The Education of Mrs. Brimley Read online

  Shock rendered him motionless. A faintness caused no doubt by blood rushing from his brain tingled about his temples. What had happened to Artemis?

  “Well, sir,” Thomas said, tightly, “I can see why you’d want no one else to view this painting.”

  “He switched it!” Nicholas said as realization dawned. “Bloody hell, my brother switched the painting!”

  Barefoot and without the assistance of his stick, Nicholas rushed from the bedroom down to his studio, Thomas close on his heels. Hopefully, William had merely hidden Artemis’s Revenge as a parting jest. Nicholas rummaged through the many clean and partially painted canvases to no avail. The truth settled like five-stone lead on his heart. He sunk onto his stool with a groan. “He doesn’t know the damage he’s done.”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but is there anything I can do to help the situation?” Thomas asked.

  “The only thing that will help is to retrieve that painting before it goes on display.” Nicholas sunk his head into his hands. The day had begun with such promise, but now . . .

  “He’s got a seven-hour lead.” He glanced up at Thomas. “Does the train leave for London this late?”

  “Only arrivals come this late, sir, but there should be a departing train in the morning.”

  “I don’t think I can wait that long,” Nicholas said. “I’m not sure that I can catch him before London, but I might be able to intercept him before he submits Artemis’s Revenge to the jury.” He slapped his thigh. “Have Henry prepare Lord Byron. There’s no time to waste.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Thomas turned to leave.

  “Thomas, one more thing.” Nicholas paused, already feeling guilty over his next request. “Mrs. Brimley is not to know that Artemis’s Revenge is en route to London. I intend to retrieve the painting before any harm is done.”

  “What if she should inquire, my lord?” Thomas asked.

  Guilt stabbed at Nicholas’s heart, but he saw no other option. “Lie.”

  BY AFTERNOON, EMMA REMAINED A BIT SORE FROM yesterday’s “lesson,” but otherwise was in high spirits. She supposed she should feel differently, used perhaps, or maybe violated, and most certainly ruined. Unless those words meant floating through the day with little thought other than the exact color of Nicholas’s eyes or the precise way his lips turned when he smiled, she felt none of the things society suggested she should.

  By her defiance of the major tenet of The Ladies’ Guide to Proper Etiquette, the tenet in very large bold print, she had joined the ranks of womanhood. Was this how her mother had felt? So much in love with her young man that society’s rules no longer mattered? In her heart, Emma felt a peace and kinship with her mother that she hadn’t experienced while her mother lived. She wished she could talk to her now and tell her that she understood.

  Today, the birds sang sweeter, the romantic poets expressed far greater passion, and she, Emma Heatherston, was more worldly and knowledgeable than any preceding day in her life. She was confident, and she was experienced, especially with regard to one talented artist.

  In spite of her preparations, one aspect of yesterday’s lesson had completely surprised her. But she had an idea for a remedy. With a little collaboration, her girls would be better prepared for their first night of passion.

  She waited till after the evening meal, when the girls had instruction with Cecilia, to seek out Pettibone’s talented seamstress. She found her alone in the parlor.

  Beatrice glanced up. “Look at you, dear, you are positively glowing. Our country air has done wonders for your complexion.” Heat rose to Emma’s cheeks. Was it possible that her very appearance had altered as a result of last night? Did they suspect the reason for the change?

  “Come sit next to me, dear. I’d enjoy some company while I work on my embroidery.” Beatrice padded the cushion beside her.

  “No, thank you. I’d prefer to stand,” Emma added quickly. Sitting on a hard bench earlier in the day had taught her one of the consequences of a sore bottom. She made a mental note to mention that to the girls. Padded seat cushions were a necessity.

  Emma drifted her fingers over the lacy antimacassars draped over the backs of the parlor chairs. Studying the handicraft, she tentatively approached her request. “Beatrice, do you recall that drawing I presented months ago of a gentleman’s aroused manhood?”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” Beatrice responded, color rising in her parchment-thin cheeks. Her eyes never left her project, but Emma suspected her attention may have deviated from her brightly colored threads.

  “I’ve been thinking . . . that drawing alone may prove insufficient for the girls, when they finally confront the real object.” Emma watched the spinster carefully, unsure of her reaction.

  “I thought your drawing most informative,” Beatrice said, her voice rising an octave. “In what way was it insufficient?”

  “It doesn’t adequately present size and thickness . . .” Emma attempted to demonstrate with her fingers. Beatrice’s glance drifted upward. Her needle remained poised in half-stitch, while her eyes widened to the size of salt cellars.

  “I thought perhaps you could use your sewing talents to craft a suitable model out of fabric,” Emma explained.

  Beatrice’s jaw dropped. “Of a man’s . . .” She fumbled for the appropriate term, her voice falling to a whisper. “Sabre?”

  Emma fought the temptation to smile. Beatrice had more difficulty with the terminology than the topic itself. Her two high spots of color slowly spread across the rest of her cheeks.

  “I . . . I’m not sure how to go about such a thing.” After unsuccessfully attempting to place her embroidery needle in the proper spot, Beatrice abandoned the project in her lap. “I’ve never seen a pattern for a man’s . . . personals.”

  Emma closed the distance between them so as to lower her voice. “I thought that if you could form a tube”—Emma rounded her thumb and forefinger to indicate diameter—“and stuff it tightly with cloth till it was stiff, that might suffice.”

  Beatrice hadn’t moved, not even to blink, though her eyes remained fixed as if watching a specter dance before her. Emma frowned. “It doesn’t have to look exactly like the item in question, you understand. Just project the appropriate length and thickness.”

  “That big?” Beatrice tried to match Emma’s circle with her own fingers.

  Emma relaxed. “It’s surprising, isn’t it? That’s why I think it’s important the girls are adequately prepared.”

  “They’ll be frightened out of their minds!”

  “Ssh,” Emma cautioned, glancing toward the doorway. “Let’s keep this our secret until the project is complete.”

  “By all means.” Beatrice nodded. She frowned briefly, then glanced up at Emma. “What about the baubles at the bottom. Will you be wanting those as well?”

  Emma thought for a moment. “No, let’s stick with the . . . sabre for now.” She kept her smile to herself, imagining Beatrice’s creative use of trimmings. “We can adjust the model later.”

  Beatrice squinted her lively eyes. “I have some flowered chintz that might fit the bill. A tube shouldn’t be difficult to fashion. I’ll put something together and let you have a look.”

  “Excellent.” Emma beamed. Nicholas had been correct when he had said, “Discussing a subject is different than experiencing it for oneself.” For all their discussions, her recent experience still proved shocking. If nothing else, she now had a better grasp on how to instruct the girls.

  Grasp, she chuckled to herself. What an appropriate choice of words. She glanced down at Beatrice, who twitched her fingers, mentally measuring lengths of cloth for their project. Love and gratitude for the older woman seized Emma in an unanticipated surge. Thank heavens above that her uncle’s debauchery had forced her to find Pettibone. She smiled down at Beatrice. “Perhaps we can meet after my lesson at Black Oak in two day’s time to discuss the model.”

  Beatrice glanced up. “Oh, I doubt that you will have a lesson in two days.”


  Surprise stiffened Emma’s spine, followed by a keen stab of disappointment. “Why not?”

  Beatrice returned to her embroidery. “I heard Henry tell Cook that Lord Nicholas Chambers rode off for London earlier today.”

  “Oh.” Emma relaxed. “Henry must have meant the Marquess of Enon. Both he and Lady Cavendish were to depart rather early this morning.”

  “No, Henry said it was the younger brother that left. The Marquess and Lady Cavendish left in the Marquess’s carriage, but Lord Nicholas Chambers took off on his horse like he was racing at Newmarket.” Beatrice glanced up. “According to Henry.”

  “That is most strange.” Emma frowned. “I wonder that he didn’t send a note to cancel our lesson.”

  “Nothing’s strange at all when you consider it’s Lord Nicholas Chambers.” Beatrice smiled smugly.

  “Did Henry suggest why Lord Nicholas Chambers might leave for London?” Emma asked, feeling an uncomfortable lump settle in her stomach.

  “Mrs. Brimley, I’m surprised at you. One never inquires of servants as to their master’s business.” Beatrice feigned offense, although Emma guessed she had probably asked Henry that same question and received an incomplete answer.

  Emma waited the following day for a note from Nicholas. Henry had to be mistaken, she reasoned. Nicholas hadn’t mentioned a need to leave Black Oak. Hadn’t Nicholas himself implied he wanted to see her again to continue her education? Of course, the sensible thing would be to confront Henry, but a lingering fear held her at bay.

  When the time for her art lesson arrived, no carriage waited at the door. As the day was still young and bright, she walked the back path to Black Oak. Troubling thoughts spoiled the otherwise glorious day. Now that Nicholas had taken her innocence, had he lost interest in her? Had he abandoned her just as her father had abandoned her mother?

  Thomas provided no further information. His lordship was simply not at home. Emma narrowed her eyes. Either Nicholas had not divulged his destination, or he had instructed Thomas to remain mute. Of the two, she suspected the latter, which only further complicated the mystery.

  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.

  Twenty

  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.

  U
PON 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.”