The Education of Mrs. Brimley (26 page)

William lifted an eyebrow and picked up an older sketchbook, one Nicholas recognized as the one he took to various taverns.

“It is all relative, old man. Don’t think that he hasn’t exerted similar entreaties on me. As I said earlier, I envy you your distance.” He flipped through the pages, pausing periodically.

“You’re still recruiting prostitutes for your models, I see.” He turned the page to another. “Either you are very quick at your art, brother, or their talents are costing you an arm and a leg. Tell me, do you study their luscious bodies with more than your pen?”

Nicholas exercised his most practiced leer. “Are you envious of more than my distance, dear brother?”

William laughed, then tossed back the rest of his brandy. “Seriously, Nick, you must attend this Pettibone affair. I need someone other than Lady Cavendish to talk to. Good Lord, man, I don’t know how you can understand the dialect up here.”

“Is that what you mean by familial obligations? I should attend a ball and stand about so you’ll have a ready ear for your witticisms and observations?” He glanced toward his brother’s legs. “I suppose I shouldn’t object. I’m of little use on a dance floor, unless someone is needed to tap out the count.” He emptied his glass.

Pity filled William’s eyes. The very expression Nicholas thought he’d left behind in London. After a brief pause, William quietly crossed the floor to retrieve the cut-crystal decanter.

“You should never have chased after Cogswell. You knew he was a superior horseman. You weren’t more than a lad.”

“I knew he was leaving behind a woman with child, his child.” Nicholas palmed the handle of his stick, attempting to ignore the ache in his leg. Strange. Throughout all the changes in weather in the last five months, the old injury lay dormant. Now that his brother had arrived, the ache flared up. “I shouldn’t have raced through that pasture, but—”

“If you hadn’t, the horse wouldn’t have fallen on your leg, and we wouldn’t have had to put down the poor creature—”

“Whether to fault the horse, the rider, or the surgeon who couldn’t set the bone properly is of little concern. The conclusion remains that I will not attend that bloody ball!” Nicholas felt his face warm and dismissed the eyebrow raised in his direction.

William glanced around the studio. “Which of these paintings are you entering in the competition?”

“I have not decided.” Nicholas glanced at his drape-shrouded easel. Unquestionably,
Artemis’s Revenge
represented his best chance for the Royal Academy exhibition. Never before had he achieved such a subtle blending of technique and emotion. However, the subject matter on display for the general populace made him a little uneasy.

“With the exhibition so close at hand, I would have expected you’d have the chosen piece framed, packed, and ready to go.” William shook his head. “This is exactly what Father means by not taking responsibility seriously. You procrastinate even in the things most important to you.”

“William, you sound just like him.” Nicholas’s lips curled in a tight smile. “Come, let’s have another brandy and you can tell me about the charms of London and the lady who has chased you so far north.”

ONCE CECILIA RECEIVED WORD THAT THE MARQUESS of Enon planned to attend the festivities, no expense was spared transforming the school into an imitation of a fine London estate. All the furniture, except the piano, had been moved from the music room to create a space sufficiently large for dancing. The carpets were rolled up, exposing hardwood floors that amplified the sound of tapping toes and scurrying footfalls. Both the library and the salon had been cleared to accommodate the many anticipated patrons. Several villagers had been engaged as servants. Even Cook had been persuaded to wear a new gray dress under her wide white apron and a maid’s cap over her tidy gray-streaked bun. Already, faint notes from the hired ensemble warming up their instruments drifted up the stairs to Alice’s room.

“Oh, Mrs. Brimley, isn’t this exciting? A real Marquess is coming to our ball. What if he asks us to dance?” Charlotte preened before a mirror.

Emma’s thoughts turned to someone else whose seductive smile she’d rather see across the room, but wisely held her tongue. “Then you shall take care not to step on his toes.”

She wove alyssum through Alice’s hair. “There should be many young men at Pettibone tonight. Take care not to ignore them for hopes of a dance with the Marquess of Enon.” She caught a movement from the corner of her eye. “Charlotte, that ribbon was meant for your hair, not to entertain the kitten.”

“You look so beautiful tonight, Mrs. Brimley. What if the Marquess asks you to dance?” Alice asked. “Would you?”

“It would be impolite to refuse,” she answered briskly. In truth, the likelihood was rare. Although Nicholas had convinced her she was not the ugly cousin that her uncle had suggested, there remained the issue of age. Her prime years had passed, her youth spent playing ladies’ maid to Penelope. Her fingers hesitated in Alice’s deep black locks as she recalled doing something similar with Penelope’s golden hair. Had she unknowingly been apprenticing for a future of service?

Alice must have felt Emma’s hesitation. Her anxious glance in the mirror elicited Emma’s confident smile. When Emma caught the affection beaming from Alice’s eyes, she corrected herself. A world of difference existed between these girls and the selfish Penelope.

“Now come, Charlotte, let me finish your hair. Alice, run and see if Elizabeth and Fanny are ready. The musicians have taken their places by the sound of it. Miss Higgins will want you all downstairs to properly welcome our guests.”

After she had sent Charlotte off to follow the others, Emma glanced in the oval mirror on the wall. Earlier in the day, Beatrice had presented her with a beautiful gray satin gown, hand stitched by the two sisters to thank Emma for the skills she had brought to the girls. By no means would the garment challenge a Worth gown for high fashion, but its simple lines and lack of trim presented an elegant, refined reflection.

“For the image of the school,” Cecilia had said when Emma offered her gratitude. The pair had grown so dear to her over the past months, it was easy to forget that she was their employee.

A year ago, Emma imagined she would have been too self-conscious in the low-cut gown. Indeed the bodice barely covered the top of her corset, exposing the small strawberry birthmark on the lift of her left breast. However, after posing for long hours in less attire for Chambers, Emma found herself surprisingly comfortably in the rich fabric.

She retrieved the long glove box sent by “the mysterious stranger” and removed the black lace gloves, pulling each to her elbow. Nicholas may not attend the ball, but her thoughts would fly to him every time the lace would cross her field of vision. Earbobs and a jet necklace completed the ensemble. She straightened her spine, wishing he could see her. She may not be the prettiest flower in the garden tonight, but she no longer played the role of a weed.

Emma descended the stairs into the organized chaos that signaled a successful gathering. Young men with freshly scrubbed faces and imaginative cravats buzzed about the lower floor like bees mining blossoms. Cecilia and Beatrice tended to the older couples, the parents of the girls, she assumed. The music room was alive with swirling satins and lace. It was truly a night of enchantment.

“Mrs. Brimley, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Beatrice broke away from a small gathering. “Some of the parents have specifically asked to make your acquaintance.”

Emma allowed herself to be led from couple to couple, politely acknowledging the introductions and taking care to comment on each girl’s assets to her parents. Over the months she had come to know the girls by their talents and faults, the sound of their laughter as well as the sound of their tears. She faltered on her curtsy to Mr. and Mrs. Barnesworth at the sudden realization. The girls were her family. She loved each of them as one would love a child or a little sister. No matter the circumstances that brought her to Leighton-on-the-Wold, she would be eternally grateful for the privilege of being a part of Pettibone.

The music paused, yet the noise level heightened. Cecilia, who had stood by Emma’s side throughout the endless introductions, glanced to the entrance of the room. Her face brightened. “He’s here,” she pronounced with no small measure of awe.

Nicholas!
Emma’s heart increased its tempo. A giddiness swelled in her throat. He must have reversed his decision not to attend. She turned, expecting to see him in that same formal attire she had witnessed the first night they met, and stared.

From his top hat, to his complicated cravat the color of freshly fallen snow, he was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen, the epitome of a fashionably dressed gentleman. Had she been in London, the ladies would plot and scheme for an introduction. He carried the look of money about him, in his attire as well as in his lofty expression, which left her disinterested. Still there was something intriguing about his dark coloring, the sensual fullness of his lips and the elegantly tapered hands encased in fine kid gloves. If his upper lip hadn’t been completely devoid of facial hair, she might have mistaken him for . . .

“Chambers,” she said, quite surprised to hear she had spoken aloud.

“His older brother,” Beatrice corrected. “The Marquess of Enon. We’re honored by his attendance. Come, Mrs. Brimley, you should make his acquaintance.” Beatrice tugged on her arm, but Emma stood her ground.

“This night is to showcase the girls, not their matronly instructors,” she said, hoping to dissuade Beatrice. If the Marquess of Enon had newly traveled from London, it was possible he might know of her uncle and hence be on the lookout for her.

“One could hardly describe such a young widow as matronly,” Mrs. Barnesworth observed. “Why if I were younger and open to the marriage mart, I would insist on an introduction.”

Mrs. Barnesworth’s high-pitched voice must have cut a swath through the festive current, for at that precise moment, the gentleman in question caught Emma’s glance. He squinted slightly, then turned to speak to someone blocked by a small gathering in her line of vision.

“Exactly my point,” Beatrice agreed.

“Excuse me,” Emma interjected, “I have an unbearable thirst. I believe I will check on the girls at the lemonade table.”

She skirted along the back wall, hoping the crowd that had gathered around the Marquess would hide her from view. She had almost reached the safety of the side exit, when Lady Cavendish’s voice stopped her retreat.

“Mrs. Brimley, please do not run off. I have someone here to meet you.”

Emma turned, facing the apprising eyes of the Marquess of Enon. Lady Cavendish performed the introductions. Emma extended her hand and curtsied.

“We have met before?” he asked. His voice, so similar to his brother’s, startled her. She glanced up expecting to see intriguing brown eyes lit by humor and shared secrets, but instead found a questioning gaze that left her unaffected. The stirring about her rib cage dissipated.

“No, sir, I do not believe I have had that pleasure,” Emma replied. She started to pull her hand away when his fingers closed over her glove.

“You’re from London.” A warmth poured into his voice, his smile broadened. “Your accent is music to my ears, and your face . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Your face is familiar to me. Have you been to London recently?”

Emma bit her lip, looking anxiously toward Lady Cavendish for assistance.

“Mrs. Brimley has been an institution at Pettibone for some time now,” Lady Cavendish interrupted with a toss of the ostrich feather hairpiece that dangled close to the Marquess’s head. “Indeed,
I
was her sponsor.”

Emma smiled her appreciation.

“She hasn’t been at this institution long enough to lose her educated tones,” the Marquess said, his gaze never leaving her face.

His toothy smile raised the fine hairs on the back of Emma’s neck. She tugged her hand from his grasp. His gaze dropped to her lace gloves, before returning to her face.

“We have met,” he said. “I’m certain of it. I have a keen eye for faces, you see. It will come to me in time.”

Emma’s throat tightened. Although she knew for certain that they had never met in London, the Marquess’s memory could prove a problem if he encountered her uncle. “If you’ll excuse me, I was just on my way—”

“May I have the honor of a dance?” he asked. “The musicians are about to begin the second set.”

Panic seared her skin. To refuse would embarrass Pettibone, to accept would publicly demonstrate her lack of grace. She leaned close to the Marquess so as to make herself heard over the discord of the instruments’ tuning.

“I am not a skilled dancer. Please don’t ask me to demonstrate. I beg of you, sir.” Her lack of abilities on the dance floor had followed her throughout her adolescence, much to Penelope’s chagrin.