The Education of Mrs. Brimley (30 page)

“I see,” she said quietly while her heart screamed in the void of her chest. Numb, she stepped back, then dipped in an expedient curtsy. “Thank you for your time, Lord Nicholas Chambers. Good day to you, sir.”

Her eyes burned; a sob twisted in her throat. But she refused to cry in front of him. A proper lady had to have some pride, even when her heart had been torn asunder. She turned toward the door and hurried toward the manor’s entrance.

“Emma, wait!” His voice trailed behind her, but she continued to her waiting rig. She untied the reins, stepped up to the wooden seat, and urged the horse forward.

“Emma!”

She refused to look back. Her heart lodged in her throat, pulling forth great, shaking sobs. The horse attempted to twist his head, as if he didn’t understand the direction her quivering arms dictated. Indeed, she was unsure herself. Tears blurred her vision. Once she had pulled beyond sight of Black Oak, she reined in the horse to a stop.

Tears flowed freely beneath the hands raised to her face. Was it any wonder he wished for things to continue as they were? She had allowed liberties, admitted emotions that a proper lady would have kept hidden. She was unsuitable to be more than a convenient distraction. Unsuitable!

She fished for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. She would have to leave on her own, away from Black Oak and its painful memories and away from Pettibone and its fond ones. A fresh sob shook her shoulders. She pushed the handkerchief to her mouth to muffle the sound.

Dear heavens, she could taste his scent on the linen. Instantly, his face appeared in her mind, sympathetic and compassionate. In one quick motion, she clenched the linen into a ball and tossed it to the narrow stone wall that bordered the road. Where she was going, she wanted no more remembrances of Lord Nicholas Chambers.

A moist wind, rich with the promise of spring and changing weather pushed at her face. Though tempted to remain on the road through the pending rain as a way to explain her distressed appearance, she decided against it. Poor health due to a sudden chill could delay her departure from Pettibone. Better to return quickly so as to quickly leave in turn. She swiped the tears from her cheeks with the hem of her skirt before setting the horse to motion again. Barely able to control her own life, she was in no shape to direct a horse. Hopefully the fellow would trot his way home and drag the rig behind.

 
“MRS. BRIMLEY,” CECILIA GREETED HER BEFORE SHE could disembark from the rig. “I’m so glad you’re back. I need your advice on some correspondence I received from an applicant.”

Emma tilted her head in the hopes that the brim of her hat would hide the proof of her tears, but Cecilia clasped her arm as she approached and faced her directly. Cecilia squinted.

“You’ve been crying. You saw the younger brother, didn’t you?” she accused. “I knew that man was no good. What did he do?”

“Nothing. He did nothing,” she said flatly, pushing her way past Cecilia. “May we continue the discussion of your recent correspondence a bit later? I’d like to go to my room for a few moments, and—”

“One would suppose that the man would be more mannerly with his refined older brother in residence,” Cecilia grumbled following behind.

Emma stopped, a defense of Nicholas poised on the tip of her tongue. Her gaze snapped to Cecilia, but she didn’t speak. What was the point? Any words of rebuttal would soon be forgotten in lieu of condemnation of her own behavior. She continued to the front door.

“Mrs. Brimley.” Fanny waited just inside. “Charlotte shouldn’t be allowed to have a cat. The vicious beast just destroyed the lacework on my best petticoat. I demand something be done about it.”

The refuge of her room appeared more distant with each step Emma took toward it. With one hand on the staircase newel, Emma directed Fanny to take the ruined petticoat to Beatrice for repair.

“But the cat—” Fanny whined.

“I’ll talk to Charlotte. Now go,” Emma snapped.

“Mrs. Brimley?” Hannah called from the top of the stairs. “What color ribbon goes best with my complexion?”

“The blue,” Emma responded with barely a glance. If she could just gain the stairs without any more interruptions, she could—

“Mrs. Brimley?” She heard Cook call in the hallway below. Emma quickly rounded the top of the stairs and hurried the last few steps to her room.

 
IN FIVE SHORT MONTHS, SHE HAD EVOLVED FROM someone whispered about in the hallways to something of the resident authority. The success of the ball, Lady Cavendish’s visit, and the Marquess’s apparent interest elevated her in the esteem of the school. Even Cecilia gave her the occasional nod of approval and respect.

Her heart tugged deep in the chest. Just when she had earned their respect, she would lose it all as soon as they learned the truth. She couldn’t stay to watch. Her eyelids burned for want of tears; she had cried them all out by the stone wall. She pulled her old valise from under the bed, just as the threatening cloudburst erupted outside.

Without Nicholas’s financial help, she would have to leave with just the essentials she could carry. Her jewelry might be bartered for passage for somewhere far from Pettibone. She emptied her drawers, spreading her entire wardrobe out on her bed. The last time she had done this, she had donned all these garments to confront Nicholas. A fluttering in her chest reminded her of the outcome of that adventure. No, she chastised herself, she wouldn’t think of him. She wouldn’t remember the concern in his eyes, or the power of his grip as he held her to the mattress, or the desire to feel the caress of his lips while at his mercy.

A rumble of thunder brought her back to the task at hand. Even if the temperature weren’t too warm to accommodate all those garments, her figure had expanded after sharing too many teas at Black Oak. She could never fit all those clothes onto her frame.

“Mrs. Brimley, what are you doing?”

Emma glanced up. Alice watched from the doorway. “You’re going away, aren’t you?” Her lip trembled.

Emma sat on the bed, crushing her mother’s black crepe. “I don’t expect you to understand, but circumstances have forced me to—”

“Take me with you,” Alice said. “It won’t take me long to pack. Just let me say good-bye to Charlotte and I’ll be ready.”

Emma’s heart twisted. “I can’t take you with me, Alice, as much as I want to. I don’t know where I’m going, so it wouldn’t be responsible of me—”

“I don’t care about responsible.” Alice rushed in the room and clasped Emma’s hands. “I don’t want to be alone again. You and I are family. You said so. I won’t let you leave without me. I won’t.” A tear carved a track down the young woman’s cheek. Emma brushed it away with the tip of her finger.

“Why do you have to go?” Alice cried. “Is it something I’ve done? Did Miss Higgins find out that I put Charlotte’s kitten in Fanny’s room on purpose?”

Emma smiled, pulling the girl’s head onto her shoulder. “It has nothing to do with the kitten, or with you.” She stroked the girl’s back, soothing away her tears.

“Then why do you have to leave?” Alice looked up at her with puffy eyes. “Everything has changed since you’ve been here. If you leave, it will all go back to the way it was. Please stay. Don’t leave us.”

Was that true? Two days ago, Emma had complimented herself on how much she’d changed since arriving at Pettibone. Had the school changed as well? She hugged Alice, gently rocking her forward and back. Things were different now. Someone wanted her, needed her. How could she turn her back on the Higgins sisters or their brood of young girls without explanation?

The old Emma would have run away, but maybe this new Emma could find another solution. The thought took root and strengthened. Perhaps Nicholas was right. She knew him to be an intelligent man. Maybe life could go on just as it had. Not those modeling sessions, those would have to end. But if the painting were concealed, and the Marquess of Enon returned to London without revealing her secrets, maybe she could stay and continue teaching.

“You are wise beyond your years, Alice,” Emma said, watching hope blossom on the young girl’s face. “I suppose there’s no real reason to leave. The sisters don’t know that I had thought of running away. Can we keep this a secret between us?”

“Do you promise?” Alice asked. “If you change your mind, do you promise to take me with you?”

“I don’t know if I can promise that.” Emma pursed her lips. “But I promise that if I change my mind, I’ll tell you about it first. No more surprises.”

“No more surprises,” Alice repeated, then broke into a wide smile. “I’m glad you’re staying because I wanted to ask you about a note I received from a boy.”

“One of the boys at the dance?” Emma began to fold the garments she had laid out to pack.

Alice nodded, and handed the folded garments to Emma to put away. “I couldn’t tell Charlotte about it because she might be jealous. I need another woman’s perspective.”

Emma smiled, shelving her plans to run away along with fantasies of a life beyond Pettibone. This was where she was most happy, and this was where she would stay.

 
LATER THAT EVENING, EMMA WRAPPED A SHAWL TIGHTLY about her shoulders, contemplating how one small decision could affect one’s entire outlook on life. She told the sisters that she was going for a walk, the fresh air would help to clear her mind. After all the demands and excitement of the preceding week, they agreed. So she privately reassured Alice that she would stay on school grounds, and slipped outside into the cool welcoming air.

After the sudden midday storm, the sky had cleared and slanting rays of fading sunlight lent an enchanted quality to the atmosphere. Emma couldn’t remember London ever looking this beautiful, nor were its gentle breezes ever this sweet. Now that she had resolved that Pettibone would be her home, everything glowed in a magical shimmer.

Deep in pleasant reverie of this phenomenon, she failed to note the dull thud of a horse’s hooves fast approaching. As soon as she felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, she turned to see who galloped so urgently across school grounds. However, a man’s arm reached down and swept her off the ground and onto his horse.

Only one man would steal her in such a fashion. Her uncle!

TRAPPED IN HIS FIRM GRIP, EMMA THRASHED AND struggled; her very life depended upon it. Her spectacles dislodged and teetered awkwardly on the tip of her nose, but she didn’t need sharp sight to pull at the arm wrapped tightly about her waist or punch at the damp thigh at her side.

“Emma, stop it or I’m liable to drop you.”

“Nicholas?” she gasped. Instantly, she stilled her kicks and jabs, squinting instead at her capturer’s clenched jaw. Although her fear fled at the sound of his voice, her heart still beat a fierce rhythm, leaving her breathless. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I wouldn’t let you go.” The firm muscles of his legs shifted and the horse slowed, but his iron grip around her waist kept her bottom firmly planted between his thighs. “I knew you were determined to run away and that you’d try on your own if necessary. I’ve been watching and waiting for your attempt.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I was not running away.”

“What?” He pulled on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk. “I thought most definitely . . .”

From her close proximity she watched his eyes narrow. “Bloody hell, woman, you looked the part.”

“I was out for a walk,” she protested, stiffening her spine. If one’s looks purported to have meaning, one might conclude that Nicholas was the one in flight. Green leaves clung to his disheveled brown superfine; the folds of his cravat hung limp and shoddy. A man could ride to Scotland and back and appear less bedraggled than the one who scooped her from the path.

“I meant that you looked determined this morning when you proposed that ridiculous scheme,” he said with irritation. “You’ve run before when in a stew. I thought you’d run again.”

She averted her gaze. “I was convinced otherwise.” She saw no reason to explain that he was not the one who had convinced her. “I have decided to rely on your promise that my reputation will remain unblemished as a result of that painting.”

“So it shall.” His jaw set in defiance of argument a moment before he loosened his hold on her waist. She remained trapped between his arms, causing a delicious heat to spread through her veins. A subtle pressure on her backside suggested he was similarly affected. The horse ambled to the path separating the two manor houses.

“Where are we going?” she asked, aware of the increasing distance from Pettibone.

“It appears Lord Byron has decided to return home.” He glanced down at her briefly from beneath shuttered lids.

“Lord Byron is your horse?”

“Why not? A horse is as fluent and balanced as a well-written poem.” His lips softened from their previous tight line, bringing a slight smile to hers. How could she have ever thought to leave this man? Who else would have the temerity to compare a horse and Lord Byron?