The Education of Mrs. Brimley (29 page)

Deep within she felt a tiny protest against her uncle’s words, a tiny flame that sputtered in a cold unfeeling body.

“At least my brother has progressed from the tavern whores to country widows.” The devil’s voice loomed closer, impossible now to tell the difference between her uncle’s leering tone and that of the Marquess of Enon. But then, what did it matter?

“Leave her alone, William.”

She knew that voice. The sputtering flame fought back against the pressing cold. Her eyes began to focus, searching for the source.

“Nicholas!” The devil voice cried in greeting. “You should have told me. I never would have presumed to interfere with your sport.”

The comforting tap of Nicholas’s stick crossed the room as if in a dream. With each tap, the flame brightened, but he was coming too late. Too late.

“Your painting is marvelous, masterful, destined to earn accolades for your talents. And the fact that your model is a finishing school teacher will surely attract attention in London.” The Marquess’s exuberant praises failed to stop the rhythmic tapping. “Your painting will be the hit of the exhibition.”

“No one is to know that Emma is the model.”

Nicholas’s soft voice surrounded her. The pulse in her veins strengthened. She recognized the touch of his fingertips on the underside of her chin by the quickly generating warmth radiating outward, bringing her back to life.

He lifted her chin until she focused on his searching, deep brown eyes. Awareness stabbed at her with a million tiny pricks as if she had become Beatrice’s human pincushion.

“I’m sorry.” Nicholas’s words were spoken too softly to extend beyond her ears. She lifted her fingers with the intent to touch his face, to make sure he was real. He captured her hand midpath and brought her fingertips to his lips for a gentle kiss. The flame burning within her multiplied, banishing the cold mists to distant memory.

“Emma, is it now?” The Marquess shook his head as if remnants of sleep had fogged his perception. “I swear, little brother, you could charm the stars from the heavens if they were female. What difference will it make in London who the model is? The painting is the important thing.”

“It matters to me,” Nicholas said in a tone not to be ignored. His lips tilted in an apologetic smile, then he patted her hand and replaced it by her side.

Pivoting on his stick, he turned away and approached the easel. “Besides, this painting will never see London.”

Hope pulsed through her veins. She should never have doubted him. He had always protected her.

Nicholas pulled the drape back in place, concealing the treasure beneath. “I’ll send another, one of my landscapes.”

“Don’t be a fool, Nick,” William argued, all mirth gone from his face. “The Academy doesn’t want landscapes. You’ll be rejected again.”

“Then I’ll be rejected. There are worst things.” He nodded toward Emma. “I won’t have Mrs. Brimley’s reputation harmed in any way, either by idle gossip or public display of this painting.”

If her legs had strength, she’d rush over and throw her arms around him. He was willing to sacrifice his well-earned recognition to preserve her reputation. Tears of gratitude burned at the corners of her eyes.

“Bloody hell, Nick.” William cast a disparaging frown in her direction, waving the sketchbook as if to punctuate his words. “She’s used goods. A painting like this could boost her popularity as well. She’ll be a novelty. You’ve painted her with a shy, self-conscious quality that is outright titillating. No one will deny your talent.”

Nicholas’s lips thinned. “Yesterday I had a preoccupation, today I have a talent.” He glanced her way. Her rigidity melted in response. “I’d rather have neither if it hurts Emma.”

The Marquess dropped the sketchbook, letting the binding bounce on the floor. The book flipped open to Emma’s goddess sketch.

“Not a word, William,” Nicholas warned. “Do you understand?”

The Marquess scowled but nodded assent. He marched across the studio floor to the door, leaving a boot print across Emma’s sketched cheek in the process.

As William’s boots echoed down the hall, Nicholas turned to Emma.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to keep the painting hidden.”

Nicholas fished in his pocket and removed a handkerchief. “I suppose I should have packed the painting away the moment he arrived, but I couldn’t.”

He dabbed at her cheeks. Had she been crying? She couldn’t remember.

“I just couldn’t.” He opened his arms, and she stepped into his comfort. “The important thing is that no one will ever see that painting again. Trust me, Emma. It shall be our secret, and our secret alone.”

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I uncovered it. I just wanted to see . . .” Her voice faltered, then disappeared altogether. Tears ran uncontrolled down her cheeks.

“William would have seen it eventually. It’s not your fault.” His fingertips soothed the hair back from her cheeks.

“I know.” His voice lightened. “I shall hide it in the root cellar with the potatoes, if you like. I’ll cover it from view, although I suspect Thomas would want his likeness to be revealed.”

His gentle teasing brought a smile to her lips. “Thomas?” The words forced her throat to open to accommodate them. “The man in the woods?”

Nicholas nodded, gently squeezing her shoulder. He shifted toward the easel. “I’d prefer to hang it, though, in my private quarters.” He glanced down to her. “With your permission, of course.”

Emma sniffed, not a refined sound, but necessary. “I thought this studio was your private quarter.”

He sighed and hugged her tighter. “That was the original plan when I moved to Yorkshire. My family and houseguests apparently consider this a public gallery of sorts.” He pulled back a bit to see her face. “You’re the first to recognize how much of my heart and soul reside in this room.”

“After these last few months, I think a bit of my heart resides here as well.” Emma sniffled.

He held her in silence a few moments longer then stepped back. “I suppose you didn’t come here today to pose for my next great work.”

His humor pulled at her heart. She rubbed the last traces of tears from her eyes and straightened her spectacles on her nose, then took a large settling breath. “Your brother is correct. It is a magnificent work.”

“The next one will be even better.” Nicholas smiled, and moved over to his stool. “You shall see.”

“I had thought that now that this project was complete, you could teach me about art in earnest.” Emma followed him back to the center of the room and stepped up on the dais by habit. “The sisters still expect me to teach painting to the girls.”

“Emma, everything we have done has been in earnest.” Nicholas picked a brush from a jar and held it aloft to inspect it. She recognized the sable brush instantly and smiled, remembering the silky texture on her skin.

“I’d wager you know more about art now than all of Yorkshire,” Nicholas said.

Emma sat on the divan, too drained to argue or even agree. She tried to believe Nicholas’s light banter, but the draped easel remained her focus. What she once considered a freeing experience had become a trap.

“You don’t believe me?” Nicholas pulled a mock frown. “Then I suppose we should get to work. Let us begin with the topic of negative space.”

THE PAINTING CHANGED EVERYTHING.

Once she returned to Pettibone, Emma feigned a headache and retired early. Even an invitation from Alice to indulge in a game of cards could not lift her spirits. Cecilia audibly supposed that the excitement of the dance had tired her unduly and urged her to seek rest. The girls would be distraught if illness would to befall their favorite teacher.

Emma smiled to acknowledge the compliment, then quickly escaped to her room to think.

She trusted Nicholas to keep the painting private, but servants talked. It wouldn’t take long for the rumors and gossip to travel from Black Oak to Pettibone. The Marquess’s words echoed in her mind.
At least my brother has progressed from tavern whores to country widows.
How quickly would people begin to associate her with the former group and not the latter?

She had to leave. A sullied reputation would ruin Pettibone. Cecilia had said as much the day she had arrived. Leaving her newly found family would be difficult, but leave she must. The question was, where to go?

She could teach to earn a wage. Her time at Pettibone had taught her that much. She had an affinity for the young girls that resulted in their acceptance and learning. Perhaps she could secure a position in a finishing school in Switzerland or Paris. No, not Paris, she decided. Loyalty to God and country wouldn’t allow her to teach in that godforsaken hovel. That meant Switzerland would have to be her destination. Her past surely wouldn’t follow her that far.

She had done well in her widow portrayal. The next time, she would do even better, now that she was armed with the lessons Nicholas had taught her.

So it was settled. She would approach Nicholas at the first opportunity about securing transportation out of the country. He was a reasonable man, an intelligent man. She had recognized that from the very first when they met in the carriage.

Memories of that night pulled at her heart. She could travel the world over and never meet another man like him. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She swiped at them with a corner of the pillowcase.

With her departure Nicholas would be free to exhibit his masterpiece. She couldn’t deny the world of its next great artist. Her heart ached at his proposed sacrifice. She couldn’t allow it.

He had given her so much. He had taught her how to appreciate art, and herself. He had awakened her heart to what it felt like to love and to be loved. This was the only gift she could give him in return, her absence. Her chest tightened, making it difficult to draw breath.

He would see the logic of her plan. It was a brilliant plan. This would benefit them both.

Then why were tears streaming down her cheeks at thought of her future?

 
“NO.” WITH ONE HAND, NICHOLAS SNAPPED HIS BOOK shut before shoving it into place on his library shelf. “Absolutely not.”

“You must see the necessity of this move,” Emma pleaded, crossing deeper into the book-lined recess. Normally she would stop and savor the smell of old leather and musty paper, but not today. Not when she was pleading for an opportunity to never stand in this library again. “I don’t wish to go, but I have no other choice.”

“I see no such thing.” Nicholas crossed his arms in front of him. “I will not assist this foolish venture in any way.”

“Foolish venture!” she gasped. How could he not appreciate that circumstances had changed? “Don’t you see that it’s only a matter of time before gossip travels to Pettibone?”

“Emma, if those in residence at Black Oak were interested in spreading gossip, don’t you think the spinster sisters would already know the nature of your art lessons?” Nicholas’s voice riled her with his calm logic, the complete antithesis to her own current sensibilities. “Despite his obvious faults, my brother is an honorable man. He can be trusted not to divulge the nature of the painting.”

She rolled her eyes, not sharing his appreciation of his brother’s virtues.

Nicholas’s lips turned in the slightest of smiles. “I’ve been my family’s black sheep for so long, I’ve forgotten that some may not hold my brother in as high esteem as the family is wont to do.”

Nicholas must come from a family of fools if they respected the eldest brother over the younger, she thought.

“Nevertheless, the painting is again under cover in my studio.” He selected another leather volume and slammed it home on the shelf. “The marquess and Lady Cavendish are departing for London early tomorrow morning. I see no reason why our paths cannot carry on, just as they had before the unfortunate unveiling of
Artemis’s Revenge
.”

“I cannot go on as before.” Emma shook her head, despondent over his lack of cooperation in this endeavor. “I am no longer in desperate need of your knowledge, and I refuse to continue to lie about my visits here. I’ve become a part of so many deceits, I have difficulty recalling where the truth begins.”

“Emma, I would give anything in my power to rectify this injustice.” He soothed his hands down her arms, as if to stop her sudden retreat. “Please don’t ask me to assist you in leaving.” He studied her beneath shuddered lids. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Then ask me to stay,” she whispered, searching his face for answers.

“Have I not done that very thing?” Frustration tinged his voice. “What more can you expect of me?”

Tell me you love me, she silently begged. Give me the only kind of protection a woman has against a sullied reputation. Give me a ring and a vow.

He studied her a moment more, his gaze flickering over her features as if to seal them in his memory. His mouth opened as if he had more to say. Yet nothing issued forth. He turned abruptly away, and in doing so, turned away from all they had shared the past five months, all the intimacies and past histories, all the unburied emotions and discoveries. He turned away.