The Education of Mrs. Brimley Page 17

  Bloody hell! He was no better than that miserable maggot of an uncle. Did he really suggest that she would enjoy intimacy with another man? As if she were a bit of a light-skirt offering her charms for pleasure? What a bloody fool he’d been, a blithering idiot better suited for an asylum than the company of gently bred women.

  “Emma, wait!” He hobbled after her, as fast as a man with a cane could run. But he was too late; she was gone into the downpour outside.

  THE NEXT DAY, A PACKAGE ARRIVED AT PETTIBONE FROM Lord’s in London. Inside, lay ten pairs of white silk gloves in various sizes, as well as a pair in black silk and another of black lace.

  Cecilia ruffled through the box. “Who ordered these gloves?” She scowled. “Beatrice can mend the old ones.”

  Finding neither a card nor a bill, she sent an inquiry to Lord’s only to learn by return post that an anonymous donor had extended the gift.

  Frowning, she fanned the card in front of her face. “Curious,” she commented to no one in particular. “Most curious, indeed.”

  Thirteen

  NICHOLAS WORKED FURIOUSLY ON HIS PAINTING. Easter came and went with little fanfare at Black Oak. The Chambers’s carriage returned empty time and again from the scheduled pickup at Pettibone. According to Henry, a rash of coughs brought on by “forgetting winter stays out the welcome” kept Emma at the school. But Nicholas suspected his own improprieties kept Emma at bay. She was avoiding him.

  The thought twisted in his gut. If he ran into her in the village today, as he had earlier, would she still speak to him? Or would she hurry by with a vinegar expression, offering not even a silent nod in acknowledgment? The unanswered question nagged at him in a way that only working on Artemis’s Revenge could alleviate. In painting he found her acceptance and so devoted every waking moment to his art.

  His sketches from earlier sessions allowed him to continue to work without a live model. He could easily paint Emma from memory, and frequently did. He couldn’t pen a letter to a colleague without a study of Emma’s seductive eyes or the long sweep of her neck drawn in the margin. As much as he longed to witness Emma transform into the goddess in the privacy of his studio, the deadline for entering the exhibition loomed near. Chambers bent all his energies to finishing Artemis’s Revenge.

  A dour wet spell proved particularly productive. By the time the weather broke, Nicholas determined he needed a break as well. With a thought that Emma might be of a similar mind, he sent a note inviting Emma on a painting expedition. Her acceptance brought with it relief, gratitude, and great anticipation.

  “Henry has been dispatched to Pettibone to pick up Mrs. Brimley, sir,” Thomas announced.

  “Excellent, excellent.” Nicholas smiled, surprised at how invigorating that simple news could be. He pranced about his studio like an expectant father. “Is everything ready?”

  “I have a hamper packed with food, drink, a cloth for sitting, and a bit of libation, should the need arise,” Thomas answered in dry humor.

  “Very good.” Nicholas smiled again, imagining the cloth appropriate for other means of repose beyond mere sitting.

  He busied himself gathering painting supplies, his large primed canvas, and a smaller one for Emma. He had just draped Artemis’s Revenge when Thomas advised that the carriage had returned. After tucking an easel under one arm and grasping a canvas with the other, Nicholas hurried to the front door, anxious to greet Emma after a long absence.

  Although Henry was to collect Emma from Pettibone in the carriage, just as he had for modeling sessions, Nicholas had planned to use a more intimate conveyance to transport just the two of them to a favored painting spot.

  Instead, Henry stood by the open carriage door. A quick glance at the colorful array inside the carriage meant either Emma had declared the end to her period of mourning in no uncertain terms, or she was not alone. As much as he would have preferred the former, he suspected the latter.

  “Mrs. Brimley, I see I have visitors,” he said, irritated. Not only did guests mean Emma would remain buried in that ridiculous, ill-fashioned black garment, but the woman dared to test his carefully constructed reputation for avoiding society. Under the circumstances, he should be the one dressed in mourning.

  “Not visitors exactly, fellow artists,” Emma announced with great enthusiasm. “I’ve brought some of the girls along so they might benefit from your talent. You remember Miss Alice Darlington and Miss Charlotte Hawkins.”

  He bowed slightly as each was reintroduced. “Of course, I remember.” Well played, Emma. One had to admire her ingenuity. With the girls in attendance, he would have to forgo his other planned pleasurable pursuits.

  “I hope you forgive my liberty in extending your invitation to these talented ladies.” Her smile conveyed her purposefulness. Well done, indeed.

  Nicholas handed the easel and canvas over to Henry for proper stowing. “Allow me to collect a few more supplies for my unexpected guests, and I shall immediately return.”

  Nicholas returned to his studio for some drawing pads and charcoal. She may have won this round, but an afternoon with Emma would be far superior to an afternoon without.

  “YOU’RE VERY GOOD, YOU KNOW,” EMMA SAID, SITTING on the hillside, collecting daisies. “Your paintings capture more than the shapes and the colors. They capture the feeling of the countryside.”

  He quirked a brow her way, pleased at her compliment. “I thought you said you weren’t a critic.”

  “I’m not, but I have eyes, do I not?”

  “You have beautiful green eyes that can cause a man to lose his soul.” He kept his voice low so as not to carry to the young girls further down the hill.

  Emma lowered her gaze as if disbelieving of his words. Damnation, what did it take for the woman to realize she was a prize and not some plain-Jane cousin?

  “Why aren’t you painting?” he asked. “Is it because my brush inspires you in a different way?”

  Although hidden beneath an oversized sun hat, her blush betrayed her memory. And the memory was a good one if the tiny quirk of her sweet lips was any indication. Good. Any misgivings she might harbor after their last lesson had not overshadowed her enjoyment of the event. He selected the sable brush and extended it to her. “Perhaps this time, you’d like to employ a variety of brushes on my canvas?”

  “Sir!” Her eyes widened, confirming she understood his innuendo. His smile broadened. Smart girl.

  “The girls are not far beyond hearing,” she hissed, casting a quick glance down the hill. “You must be discreet!”

  He chuckled, enjoying her mock outrage. “Ah, Mrs. Brimley, I so miss our earlier discourse. Ask me a question. You still have so much to learn.”

  She plucked a daisy from the field and threw it at him. The flower head bounced off his shoulder.

  “Discretion has never been one of my virtues,” he teased. “You should have considered that before you invited your young charges to join us.”

  “You do yourself an injustice. You have been discreet.” She gazed up at him through lowered lashes, making him feel like a cad for his suggestive teasing. “Not a word has returned to me that would suggest anyone knew the true purpose for my visits. For that discretion, I shall be eternally grateful.”

  “Emma, I hardly think—”

  “Ssh, no more need be spoken. You have guarded my secrets and assisted in my . . . tutelage. I wanted to express my gratitude now that my education is at an end.”

  “An end! My dear Emma, you have only just begun!” What nonsense was this? He attempted a laugh, but as her lips offered not a hint of humor, the sentiment died in his throat. “If you are upset about my behavior at our last meeting, I assure you I am most contrite.”

  Alice waved at them from far down the hill. She held up a paper that was too distant to see. Emma and Nicholas returned her wave, to all apparent a couple engaged in acceptable social conversation.

  “I apologize for my ungentlemanly behavior, but I think—”

  “Miss
Darlington has a talent for artistic pursuits. Don’t you agree?” Emma interrupted, shifting her position. “She has sketched many pleasing views of the school and has even attempted a few portraits of the girls.”

  Perplexed, he turned toward Emma, studying her profile. “I am a wretched scoundrel for saying those things. Don’t you agree?”

  She refused to take the bait and, instead, squeezed her eyes closed, shutting him out. A horror clawed at his chest.

  “Madam, is this your way of telling me you won’t entertain the prospect of returning to my studio?” Shocked, he felt a tingling in his forehead. He knew his callous comment had hurt her, but he thought he could charm his way back into her good graces.

  She bit her lip and nodded with a barely visible inclination of the head. She continued to observe the girls down the hill, not even giving him the benefit of her full countenance.

  “What will you do when the spinsters wish to see the projects you’ve been working on all these months?” he asked, casting at straws to have her reconsider her decision.

  She frowned. “We’ve discussed so much about art and painting, I believe I could teach much of the subject without censure.”

  He smiled. “You, of all people, should realize that discussing a subject is far different than experiencing it for oneself.”

  Pink infused her cheek, reminding him of that other pink beneath that hideous attire. Desire stirred at the memory. He shifted uncomfortably. Damnation, as much as he was agitated by her refusal to return to his studio, she still had the power to arouse him.

  He focused his attention on his painting, hoping the diversion would calm the ache between his legs. Beneath his brush a dab of ochre yellow turned into a sun hat.

  Emma abandoned her spot in front of him, taking a stance behind his left shoulder. Her sun-warmed skin released a fragrance of faint rosewater and feminine essence unique to Emma. Remembering his own uniqueness in recognizing that scent, he swallowed hard.

  “That’s Alice,” she said, as the dab took shape. “You painted Alice into the picture. Why, she isn’t even in your line of sight, yet her presence appears so natural in that spot.”

  Her exuberant praise and close proximity did nothing to alleviate his condition; if anything, his discomfort worsened. She stood behind him yet he could well imagine her green eyes brimming with admiration and mischief. Her moist succulent lips would part with her smile, displaying even, white teeth, perfect for grasping the fingertips of a glove, or for nibbling sensitive body parts. He glanced over to Alice and Charlotte happily chatting down the hill. If it weren’t for those two, he’d have Emma flat on her back learning a few more valuable lessons. He gnawed his lip, stifling an internal groan.

  “Were you in love with her?” Emma asked.

  Confusion momentarily blinded him, stilling his hand. Had he missed some thread of conversation while allowing his fantasies to run riot? He straightened, pulling back from the canvas. “Could you hand me two of those rags, please?”

  Emma handed him two clean cloths. One he used to clean his brush; the other he let fall to his lap, hoping it hid the evidence of his wayward thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder. “To whom do you refer?”

  “Alice’s mother. Were you in love with her?”

  His brows lifted in surprise. Then, he remembered their discussion the night of Charlotte’s disappearance. He relaxed, remembering he had mentioned his acquaintance with Alice’s mother. Why she should wish to discuss history, he had no idea. However, she was talking to him, and for that he was grateful.

  “Love takes many forms.” He turned back to his painting. “I was very young at the time. Yes, I suppose I loved her.”

  “Are you the child’s father?”

  “Child?” What the devil was she talking about? Annoyance swiveled him around to face Emma. “What child?”

  “Alice, of course,” she said, her face deathly serious, framed in the lace from her widow’s sunbonnet. “She has your talent, and her hair is as black as yours.”

  His hands stilled. Anger gathered like thunderclouds in his consciousness, squeezing out the previous confusion and desire. He waited a moment, gaining control over his words.

  “Think carefully about what you suggest, madam.” He jabbed his brush at the cloth, no longer caring that the action could ruin the future effectiveness of the instrument. “Do you think I have so little honor as to father a child and then abandon it on its mother’s deathbed? Do you suppose me to be the worse kind of cad?” Nevermind that half of the district blamed him for the existence of bastards in the area. He had expected more of Emma. “How old is Alice?”

  “Fifteen.”

  A vein beneath the delicate skin on her neck pulsed with her heightened heartbeat. His reaction frightened her. He grimaced. Good.

  “Fifteen,” he repeated. “So at the ripe old age of thirteen, you assumed I was off impregnating the countryside.”

  “Your voice, sir,” she cautioned, obviously embarrassed. Apparently, mathematics had not been her strong suit. No poetry in that. “The girls will hear.” Indeed, two interested heads turned their way.

  “I don’t give a bloody fig who hears,” he roared. “You’ve credited me with far more experience than I have and far less honor than I deserve.” He threw down his rag and tossed his brush in an open box of supplies. The action helped assuage his anger, leaving only disappointment. “I thought you were different,” he said, rising from his stool.

  A rag fluttered to the ground. He stared at it a moment. No need to worry about appearances now. Emma’s accusations had performed admirably in that regard. Disgusted, he turned his back on her and removed himself from her presence.

  She stood stunned, much as if someone had knocked her in the head with a croquet mallet. Surprised that he had taken umbrage with the very image he seemed to cultivate, she visually followed his withdrawal with a devastating sense of loss.

  He was right, of course. Even though the stories and rumors of Chambers’s exploits had been almost legend, she shouldn’t have let the opinions of others sway her from what she knew was true. He had kept her secrets and edicts, even in difficult times. He had been her confidante, friend, and a gentleman when she was fully dressed. It was those other times that had influenced her thoughts.

  She followed his path and found him sitting on a boulder, his black hair mussed by an April breeze. Shadows of clouds raced on the emerald countryside below them, a velvet field sliced by a fast-flowing stream.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I had no right to suggest the things I did.”

  He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “My name is Nicholas, Emma. Not lord or sir, just Nicholas.” He turned back to the tranquil scene in front of him.

  She lowered her head. Everything she said seemed to turn out wrong. She wanted him to know she regretted her ill-chosen words, but didn’t know how to begin.

  “Katherine, Alice’s mother,” he said, apparently accepting her silence as encouragement, “was the one who taught me how to draw, how to see things as they actually are, and not how we imagine them to be.” He smiled, a far distant look in his eye. “She was two years older than I and I idolized her.”

  Emma noticed his eyes spark at the memory and felt a brief stab of jealousy. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. As his model, she hadn’t the right.

  “She took little notice of me, though, other than that as a rapt pupil. No, Emma”—his lips twisted in a grim smile—“I am not the father.”

  But he wished to be, she heard it in his voice. He was carrying a torch for a one-sided love. The condition felt vaguely familiar.

  “Alice’s father was a friend of my older brother, William. He was handsome and witty.” The smile faded. “Some would say charming. All the young girls admired him, including Katherine.”

  He pulled a knee up and wrapped his arm around it. She wanted to comfort him, put her hand on his arm to remind him she was close, but refrained. She could be seen. It wouldn’t be proper.
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  “Katherine was not much older than fifteen when she discovered she was carrying his child. The charming boy left her to join the King’s army, while she faced the disgrace of carrying his bastard alone. She died of loneliness with only a young lad to hold her hand.”

  “You were there,” Emma whispered, hearing the catch in his voice.

  He nodded. “I was.”

  “And the father, where is he now?”

  “I had heard Cogswell was in Africa, fighting the Zulus. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.” He scowled. “But I hope for the latter.”

  After a few moments of silence, he sighed, then slapped the rock. “So warn your young ladies not to waste their gloves on men who won’t give them a proper wedding night.”

  “You sent the gloves.” Relief accompanied the light turn of conversation. “I had suspected as much.”

  His lips turned in a sad smile. “I felt responsible for the rash of clothing mishaps. I hadn’t expected you to be such an adept instructor.”

  She lowered her gaze, feeling heat sweep across her cheeks. “I don’t wish the girls to follow in my footsteps.” The truth of that statement stabbed at her heart. “If your instructions will help them avoid spinsterhood, then the sacrifice of a few gloves is of small consequence.”

  And what sacrifice could she make to avoid the path that lay before her? She was doomed to spend her days at Pettibone, teaching others how to reach out and grab at life, while she watched from her place beside Beatrice and Cecilia.

  The mental image of a line of dowagers reminded her of another mission. “I almost forgot!”

  She poked in her reticule until she found the crisp white envelope.