The Education of Mrs. Brimley Read online

  “I will need to see him again.” Emma braced herself for Cecilia’s reaction.

  Beatrice cried out in pain, drawing all eyes her way. She placed her bleeding finger between her lips and shrugged an apology. Cecilia turned back to Emma. “Surely one trip should have been sufficient to take stock of Chambers’s library.”

  “He has offered to give me lessons and I have accepted.”

  “Art lessons?” Beatrice asked around her finger, her wide eyes suddenly inquisitive. “Lord Chambers is teaching you to paint?”

  Emma hesitated, watching enthusiasm build in Beatrice’s eyes. The sisters would believe this falsehood more than the truth. They had already accepted her other deceptions. She worried her lip. One more small lie could conceivably save her position at Pettibone. But this, she silently vowed, would be her last. She nodded.

  “Oh, Ce, the best schools offer art lessons for their students.” Beatrice tossed her handiwork aside and grasped her sister’s hand. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mrs. Brimley could teach the girls to paint?”

  Conflict played across Cecilia’s stoic features. Emma wasn’t sure whether the lure of offering a better education or purely indulging her sister swayed Cecilia more. It didn’t matter. Emma’s spirits lifted at the chance of reprieve. Surely, she could learn something about painting from her unique vantage as a model.

  Cecilia glanced at the valise by Emma’s side.

  “Lord Chambers lent me an artist’s smock to modify for my fuller skirts.” Emma quickly improvised, knowing full well it only contained her own excess garments. “As well as some other materials to study before our first lesson.”

  “Let the girl go,” Beatrice urged Cecilia. “As long as Lord Chambers doesn’t come to Pettibone, what harm can come of Mrs. Brimley taking art lessons?”

  Cecilia relented in the face of the double onslaught. “As long as the school benefits from her education, I suppose we can make an exception in Mrs. Brimley’s case.” Beatrice clapped her hands gleefully.

  “However,” Cecilia said, turning back to Emma, “we must know when these lessons are to occur, and suitable transportation must be arranged. It does no good to have you traipsing about the estate.”

  “Lord Chambers has offered the use of his carriage for the lessons. The timing can be arranged through Henry,” Emma said, slumping a bit in relief.

  “Look at the poor girl,” Beatrice said with sympathy. “She’s exhausted. Let her be off to bed, Cecilia. She has a class in the morning and we have plans to make.”

  “Thank you,” Emma replied, feeling the weight of the tumultuous day on her shoulders. Now she needed to figure how to paint, as well as how to be painted, and still maintain her integrity and honor. “I am exceedingly tired.”

  The wooden floor vibrated with the quick padding of several feet dashing down the hallway. She doubted the sisters noted, already absorbed in their plans for art education. She might not have noticed herself if she had been wearing shoes. She opened the door to the beginning refrain of a new recital piece. At least the sisters weren’t demanding demonstration of her talents in that area.

  THE NEXT DAY, THE GIRLS CROWDED AROUND EMMA AS she reproduced, in her own hand, a drawing of an aroused man, as per Lord Nicholas Chambers’s earlier instruction. A moment of silence ensued, as all studied the swordlike appendage.

  “That looks uncomfortable,” Beatrice observed, screwing her plump face into a scowl.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Emma replied, then added, “I never thought to ask.”

  She had asked so many other questions though, and Chambers, true to his word, answered them all in an intelligent and thoughtful manner. She could only hope they were truthful answers, as she had no knowledge to prove or disprove his information. But there was something about Chambers’s eyes, about his smile, about his acceptance that made her trust him implicitly in this. Even though her experience with her uncle and would-be suitors had suggested that no man could be trusted, she suspected there might be exceptions.

  “Why does the man need to change like that?” Hannah’s soft voice broke into Emma’s reverie.

  “Good question,” Emma said, remembering how Chambers’s compliments about her own questions had made her feel less awkward. Indeed, he had made discussing an uncomfortable topic somewhat enjoyable.

  “The man needs to change in order to plant his seed. Now girls,” she said as she looked around the group, “you are all old enough to have your monthly cycles.” Heads nodded in almost perfect unison. “So you know the place the man inserts his manhood.”

  Elizabeth whitened and collapsed on a chair. As the girls had just completed their class on the language of the fan, four brightly painted vellum arcs flashed before Elizabeth’s face, producing a powerful current that straightened her finger curls. Beatrice opened a vial of salts that quickly revitalized poor Elizabeth. Once Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open, the girls promptly shifted their attention back to Emma’s illustration, abandoning Elizabeth in the process.

  “Please, Mrs. Brimley,” Alice asked, “how does a man do that?”

  “Anyway he can,” Fanny snickered.

  “There are several ways insertion can be accomplished.” She frowned at Fanny to secure her silence. “But we’ll discuss those at a later class.” Although considerable knowledge was gained as a result of yesterday’s discussion with Chambers, Emma had avoided asking questions about the positions used in coupling. After all, she needed to begin her posing sessions with at least some garments intact. “Let’s return to the issue of pain. That topic appeared on everyone’s list.”

  Silence descended on the group as all eyes turned to Emma. “Some girls, not all,” she hastened to add, “experience some brief pain the first time they couple with their husbands. This is because of a thin piece of tissue inside the woman that blocks the man’s entrance. He has to push through it.” She swung her fist to punctuate the image. That tidbit of information had cost her both detached sleeves.

  Elizabeth moaned again, but everyone ignored her.

  “That’s why there’s blood,” Beatrice said, entranced.

  Emma nodded. “There’s a little blood. It’s one way a man can tell if his new wife is innocent. But it only happens on the first time. After that, the portal is open.”

  “What does it feel like when it breaks?” Alice asked.

  Although Chambers had offered his opinion, she thought she was on her own for this question. “Do you remember how it hurts when you jab your embroidery needle into your thumb? It is a quick pain, a sudden pain, but then it’s over and done with and soon forgotten.” At least, she hoped so.

  “After the first time, the sensitive parts of the woman’s body might be a little uncomfortable, but a warm compress helps.” She’d sacrificed her caged crinoline for that information.

  “Is there anything else that might ease the pain of the man’s entry?” Elizabeth asked with a desperate gleam in her eye.

  “Yes, but we’ll talk about that another time.” Emma had a few more questions about the concept of juices, something she still didn’t understand, even after sacrificing her overskirt and jacket. “When a man is aroused, his body produces the seed that will ultimately grow into a baby if placed properly inside a woman’s body. The important point to grasp from today’s lesson is that a man must be aroused to enter his wife and plant his seed. In future classes we will discuss ways to arouse the man.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult,” Fanny said. “My brothers get aroused looking at the sheep.” The other girls laughed.

  “Let us not forget the other important lesson,” Beatrice intoned. “Beware of the aroused man who is not yet a husband. His seed could bring forth a child while stealing the proof of a woman’s virtue. If you believe you are in danger of falling victim to an aroused man, you must run away as fast as you can.”

  The girls shared sidelong glances and barely suppressed smiles.

  “Yes, run,” Emma agreed, perhaps a bit too emphatical
ly. “One moment’s indiscretion can cost a lifetime of woe,” for more than just the mother.

  But what does one do when there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide? She supposed she would discover soon enough at her next meeting with Lord Nicholas Chambers.

  Seven

  “GOOD MORNIN’, MRS. BRIMLEY. DON’T THA’ LOOK lovely today.”

  “Thank you, Cook.” Emma selected a seat at the dining table, pleased to see that she was alone, save for Cook. She had a demanding day before her, complete with teaching a literature class for the younger students, and being taught in turn by way of her art class with Lord Chambers in the afternoon.

  “Henry brought a copy of yesterday’s Times. Would tha’ care to see it?”

  “Yes, please.” Emma said, anxious to keep abreast of news of London. The sisters received an assortment of ladies’ journals. Most addressed society news, fashion, and etiquette in that order. Political news, as well as the more graphic police blotters, apparently had no place at Pettibone. Emma made do with the secondhand edition of the Times purloined from Chambers’s residence. At least she liked to think it was stolen. “Purloined” sounded far more romantic than “discarded.”

  She had barely finished eating when she saw the small notice at the bottom of the page preceding society news.

  MISSING: Emma Heatherston was reported missing from her London home in the Kensington District on January 12th. Miss Heatherston is a medium-sized woman of normal proportions with brown hair and green eyes. Her uncle, Mr. George Heatherston, has offered a reward for any information that might lead to her successful recovery.

  “Mrs. Brimley?” a tiny voice asked.

  Emma looked up, half expecting to find her uncle standing in the doorway. Instead she found Alice with her brow furled.

  “What’s wrong, Alice? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “I told Miss Beatrice that I didn’t feel well, so she excused me from needlework. I really wanted to talk with you about Charlotte. I thought maybe before you taught literature you could perhaps spend a few minutes with me?”

  “Yes, of course, dear. I just . . .” She glanced down at the newspaper before returning her gaze to Alice. She smiled. “Miss Beatrice dismissed you to your room, did she not? Perhaps it would be better if we talked there. Let me just take this plate . . .”

  She allowed the remnants of her breakfast to slip onto the paper in a runny mess.

  “Oh dear, look what I’ve done!” For good measure, Emma pretended to be shaken by her loss of propriety and let the tea in her cup slosh over the side onto the paper as well.

  Alice gasped and rushed forward to help, but Emma held up her hand to keep the young girl at bay. “I wouldn’t want anything to spill on you.”

  Cook bustled into the room. “Now, now, Mrs. Brimley. I’ll see to that. You needn’t bother with such things. Did tha’ get anything on tha’ dress?”

  Emma bit her tongue, tempted as she was to reply that a spot of color on the drab black cloth would be an improvement. “No,” she said instead, “everything appears to be confined to the paper. I’m afraid no one can read the Times in this condition. I’ll just . . .”

  In one swift motion, Emma slipped the newspaper from the table into the nearby fireplace. The pages quickly browned, curled, then were reduced to ash.

  “Miss Cecelia will be upset she can’t read those society pages. I could’ve blotted off the mess,” Cook said, watching the resulting flames.

  “It’s too late for that,” Emma replied with a mock frown. “Tell her that I was startled by my own clumsiness and overreacted. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  “I’m sure she won’t.” Cook crossed her arms and looked at Emma with speculation. She shook her head with an audible sigh. “On tha’ way then. I’ll clean up the rest.”

  Emma and Alice slipped out of the parlor and quietly up the stairs before their association could be discovered. “Now, what is it that you wish to discuss?” Emma asked once they reached the empty room shared by Alice and Charlotte.

  “I think Charlotte’s planning to run away,” Alice said mournfully.

  “What makes you believe such a thing?” Emma sat on one of the narrow beds.

  “She doesn’t like it here. The other girls make fun of her. They say her parents are too poor to offer a dowry and she has no business being here. She wants to go home.”

  Alice’s words pulled at Emma’s heart. She understood too well how it felt to live where one was not wanted. Although her uncle settled a small dowry on her, and claimed to keep the circumstances of her past secret, Emma was constantly reminded that she was far too plain, too clumsy, and too solitary to be desired by any potential suitor. If it hadn’t been for an ability to hide in an empty wardrobe below stairs with her books and poetry, Emma wasn’t sure how she would have survived those years.

  “Is there nothing here that makes her happy?” Emma asked. “Maybe something at which she excels?”

  Alice’s brow crinkled in thought. “She’s good at embroidery.” Alice smiled. “Charlotte keeps a scrapbook full of pictures of animals and flowers and uses them in her designs. She’s really clever at that. And she’s the best croquet player in the school.” Alice beamed for a moment, then frowned. “But we can’t play croquet in the winter.”

  “No, we can’t,” Emma agreed. She looked closely at Alice. “And Charlotte’s good at being a friend to you, isn’t she?”

  Alice nodded. “I don’t want her to go.”

  “How about you?” Emma asked, noting the grim sadness in Alice’s eyes. “Do you want to go home too?”

  “I don’t have a home,” Alice said simply. “I’m an orphan. No one wants an orphan.”

  The girl’s misery stabbed at Emma’s heart, reminding her of herself at that age.

  “Alice, that simply isn’t true.” Emma put her arm around Alice’s waist. “The sisters wouldn’t allow you to stay here if they didn’t want you.”

  Alice bowed her head, studying her shoes. Obviously, Emma’s attempt at comfort did nothing to alleviate the girl’s concerns.

  “I want you here,” Emma said emphatically.

  Alice looked at her, puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because you care so much about your friend that you’re telling me about her concerns,” Emma said, softening her tone. “There are too many people who don’t give a farthing. I want people around me who care about others.”

  “So what are you going to do about Charlotte?”

  “I’ll talk to her. Then I’ll talk to the girls who are mean to her. Do you know who they are?”

  Alice bit her lip before tilting her head toward the far wall. If Emma wasn’t mistaken, that was the room used by Miss Barnesworth. She smiled, not entirely surprised by the revelation.

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “I knew you’d help. Thank you, Mrs. Brimley.” Alice executed a little curtsy.

  “You just mind that you don’t get such silly fancies in your head, young lady,” Emma lightly scolded. She left for her waiting literature class. She’d only managed a few steps down the hall when she heard Alice’s soft voice.

  “I can’t. Where would I go?”

  ALICE’S SAD REFRAIN STILL ECHOED IN EMMA’S EARS later that afternoon when she stepped down from Chambers’s four-wheeler with the assistance of Henry’s offered arm. Although years separated her from the lonely child, she and Alice shared a similar refrain. One that Emma silently invoked while raising her eyes to Black Oak’s weathered door. She couldn’t refuse Chambers’s demands, for if she were to be exposed for the charlatan that she was, where could she go? Certainly not back to London.

  “Mrs. Brimley, how wonderful to see you again.” Thomas stepped aside to allow her admittance. She wondered just how much the man knew of her role at Black Oak. But then again, she might have difficulty facing even the butler if he understood her circumstances. She continued to pretend that this was just another social call.

  “Lord Nicholas Chambers is in hi
s studio. May I show you the way?”

  “I remember, thank you.” Indeed, how could she forget? She passed the wide curving stairway that Chambers had used after she had fainted, and then the cozy salon where they had engaged in intimate conversation on her last visit. The memory ignited a spark of awareness of the abundant knowledge Chambers possessed of the feminine form, and of the absolute certainty of that knowledge as it related to her own. Her throat inexplicably dried to the texture of ash. Her step faltered. She stopped, took a deep breath, then knocked on his studio door.

  “Mrs. Brimley.” Chambers opened the door wide and stepped aside. “I’m pleased you have arranged to see me again.”

  For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. He had dispensed with his jacket, cravat, and even the collar of his shirt. The half-dressed man looked as handsome without the confinements of fashion as he did with them. She swallowed with difficulty.

  “Yes,” she managed to squeeze through her constricted throat. “I have questions.”

  “I’m sure you do.” A mischievous twinkle in his eyes launched a slow engagement of each facial muscle, deepening his dimples and pulling back his lips to show even, white teeth. She discovered her own lips curving in response to his contagious smile so she pressed them tightly together. He mustn’t know his own power.

  She took a deep breath and willed herself to relax. “I find I also have need of your instruction in another matter.”

  “My services are yours to command.”