The Education of Mrs. Brimley (34 page)

That night, she took to her poetry books, hoping to focus her mind on the words before her, and not on the man who so very recently had inspired her to verse as well.

She closed her eyes and opened the book, letting the pages fall where they may. Opening her eyes, she read: “Be warm, but pure, be amorous, but be chaste.” Her glance slipped to the poet’s name: George Gordon Byron, otherwise known as Lord Byron, Nicholas’s favorite poet.

She groaned. Was that her mistake? Did he consider her unchaste, and unfit for his continued company? Was he indeed running away from her?

She thought of Beatrice’s lament, that at least Emma had known physical love at least once in her lifetime, but that made for small comfort. The only man who had treated her as a complete woman, one of intellectual pursuits as well as physical needs, had left—injuring both aspects of her being. Her heart cried out in pain, but there was no one to listen.

HIDDEN UNDER THEIR UMBRELLAS, MEN AND women scurried down the crowded London side-walks with little thought to the rural treasures beyond the city limits. Nicholas shook his head in wonder. How could they live everyday in a place where coal dust fell along with the rain, staining the limestone buildings and the people bustling past them? Hansom cabs and dray wagons clogged the streets, even in the dismal rain that had followed him in from Coventry. Although his first priority placed him in a rented cab en route to the Royal Academy, arranging for a hot bath and a dry bed promised to be the next consideration.

A long queue of hopeful artists, juggling umbrellas along with well-protected paintings, lined the approach to Burlington House, the home of the Royal Academy. Nicholas well understood their hopeful determination. Last year, well over three thousand paintings had been submitted for consideration and only three hundred accepted. In the past, he had hoped that one of his paintings would be accepted and thus validate his talent. Today he prayed for rejection.

Although his brother would most likely be admitted directly into Burlington House, Nicholas scrutinized the faces of his fellow artists waiting in the rain for their chance at fame. Some would wait a lifetime; some already had. Last year, Nicholas would have eagerly joined their ranks, but not today. Fame and accreditation paled in light of Emma’s situation. The painting must not be put on public display. As soon as the cab pulled to the front of the Italian Renaissance façade, Nicholas exited and ran up the steps, ignoring the protests of those in line.

Given the large amount of artwork submitted, the selection process to determine the few pieces to earn a spot in the exhibition began even before all the paintings had been reviewed. Nicholas followed the sound of raised voices to a crowded meeting room where the selection jury already sat in judgment. Five Royal Academicians sat in a semicircle before a swiftly moving parade of paintings. With barely a glance at the presented work, the judges would vote whether to accept or reject the painting before them by motioning with a metal wand. If three of the five judges accepted a piece, the work would move to a “doubtful” room to undergo a second round of judging after the preliminary reduction. If
Artemis’s Revenge
was not immediately rejected, it would wait in the doubtful room.

After asking directions to the holding area, Nicholas found the chamber a ways distant from the jury. A clerk, a bored art student from the looks of him, guarded the door with a ledger book in the crook of his arm.

“One of my paintings,” Nicholas said, “was submitted for the exhibition.” He glanced over the student’s shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of
Artemis
. The paintings, however, were stacked five deep, facing the wall. “Can you tell me if it was accepted?”

“Name?”

“Chambers, Lord Nicholas Chambers.”

The clerk glanced up, startled. A corner of Nicholas’s mouth pulled back; it wasn’t the first time his title brought that reaction.

A stubby finger slipped down the column of names. Sculpture, Nicholas thought, noticing clay under the clerk’s fingernails.
We all must wear little telltale signs of our passion.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see your name listed.”

Fatigue lifted from Nicholas’s shoulders. His lips spread in an unrestrained smile. “Thank you, my good man.” He laughed, pumping the hand of the young clerk hardly seemed enough. “If you were a woman, I’d kiss you.”

The clerk’s eyes widened before he ventured a step backward. “There is a possibility that your painting was rejected, my lord. Most are.” The clerk offered a sympathetic smile. “The rejections are held in the store, but I believe there’s a bit of a crush right now.”

“Can you point me in the proper direction?” Nicholas asked, almost giddy that he didn’t have to worry about the exhibition. The poor student must think him totally mad.

The clerk pointed toward the right, without leaving the safety of the room.

“Thank you, again.” Nicholas dipped his head, then followed the lad’s directions. Just as he had hoped, this hurried excursion to London was proving unnecessary. Ensuring that Emma’s future remained at Pettibone, however, made the trip worth the trouble. He supposed the reality that his best work had been rejected would settle in eventually, but for now, his good fortune buoyed his spirits. He fairly sailed down the hallway in search of the store.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the gentleman in charge of the store, reviewing his listings. “I don’t see your painting listed, but as you can see we have hundreds in storage. It could be here, but we won’t know for several days until the bulk of the rejections are collected.”

Nicholas was not all that surprised. In all likelihood William would have used his influence to have the painting evaluated immediately. He probably took it back to his London town house, or worse, his father’s house. Which meant he would have to go there to pick it up. Nicholas’s euphoric bubble deflated. Damnation. He had hoped to avoid his father on this trip.

 
UPON ARRIVAL AT HIS BROTHER’S TOWN HOUSE, NICHOLAS was ushered into the library. William greeted him a few minutes later. “When I extended an invitation, I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.”

“Bloody hell, you didn’t.” Nicholas tried to muster a scowl, but his recent joy over his rejection prevented anything convincing. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you switched the paintings?”

“I thought it might take a bit longer.” William held aloft a decanter of brandy. Nicholas nodded and William poured. “I suppose you have already heard that the oil was rejected.”

“It wasn’t on the doubtful list, so I assumed as much.” Nicholas accepted the offered glass. “May I assume as well that you have the painting?”

William nodded. “I secured it back in the crate. I’m sorry, Nicholas. I truly expected the Academy to recognize the merits of
Artemis’s Revenge
.”

“I must say I’ve never been overly concerned about the Academy’s approval.” Nicholas held his glass aloft as in a toast. “But this time their rejection positively elates me.”

William studied him over his own snifter. “Does the widow mean that much?”

The slow burn of the brandy settled on the back of Nicholas’s tongue before warming a path down his throat.

“Yes,” he answered unequivocally. But how could he explain Emma’s uniqueness to his brother? He wasn’t sure where to begin. It was more than her appearance, though he could spend a lifetime looking into her gentle green eyes. It was more than her companionship, though there wasn’t another with whom he’d rather spend an afternoon. It was her acceptance, her compassion, her curiosity, her wit. He didn’t think his brother would understand. He wasn’t sure he understood himself. He just knew Emma was special in a way no one else could be.

“She is . . . rare,” he said, though he knew that didn’t do her justice.

William stared at him as if he expected Nicholas to say more. When the silence stretched out overlong, his brother frowned, then shifted uneasily. He lifted his glass in a salute. “Well then, here’s to the rare ones.” He tilted his chin toward Nicholas. “May there be many more.”

No need, Nicholas thought. No need for many, just for the one. They both upended their drinks.

“Now that you’ve come to town, you might as well stay for the exhibition,” William offered. “They’re hanging a week from Monday and opening two days after. You’d enjoy it.”

“I suppose now that I know that my picture is in no jeopardy of being viewed, I would rather enjoy the exhibition.” The brandy blossomed in his stomach, spreading pleasant warmth and cheer throughout his body. It would be good to view the Academy’s choices and maybe call upon some old acquaintances in town. Emma’s reputation was safe, and she had promised not to run from Pettibone. Yes, he could afford to bask in a bit of his brother’s hospitality.

“Then it’s settled.” William took his empty glass and placed it on the sideboard. “You’ll stay here. You look exhausted and I have spare beds aplenty.” He clapped him on the back. “Good to have you home, brother.”

Nicholas smiled. “Thank you, William.”

 
FORTUNATELY, MOST OF THE TON HAD LEFT LONDON for the summer, preferring to dwell at their country estates. William introduced Nicholas to his social clubs and favored gambling hells to fill the social void. Nicholas begged off after only a few nights, preferring to use his daylight hours to sketch the city’s landscape rather than sleep off an evening’s frivolous pursuits. His brother had scowled but accepted his decision without complaint.

A parade of women, orchestrated no doubt by his brother, found their way to Nicholas as well. Pasty-white, social aristocrats whose passions consisted of little more than fashion and gossip. Nicholas supposed they could read. They were rumored to be educated. Yet not a one could quote a line of poetry or entertain a novel thought in their empty heads. They could never stand up to a Yorkshire winter, Nicholas reasoned. No backbone.

Then his thoughts would turn to Emma, who had a magnificent backbone, and many fine front bones as well. He smiled. She read for more than just pleasure and actually retained what she had consumed. Would any of these silly sheep be willing to defy society and undress for him for the purpose of modeling?

Well, yes, at least one of them would.

At the Haddocks’ party, Lady Cavendish seemed most anxious that Nicholas be introduced to her new charge, a Miss Penelope Heatherston, a comely creature whose best attributes were amply displayed in her low-cut gown. No intelligence, however, registered behind her attractive and vaguely familiar visage. Something about her name pulled at him, though he couldn’t make the connection. Undoubtedly the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed might explain the lapse.

Nevertheless, he smiled at the appropriate intervals and feigned interest in conversation, just so his boredom would not cast unfavorably upon his brother. Surrounded by all these people, Nicholas was lonely, there was no denying it. Back home in Yorkshire with only Emma in his studio, he had all the company he needed.

Indeed, he’d be back there now, his desire to see Emma again even stronger than his desire to view the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition, if not for his promise to his brother.

He wrote to Emma to tell her of his change in plans so she would not arrive at an empty Black Oak for painting sessions. There was no need to mention the switch in the painting. No need to upset her that a remote threat to her reputation had ever existed, now that it had been thwarted.

After two weeks, the grand day for the opening of the exhibition arrived in some of the foulest weather to hit the city that week. Traffic around Piccadilly Circus came to a complete standstill as a horde of wet, black umbrellas thronged to the exhibition.

“It’s really quite a crush on the first day, old man,” William said to Nicholas as they waited impatiently in the carriage.

“We could walk,” Nicholas said. “It’s not far.”

“I refuse to walk a single block in this downpour. Look at it. We’d be soaked through and through before we took five steps.” A low rumble of thunder confirmed his displeasure.

“In Yorkshire—”

“Oh please, no more comparisons between London and Yorkshire,” his brother groaned. “I’ve heard little else these last two weeks than how beautiful the scenery, how sweet the air, and how hardy the women. You forget I was just there myself, dear brother, and I’m afraid I don’t share your appreciation.”

Nicholas chuckled beneath his breath. The criticism was just, his preferences apparent.

“I say we come back tomorrow,” William said. “The day will be drier and the crowds thinner.”

“I had planned to leave tomorrow,” Nicholas replied with a bit of a growl. He could feel the pull of Yorkshire, the pull of Emma, even as he sat in this ridiculous little carriage waiting for other ridiculous little carriages to move forward.

“The trains will run the day after as well. Come on, brother. Did I tell you Arianne is here?”