The Education of Mrs. Brimley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Epilogue
London, 1876
“I will pose . . .”
Emma said, pushing her spectacles farther up her nose, “but only fully dressed.”
“I cannot paint what I cannot see.” A dimple flashed in his smile. Sheer willpower kept her from smiling in response.
Chambers’s intense gaze raked her form as if fact belied his words. Never had a man studied her with such intent, certainly not one as handsome and refined as this. His voice, soft and seductive, surrounded her with the rich scent of warmed brandy and his own unique essence.
“I need to see how light and shadow caress a woman’s curves.”
Immediately, she imagined a physical heat, flowing down from her chest and swirling around her waist and hips. Her mind insisted that modesty called for distance between them, but her feet refused to move.
Chambers turned abruptly, releasing her from his enchantment. She slumped slightly, catching her breath while he strode toward his easel. “I will draw a picture of an aroused man’s private regions if you will remove just one article of clothing.”
“I have already removed my cloak,” she said, a bit short of breath.
He smiled, a subtle gesture. “And I have already shown you a picture of a naked man.”
She considered a moment, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of compliance. “A boot,” she announced. “If I had a buttonhook, I would remove a boot. However, as it is unlikely that such an instrument would be readily available in an artist’s studio . . .”
Chambers stepped over to his desk and returned with a long hook fashioned from a metal replica of a woman’s leg, complete with garter. “Perhaps this will help?”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE EDUCATION OF MRS. BRIMLEY
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Donna MacMeans.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As this is my first book, I have far too many people to whom I owe thanks and praise than I can list on one page. However, please indulge me while I pay tribute to a special few.
I wish to thank my agent, Cori Deyoe of 3 Seas Literary Agency, and my editor, Cindy Hwang, for believing in both this book and me. I am deeply indebted to Central Ohio Fiction Writers for the support and knowledge afforded me through good writer friendships over many, many years, and to Romance Writers of America for numerous opportunities and for awarding Mrs. Brimley their prestigious Golden Heart Award. Thank you. May I also acknowledge Christine Stahurski for her advice and support through good times and bad, Janet Ciccone for timely critique and advice, and Rosemary Laurey, who insists that writing goals must be met. A special thank you is extended as well to Berkley’s art department for the fabulous cover. Wow!
Finally, I’d like to dedicate this book to my mother, Helen Lutz, who passed away before she could hold this, my first book, in her hand. She never faltered in her praise for her writer daughter. And to my wonderful, supportive husband who is my own personal hero. Love Always.
One
Leighton-on-the-Wold, Yorkshire, 1876
PERCHED ON HER TRUNK, HER NOSE NUMB, HER toes paralyzed, the January cold burrowing bone deep, Emma Brimley huddled on an empty train platform agonizing over her decision to leave London for Yorkshire. She hadn’t considered the hazards of living in such a remote wilderness, nor had she planned for the tardy arrival of a carriage.
The muffled thud of horses’ hooves and the distinct rattle of wood and metal wrested her from her makeshift seat. A lantern swayed in the distance.
“Over here,” she called, shaking off the settled snow. Relieved that she hadn’t been forgotten, she waved her arms frantically overhead, even though she suspected it was too dark to be seen.
The light stilled, then moved in her direction, unleashing new anxieties. What if it wasn’t someone from Pettibone? In the dark, an unaccompanied woman was vulnerable to any miscreant or footpad. Her heart lurched into a fierce rhythm. She quickly lifted the leather flap of her traveling bag and fumbled for the only weapon on her person: her prized volume of sonnets.
“Would tha’ be the new teacher for th’ Pettibone School for Young Ladies?” A gruff voice called.
“Yes.” She relaxed, dropping the book back in her bag. “I’m Mrs. Brimley.” The words hung in a cloud of moist vapor. “They told me someone would meet me, but I was beginning to worry.”
“Aye. Tha’d be me. I come as soon as I could. Hurry along now. I’ll get tha’ things.”
She hurried to the end of the
platform, eager to escape the elements. Too eager to question the appearance of the well-appointed carriage, and too impatient to wait for the assistance of the driver stowing her trunk, she grasped the door handle herself.
“Don’t mind his lordship, ma’am. He’s mos’ likely sleeping it off. He won’t even know he has company.”
“His lordship?” She released the handle as if it were blazing hot and not icy cold. No mention had been made of titled gentry in her correspondence with the school.
“Aye. Hissel’ is why I missed th’ train, late as ’twas. But I’ll have thee at Pettibone in a wink.” The well-bundled driver stepped to her side, opened the door, then helped her into the pitch-black interior. The door slammed shut behind her before the trapped warmth could escape. She had barely gained a seat before the lenses of her spectacles fogged beneath the protection of her black lace veil. The carriage lurched forward.
She sensed, rather than saw, the stranger’s presence. His body heat transformed the shared air of the interior into something earthy and forbidden. Her heart raced. The polite world would never sanction an unmarried woman alone with a man in such confined, private quarters.
In a bit of a panic, she dug her fingers beneath the sleeve of her heavy pelisse, searching for her mother’s handkerchief. She removed her spectacles, squinting in the dark to the opposite bench.
“My lord?” she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.
A slumping bundle occupied inordinate space on the seat across from her. She swabbed her lenses with the recovered handkerchief, relaxing at his lack of response. Probably some old harmless member of the gentry who’d be more concerned with his hounds than an unattended woman. She slipped her eyeglasses back on the bridge of her nose, but the dark interior obscured details regarding the other passenger.
No matter, she sighed. Even if the man were awake, her widow’s weeds afforded her a small measure of privilege as well as anonymity. As quietly as her petticoats allowed, she slid away from the slumbering stranger to the far end of the padded bench.
Pulling aside the window curtain, she gazed with curiosity on what promised to be her new home. The moon had risen, its feeble light magnified by reflecting snow, revealing a forlorn, bleak landscape, so different from her familiar London, yet intriguing in a fundamental way.
“I have looked out in the vast desolate night—” she recited.
“In search of him.” A slurred voice completed the line.
He spoke! Her heart slammed into her rib cage. Emma tore her gaze from the window yet continued to hold back the curtain, allowing the moonlight to slip through the glass to the opposite seat. Her breath caught. She almost let the curtain drop, yet his face held her captive. Far from the old codger she’d expected, her companion was young, probably within a decade of her own twenty-three years. His fashionable clothes pegged him for an affluent gallant, right down to the silver-topped walking stick loosely trapped within his hand.
A dandy, she thought with a pang of disgust. She knew about dandies, those pompous, empty-headed peacocks who would cruelly snub someone like herself just to win favor with her pretentious cousin. This fashionable stranger probably knew only enough about literature to win a wager or two at some gentlemen’s club.
“You are familiar with Lord Byron’s poetry?” she asked, just to be certain she had not imagined his response. As she waited, watching the moonlight wash over his handsome features, a bit of unanticipated yearning tugged at her heart. How would it feel to be desired by someone like him? To be asked for a dance just once ahead of all the wealthy, gossiping debutantes who couldn’t tell a verse from a stew recipe? To be envied and not looked down upon for circumstances not of her making?
Although his eyes remained closed, a half smile tilted his lips.
“Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda-water the day after.” Slight slurring aside, his fluent elocution proved familiarity with Byron’s work.
“That is not my favorite verse, sir.” She frowned, disappointed by his choice. Still, he had recited more than she had anticipated and the prospect of conversation after her long trip from London proved too great a temptation.
“You are obviously a man of learning and appreciation,” she said, releasing the curtain. She slid back to her original seat. “Do you share my passion for the great poets?”
A soft snore was her only reply. Whether he had truly been awake, or only dreaming, she knew not. That he slept now emboldened her beyond the realm of etiquette. A flash of excitement shivered down her spine. In spite of her general dislike of dandies in principle, she admitted a certain curiosity about one so well made who knew his way around a poem or two.
She leaned close to see more detail of his face, only to be repelled by whiskey fumes. Still, she had glimpsed black hair curling gently on his brow, lending him a cherub’s sweetness that was challenged by a masculine thin sweep of mustache and a day’s growth of stubble. A dark angel with a devilish brand, she decided, worthy of a poem himself.
Excited by the thought, she rummaged in her bag for a stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper but stopped abruptly. His eyes, fringed with long black lashes, opened with apparent difficulty. He blinked several times before squinting at her.
“Am I dead?”
An odd question, but then she remembered her mourning attire. “No sir, you are not.”
He relaxed a moment, then turned his head slightly as if searching for other passengers. His brows dived in a scowl.
“Am I married?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. His kid gloves hid any evidence of his matrimonial state, but his expression of instantaneous alarm and regret suggested he was referring specifically to her. An old ache stirred in her bosom. Even in his drunken state, he could ascertain that she was no beauty.
“No sir, we are not.”
“ ’Sgood.” He closed his eyes and settled back in slumber, leaving her with a vague sense of insult and disappointment.
The carriage slowed, then turned. They must be approaching the school. With a bit of regret, she took a last long glance at his lordship, wondering whether to credit his pleasant countenance or his obvious command of the romantic poets for the piqued interest fluttering about her rib cage.
Silly girl, she could well imagine her uncle saying. It’s your stays that are too tight. No man with his looks would be interested in the likes of you.
She banished the thought with a shake of her head. She had left both Uncle George and her cousin Penelope behind in London. If only she could leave her memories of them behind as well.
The carriage slowed to a halt. In a moment, the opportunity to share words with this handsome stranger would vanish. She took a deep breath.
“Thank you for your company, sir. I wish we—”
His audible snore scattered her words. Before she could gather them again, the carriage door opened. The sturdy arms of the driver helped her out.
“Mrs. Brimley.” A stout woman with graying hair tucked neatly under a lace and ribbon cap waved enthusiastically from the steps. “We’ve been so anxious for your arrival.”
Surprised, yet pleased by the warm welcome, Emma smiled. Perhaps her plan to come to Yorkshire had not been so flawed after all. The bulky pyramid of wool and petticoats rushed forward. Beneath heavy matronly lids twinkled eyes like those of a young child on holiday.
“We’ve been . . . oh, my goodness!” The woman’s jowls dropped.
“Is something wrong?” Emma asked, trying to ignore the stab of alarm beneath her stays.
“You’re so young. We were expecting a much older woman.” Concern clouded the woman’s features, then rapidly dissipated. “Never mind. My sister will simply have to adjust.” She turned her attention to the driver. “Henry, take Mrs. Brimley’s belongings upstairs, if you please. Cook prepared a basket for your troubles.”
A cloth-draped basket passed Emma’s nose on the way to the driver—warm hearty scones by the smell of it. Her mouth wa
tered. Fleeing her uncle’s household had left no time to fill her stomach with anything more than fear and anticipation.
“Come along, dear. Cecilia would like a word with you before you settle in.” The older woman practically hauled Emma up the stone steps to the front door. Just before entering, Emma stole one last look at the carriage. She could have sworn she saw the flash of a silver-tipped walking stick holding back the curtain a moment before it fluttered back into place.
Her brows lifted. Had he truly been asleep? A man like that couldn’t possibly be as intrigued with her as she was with him. Could he?
“This way, dear.”
EMMA FOLLOWED HER NEW EMPLOYER TO A SMALL SITTING room decorated with an overabundance of needlework doilies and lacy antimacassars, some the bright white of recent work, others with a yellowish tint of years past. Oval photographs of serious young girls covered the green walls. Emma studied their solemn yet fresh faces.
“Those are graduates of the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” A sharp voice, laced with pride, spoke from behind her. Emma turned to see a tall, stern-faced woman dressed entirely in black.
“You must be very proud of them,” Emma replied. Another widow, she supposed. They must migrate to schools like this, the women without husbands and means to live in more fashionable locations. Perhaps that would explain why the school insisted its new teacher be a widow as well.
“Mrs. Brimley, I am Cecilia Higgins, headmistress of the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.”
Emma rendered a slow and proper bow.
The headmistress nodded approval, then motioned her to sit before settling herself in a chair directly opposite. “Please remove your veil, Mrs. Brimley. I wish to get a closer look at you.”
Emma worried her lip and complied. Although pleased to rid herself of the gauzy nuisance, the black lace had shielded her from close scrutiny. As she pulled the barrier back over her hat, she feared discovery of the fraud she portrayed.