

“I am shocked,” she stalled, trying to order her thoughts. “You never suggested in your letter . . .”

The woman winced ever so slightly. “I was afraid you would not make the journey to Yorkshire if I had confided the true nature of your responsibilities. I apologize for my deceit, but it was necessary under the circumstances.”

Emma glanced at the headmistress, who stood as unwavering as the Dover cliffs. They apparently shared a common thread of deceit. Would that make Miss Higgins more accepting should her own hidden truth emerge? Emma squashed that thought before it could fully develop. The consequences of admitting her lack of experience remained too severe to chance confiding in Miss Higgins.

“Will I be teaching elocution and literature as well?”

“Yes, of course. Pettibone will profit from a teacher of your background and training.”

Emma worried her lower lip. No training had ever prepared her for this situation. She took a breath, then glanced at the gallery of faces on the wall: kind, friendly faces. She’d need their kindness and friendship if she was to succeed.

“When do my classes begin?”

Miss Higgins’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. “I suppose you will need a day to organize before assuming your duties. I will alternate your classes with those of the dance tutor. Let us begin the day after tomorrow.”

Miss Higgins picked up a little bell. “Now that the matter is settled, I shall ring for tea. Beatrice shall join us, and we will all become better acquainted.”

The day after tomorrow! That didn’t allow much time, Emma thought, fighting back rising alarm. Her fingers sought out her mother’s wedding band and the sense of calm it conveyed. She had one day of reprieve. Every day away from London allowed her trail to grow a little colder. She’d use the day to think of something. Although she wasn’t at all sure what.

The moment Miss Higgins opened the door, Beatrice stumbled in with all the tea elements on a silver tray. One side of her face had reddened as if it had been pressed against the door.

Emma suppressed a grin.

“We anticipated your need for nourishment after such an arduous trip,” Beatrice explained in a rush.

“Mrs. Brimley has agreed to the teaching arrangement we discussed.” Cecilia poured a cup of tea, then handed it to Emma. “I thought she might have some questions about Pettibone that we might answer.”

“That is wonderful news.” Beatrice’s gray curls bobbed with approval. “Lady Cavendish’s letter of reference praised your credentials to such high extremes, we would have been disappointed if you had declined our offer.”

Emma smiled faintly, relieved that her forgery had been accepted as genuine, but still ashamed to have resorted to such deceitful measures. Fortunately, the likelihood that the true Lady Cavendish would learn of her transgression was as remote as Leighton-on-the-Wold itself.

“I’m so pleased to be here,” Emma said, shaking her head to turn down an offer of sugar and cream. “I do have one question, although it’s not specifically about Pettibone.” Steam from the hot liquid warmed her nose and fogged her eyeglasses.

“What might that be, dear?” Beatrice asked.

Emma sipped and smiled, letting the languid heat spread from the inside out. “What can you tell me about the man in the carriage?”

“Henry, the driver?” Beatrice asked, sounding surprised.

“No, the gentleman in the carriage.” Emma sipped a bit more of the fortifying liquid. Nothing could be so horrid that a good cup of tea couldn’t improve. “The driver referred to him as ‘his lordship.’ ”

Cecilia’s cup clattered to the saucer. “Chambers was in the carriage?” She directed a glare toward her sister as chilling as the snow piled outside.

Beatrice wrung her hands. “Henry didn’t say anything about his lordship. I didn’t know he was there.”

Cecilia turned to Emma. “Did he offend you in any way? What did he say?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did he touch you?”

Alarmed by their reaction, Emma placed her cup and saucer carefully on a side table. “Indeed no. He slept almost the entire ride. Is something wrong?”