The Education of Mrs. Brimley (3 page)

“Pettibone School has been built on the most stringent standards of respectability.” Cecilia rose to pace the small room, wringing her hands. “Association with Lord Nicholas Chambers could place our pristine reputation in jeopardy. His behavior is not consistent with that of a gentleman.” She stopped in front of Emma. “Did anyone see you enter the carriage?”

“He’s an artist,” Beatrice explained. “A painter. Tavern women come and go from his estate at all hours of the night.” Her twinkling eyes widened with excitement and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he’s extremely handsome. Did you think so, Mrs. Brimley?”

“Beatrice!” Cecilia hissed. “How many times must I warn you that such talk does you no credit? He is a dissolute rake who uses women.”

Beatrice quailed before her sister, clearly chastised.

Cecilia turned to Emma. “Answer me, Mrs. Brimley. I must know if we are ruined.”

“No one save the driver saw me enter, and it was extremely dark in the carriage. If I hadn’t heard his breathing, I would not have known he was there at all,” Emma said, quickly determining that her conversation with the attractive gentleman, as innocent as it had been, had best remain private.

Cecilia sighed. “Good. Henry knows to hold his tongue.”

Beatrice leaned toward Emma. “His estate borders ours, barely a mile distant, riding through the woods.”

“It is bad enough that we have need to borrow his conveyance on occasion. We should not be forced to endure his person as well.” Cecilia sniffed, as if to suggest the demon lord had selected his estate for the sole purpose of taunting innocent Pettibone women.

“My sister believes Lord Nicholas Chambers allows us use of his carriage because he relishes the thought of decent folk sitting on cushions that have witnessed all sorts of debauchery.” Despite Cecilia’s earlier rebuke, Beatrice’s eyes shone bright with curiosity.

The suggestion of debauchery, mentioned in connection with the man in the carriage, sent a ripple of interest deep through Emma. She shifted, uncomfortable with the foreign feeling, and tried to shift her focus as well. Still, the man’s lazy half smile refused to abandon her thoughts.

“Needless to say,” Cecilia said, raising her hand to interrupt her sister, “I will not allow that man’s close proximity to influence our girls. Now that you understand the danger, Mrs. Brimley, I am sure you will be ever vigilant and do the same.”

Emma nodded. As difficult as it might prove to forget the intriguing lines of Lord Nicholas Chambers’s face traced in moonlight, or the unexpected thrill of their brief clandestine journey, those experiences were more in tune with those of a heroine in a light novel. Such flights of fantasy rarely touched her reality.

It was just as well. A man who spoke poetry even when not in full possession of his wits could prove only a distraction to her immediate problem. She must obtain sufficient intelligence to portray a convincing widow, else she’d be back on her uncle’s doorstep. And that was completely unacceptable.

 
EMMA MET THE GIRLS AT THE SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY—too many to remember all the names and faces. They swirled around her in pretty frocks, giggling and whispering. Emma suspected she was the subject of those poorly hidden discussions. In her black bombazine and horn-rimmed glasses, she felt like a weed in a flourishing cottage garden.

She was introduced to many of the serving staff, none of whom appeared to be married. She’d find no font of knowledge in those quarters.

Emma set out to explore the great manor that housed the school. With luck she hoped to discover a library with a text that might offer enlightenment on intimacy. She was proceeding down one hallway when her name, uttered in a low conversation, floated through the very air.

“Have you seen the new teacher?”

Surprised, she stopped just short of a turn in the hallway. As a new teacher, she probably should scold the girls for such vulgar behavior as gossiping, but curiosity got the better of her. She flattened herself against the wall paneling and listened. She couldn’t see faces, but their voices carried clear and close around the near corner.

“She speaks funny,” a younger voice said.

“That’s because she’s from London, you silly goose. They all sound like that, all hoity-toity down there.”

One voice lowered to a near whisper. “I heard she arrived in a carriage all alone with Lord Bedchambers.”

Emma’s cheek heated against the cool paneling. How could news of her unorthodox arrival travel so quickly? Surely the Higgins sisters had not publicized the circumstances.

“If her belly starts to grow,” the first girl said, “we’ll know it’s not from Cook’s meals.”

“Fanny, you are so wicked!” Laughter echoed off the walls.

“Girls!” Beatrice’s voice interrupted the merriment. “Have you no better place to be?”

Emma shriveled inside. The years should have toughened her hide to the hurtful prickings of the privileged, but the unkind laughter still struck deep.

Emma silently tiptoed back down the hall before rushing to the opposite wing of the house. Embarrassed by the overheard conversation and by her equally improper eavesdropping, she pushed through the first door she encountered and stumbled into the library.

Her pulse raced from her hasty flight, while the girls’ taunts still echoed in her ears. She sank onto a wooden chair and braced her forehead with her hands. She had come all this way yet still remained an object of ridicule. How foolish to run away from home, thinking to escape the whispers and scorn.

Deep in the recesses of her mind, she heard laughter, her uncle’s laughter. The mere thought of him sent an icy chill tripping down her spine. Determined to rid herself of the memory, she pushed herself from the chair. She had managed to escape London without his notice. If she was to stay hidden, she’d best get to work.

The upper portion of three walls in the library were lined with bookshelves, more empty than full. Emma found a few dusty novels, mostly by the late Mr. Dickens, Mrs. Beeton’s thick tome on household management, and several collected volumes of fashion magazines and needlework patterns. Just as she resigned herself to needing an alternate strategy, she spied a volume on a high shelf beyond her reach. It lay flat so as not to be obvious to the casual observer.

Pulling a small step stool into position, Emma stretched to her full height to retrieve the book, a sizeable medical text, and looked at the title: Mr. Copland’s
A Dictionary of Practical Medicine
.

“There you are. I’d been hoping you’d be here.” Delighted with her find, she stepped off the stool and took the volume to a nearby table. The book opened a bit too naturally to worn pages marking the discussions on conception. Although she readily discovered Mr. Copland’s assertion regarding enjoyment of intimacy, she could find no mention on how that enjoyment was to be obtained.

Belatedly, she realized that had the information been so available, Miss Higgins could teach the class as well as she.

“Have you found what you’re searching for, Mrs. Brimley?” Cecilia asked, startling Emma from her examination of the text.

“Miss Higgins! Yes . . . I was checking to see what books I could use in my literature sessions.” She readjusted her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose. “Your novels complement my volumes on poetry. These shall do quite nicely.”

Miss Higgins glanced at the open text. Her brow raised.

“Do you plan to discuss female hysteria in your literature class?”

Emma closed the book. “I was curious as to the ailments listed. I suppose in a remote location such as this, doctors are difficult to obtain. How far is the nearest village?”

“You rode through it last night.”

Emma recalled passing a handful of buildings, a church, and at least one tavern.

“But if one of the girls is seriously ill, we send word to Hull or York. It may take several hours, but we are not without medical resources.” Cecilia cocked a brow. “Are you planning to need the assistance of a doctor?”

“No, I was just curious,” Emma replied quickly, although she certainly wished for a doctor’s knowledge at present.

Cecilia gazed about the library. “I think this room will do well for your classes. Naturally, I’ve selected only a few of the older girls to receive instruction.” She nodded to herself, apparently pleased with her decision. “I’ll let them know to meet you here tomorrow, and Mrs. Brimley”—her gaze leveled on Emma—“I believe I will attend your first class.”

Emma stared at Cecilia’s retreating back. Tomorrow! Her heart raced. In the space of a night and day, she could easily be unmasked as a fraud and sent packing.

She paced the room, trying to calm her frantic thoughts. Her needs were immediate, her resources were not. She paused, removing first a handkerchief from her cuff, then her spectacles from her nose.

“Cleaner vision means clearer focus,” she recited, allowing her mother’s familiar words and the repetitive action of polishing her lenses to calm her nerves. “Sharp focus on any problem leads to possibilities.” She pushed the cleaned glasses back in place. “Possibilities lead to . . .”

Her gaze lingered on the title of a small treatise lying on a low table,
The Art of Arranging Cut Flowers
.

The word “art” reminded her of “artist.” A memory of the dark angel stirred her thoughts. Only an educated man would have recognized Lord Byron’s poem. An educated man would surely have books, and as an artist who painted the human figure, he might keep texts that addressed anatomical issues as well.

“Possibilities lead to solutions,” she murmured, completing her mother’s familiar stanza. A flame of hope ignited deep inside. Miss Higgins had mentioned that the distance to Lord Nicholas Chambers’s estate was not far.

Miss Higgins. The tiny flame sputtered, uncertain. Emma recalled Miss Higgins’s prohibition of association with the man in the carriage. She bit her lip. Calling on him might prove just as disastrous as not calling on him. Her stomach twisted in turmoil.

She resumed her pacing, mentally weighing the alternatives. It wasn’t as if she was a complete bumbler. After all, she had managed to leave London with none the wiser. Surely she could do it again here at Pettibone.

A memory of Chambers’s sweet face, rocking gently in the moonlight with the motion of the carriage, stirred her thoughts. Perhaps after he had provided the necessary materials, maybe they could again exchange a few more poetic verses. A quiver of anticipation tingled her nerve endings.

She took a deep breath, drawing confidence from her decision. She’d make a clandestine call upon Lord Bedchambers . . . er, Lord Nicholas Chambers. Tonight.

EMMA’S STOMACH LURCHED AS IF SHE WERE Blondin, the famous tightrope artist, suspended high in the Crystal Palace with nothing but a thin wire for foothold. One misstep and severe consequences would surely ensue. Behind her, the trodden path led back to the relative safety of Pettibone School. Before her stood the massive, many-gabled manor of Black Oak in all its gothic glory.

The confidence that had effectively carried her away from Pettibone somehow had eroded along the way. Now she questioned the wisdom of what could be an awkward intrusion. She hesitated to catch her breath and quell the uneasiness that roiled in the pit of her stomach. Then, like Blondin, she moved ahead one slow step at a time.

The path approached Black Oak from the back, past shrubs deformed by their heavy burden of snow and jutting skeletons of plants long past seed. The house appeared twice the size of Pettibone, with far more grandeur and far less warmth. No light shone through the windows. If not for the pale ribbons of smoke rising from several chimneys, she would have thought the structure uninhabited. A dog barked and she hurried along lest the hounds be set loose.

Circling around the manor, Emma discovered the front entrance. With one final deep breath for courage, she rapped sharply on the heavy oak door.

She shivered, more from dread than cold. The winter light had rapidly faded; already a pale full moon hovered over the horizon. Making this forbidden call, alone, under the cover of night, broke every tenet in
The Ladies’ Guide to Proper Etiquette.

A solemn-faced gentleman opened the door and looked her up and down.

“You’re late.” He ushered her swiftly inside.

Dumbfounded by the reception, Emma let herself be moved along, if only to escape the cold. Fog rapidly appeared on her lenses, making it difficult to see where she was going. “I couldn’t send my card ahead for reasons I can—”

“No time for that,” he said. “Give me your cloak. Quickly now.”

Her numb fingers fumbled over the fastenings, much to his apparent agitation.

“This is a most puzzling household,” she said, handing over the heavy woolen cloak. “I am given to think you were expecting me.”

“We expected you several days earlier. You may wait there.” He pointed toward a small salon near the front entrance. “I will let his lordship know that you’ve arrived.” The servant left with her outer garment folded over his arm.