The Education of Mrs. Brimley

by Donna MacMeans

  The wrinkles around Lady Cavendish’s eyes softened. “I would open my home to you, my dear, but that might prove difficult given Lord Cavendish’s delight in attractive young women.”

  Emma blushed. No one had ever referred to her in those terms. No one but Chambers, she amended.

  Lady Cavendish stood, causing Emma to rise as well.

  “I am not unfamiliar with the scandalous way in which society treats women such as your mother.” Lady Cavendish met Emma’s gaze. “And yourself.”

  The affection in her voice melted Emma’s apprehensions. Little had she expected that her deception would earn her an ally.

  “I will keep your secret as long as your actions warrant such secrecy. Do not dishonor my recommendation, Mrs. Brimley, and I will do no harm to yours.”

  NICHOLAS SAT ALONE IN HIS STUDIO, ADDING THE FINAL touches to Artemis’s veil. The necessary garment swirled behind the goddess as if caught in the breeze, allowing one end to conceal the feminine virtues considered too risqué for the times. Nicholas smiled. Although he disagreed with the popular trend of hiding such detail, he admitted he preferred to keep this aspect of Emma his private domain.

  Emma’s natural beauty radiated through the layers of oil and varnish. His brushes had captured Emma’s innocence and sensuality in a way he had not envisioned. Few people viewing the painting would even notice the figure Actaeon hiding in the bushes. Without question, this represented his best work, his masterpiece.

  Of course, Emma had often repeated requests to see the work while in progress; each time he had been careful to keep it draped from her view. He remembered her distress when she first viewed her half-naked body in the mirror. A smile teased his lips; of course, part of her distress was discovering that he had watched her artless removal of garments. He suspected she would disapprove of the full-frontal nude.

  After their long afternoons of “instruction,” if she viewed the painting with even the smallest reproach or regret, it would cut him to the quick. Her beautiful sea green eyes, most assuredly, would never again gaze at him with trust and compassion. She’d shun him just like the prissy Pettibone headmistress. Her heart would harden against him. He gnawed on his lip. Why hadn’t he considered this before?

  Because it was easier not to, an internal voice answered. He never expected to care so much for the scrawny black scarecrow that conveniently appeared on his doorstep. Ah, but she had plumped up nicely. He smiled, appreciating his reproduction of her luscious, inviting curves.

  Abandoning this painting, or allowing her to view it, would mean an end to her visits. Deserting fashionable London society for the wilds of Yorkshire had dubbed him “strong willed,” but even he wasn’t strong enough to forswear Emma’s visits. So he kept the painting covered and in so doing, denied himself the opportunity to see appreciation of his mastery in her eyes. That penance was almost as bad as the other alternative.

  An idea swirled in his mind of a new portrait with Emma again as the model. Even though she had indicated an unwillingness to return to his studio, he knew that wouldn’t last. He’d find a way to bring her back. His art and sanity demanded it.

  Footsteps pounded down the hallway behind the closed door of his studio. Too heavy for Emma, he thought with disappointment. He quickly pulled a cloth over the painting.

  The studio door swung open without the courtesy of a knock. William, bright and shiny as his new spit-polished boots, strode into the room.

  “I don’t know what is more shocking, old man: to find you here alone or to find you sober.”

  “Hello, William.” Nicholas swiveled on his stool to face his brother. Other than a new crease or two about William’s eyes and a general softness that attested to London living, the two brothers shared more similarities than differences. Nicholas sighed. His father dominated all things in life; it should be no surprise that he dominated the gene pool as well. “What foul wind blew you this far north?”

  “A pretty young miss whose mother schemes to snare a title for the family tree.” William stepped forward to greet his brother, leaving a flustered Thomas in the doorway. Nicholas signaled all was well with a nod of his head. Thomas silently closed the door. “The going rate for a marquess is substantially more than her family coffers, so I thought it best to leave London before the mother concocts an entanglement from which I cannot escape. I’ll wager she’ll turn her sights on another before two weeks have passed.”

  “So you intend to be my guest for the next two weeks?” Nicholas didn’t bother to hide his irritation. His brother’s visit would mean two more weeks without Emma.

  “If you don’t mind . . .” William’s critical eye glanced around the studio, alighting briefly on each exposed painting.

  Of course he minded! But for the life of him, Nicholas wasn’t sure how to explain the situation to his brother without calling undue attention to a certain masquerading widow wary of discovery. He couldn’t send him away without explanation and could not keep him without discomfort. Sighing, he chose the latter. “What are brothers for?”

  “I envy you, you know,” William said, inspecting a pile of painted canvases stacked against the wall. “Living out here where no decent civilized man, or woman, would think to intercede. No scheming mothers or . . .”

  “Meddling fathers?” Nicholas asked with sudden intuition. “Did he send you? Is that the real reason for this visit?”

  “No. I told you the reason.” William’s expression mimicked injury. “But he does send his warm wishes and inquires as to when you will return to London.”

  Nicholas picked up his paintbrush and swirled it in a murky jar. “I have no desire to return dragging my tail between my legs like a hound off the scent.”

  “It would not be like that, Nicholas. He misses you. He’s just too stubborn to admit it.”

  Nicholas made no response, letting the awkward silence suggest his discomfort with the topic. William’s gaze settled on the draped painting. “What are you working on? Is this for the Academy exhibition?”

  Nicholas put a restraining hand on William’s arm. “It’s still wet. I wouldn’t want the cloth to smudge it.”

  “You know, you should consider venturing away from those quaint little landscapes of yours.” William backed away from the easel. “Oh, they’re pretty enough, but there’s no meat to them, no purpose.”

  “Are you an art critic now as well, William?” Nicholas raised a brow. “And you wonder why I prefer a residence far away from family comments?”

  William scowled, then picked up a sketchbook from Nicholas’s desk. “I was only trying to be helpful, brother.” He flipped through the pages. “You know I believe in your talent. You just need challenge.”

  He paused on one page; his lips pulled to a wide grin. “Now here’s something with purpose. Some local miss, I’ll venture. There’s something to be said for a woman without finery, feathers, and baubles. Something elemental and pristine.”

  Nicholas rose and calmly removed the drawing of Emma’s face from his brother’s fingers. “Would you care for a brandy after your long trip?” He slipped the drawing in a drawer.

  William pursed his lips briefly as if to protest, then thought better of it. “A brandy would be just the thing. Naturally, you will join me?” Nicholas nodded and set about to pour two drinks from a cut-crystal decanter.

  A gray and white cat ambled out of its hiding spot beneath the desk, stretching his long legs and splaying his claws. William’s eyes lit with discovery. “What ho! Is this a new addition?”

  William scooped the cat up and tucked him into the crook of his arm, scratching the appreciative cat between the ears.

  Nicholas let a smile tip his lips. The discovery of his cat appeared to end William’s inquiries about the picture in his drawer. Clever cat. He’d instruct Henry to round up a special treat for a reward. Nicholas approached William with a glass of amber liquid.

  “I should warn you that I’ve brought a houseguest with me,” William said, cat in one ha
nd, drink in the other. “Lady Cavendish, a harmless matron from the fashionable set. She’s off visiting a relative or acquaintance at Pettibone while her third husband cavorts in London.”

  “Hardly your usual company, William.” Nicholas sipped at his drink.

  “I know, but her social position is such that I could not readily refuse. I shall make my calls on the spinster sisters a bit later today.”

  Nicholas grimaced. “Why do you pander to those two old ladies?”

  “Because they love me, brother.” William smiled. “Almost as much as they despise you.”

  “My reputation has earned me the isolation I need to paint.” Nicholas scowled. “The last thing I want is for those two withered cows to march their stock by my door every few minutes.”

  “Judging from that drawing”—William nodded toward the desk—“someone has marched through your door. Who is she?” He leered over the edge of his glass. “Perhaps the country miss would prefer the company of a well-mannered gentleman over that of an insolent rogue.”

  Nicholas gripped the handle of his stick so hard he noticed his knuckles whitening. He willed his grip to lessen. “I know you, brother. You’ve been threatened with matrimonial pursuits before. Why are you really here?”

  “I received an invitation.” William put down the cat and fished in his jacket pocket.

  “Not from me you didn’t.”

  “Of course not from you, brother. Parliament would go up in flames before I receive a social invitation from you. No, this is from your neighbor, the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” He retrieved a white envelope. “Ah, here it is. The pleasure of my company is requested for some sort of ball they’re hosting. Don’t tell me you weren’t invited?” He laughed. “I knew they despised you, but a cut direct to someone of your standing is truly extraordinary.”

  “I received an invitation,” Nicholas conceded, irritated by his brother’s inference. “But I had planned not to attend.”

  William tapped the corner of the envelope. “This arrived about the same time as the scheming mother. It was a sign from heaven and a convenient diversion.” He smiled broadly.

  “Let’s toast to convenient diversions then.” Nicholas raised his glass in a mock salute before drinking deeply.

  “Perhaps your visit is fortuitous.” Nicholas squinted in thought. “If you are planning to return to London, perhaps you can spare me a trip and deliver my recent work to the Academy jury for consideration.”

  “Why not return with me and visit Father while you’re in town?” William suggested.

  “He has no wish to see me.” Nicholas scowled. “I refuse to live up to his dictates. You know that.”

  “He only wants what is best for you, Nicholas. He believes this period of pleasure-seeking indulgences away from family and society has run its course. You know he’s never taken your art seriously. It’s time to move on to familial responsibilities and obligations.”

  “I’m the younger son. Familial responsibilities and obligations are your ballywick, are they not?” Nicholas smiled.

  “He wants an heir, Nick. A woman with proper lineage is most likely in London.”

  Nicholas scoffed. “All the more reason to stay away.” He couldn’t fathom a more ridiculous reason to return. “I hadn’t realized Father and the Pettibone spinisters had so much in common.”

  William lifted an eyebrow and picked up an older sketchbook, one Nicholas recognized as the one he took to various taverns.

  “It is all relative, old man. Don’t think that he hasn’t exerted similar entreaties on me. As I said earlier, I envy you your distance.” He flipped through the pages, pausing periodically.

  “You’re still recruiting prostitutes for your models, I see.” He turned the page to another. “Either you are very quick at your art, brother, or their talents are costing you an arm and a leg. Tell me, do you study their luscious bodies with more than your pen?”

  Nicholas exercised his most practiced leer. “Are you envious of more than my distance, dear brother?”

  William laughed, then tossed back the rest of his brandy. “Seriously, Nick, you must attend this Pettibone affair. I need someone other than Lady Cavendish to talk to. Good Lord, man, I don’t know how you can understand the dialect up here.”

  “Is that what you mean by familial obligations? I should attend a ball and stand about so you’ll have a ready ear for your witticisms and observations?” He glanced toward his brother’s legs. “I suppose I shouldn’t object. I’m of little use on a dance floor, unless someone is needed to tap out the count.” He emptied his glass.

  Pity filled William’s eyes. The very expression Nicholas thought he’d left behind in London. After a brief pause, William quietly crossed the floor to retrieve the cut-crystal decanter.

  “You should never have chased after Cogswell. You knew he was a superior horseman. You weren’t more than a lad.”

  “I knew he was leaving behind a woman with child, his child.” Nicholas palmed the handle of his stick, attempting to ignore the ache in his leg. Strange. Throughout all the changes in weather in the last five months, the old injury lay dormant. Now that his brother had arrived, the ache flared up. “I shouldn’t have raced through that pasture, but—”

  “If you hadn’t, the horse wouldn’t have fallen on your leg, and we wouldn’t have had to put down the poor creature—”

  “Whether to fault the horse, the rider, or the surgeon who couldn’t set the bone properly is of little concern. The conclusion remains that I will not attend that bloody ball!” Nicholas felt his face warm and dismissed the eyebrow raised in his direction.

  William glanced around the studio. “Which of these paintings are you entering in the competition?”

  “I have not decided.” Nicholas glanced at his drape-shrouded easel. Unquestionably, Artemis’s Revenge represented his best chance for the Royal Academy exhibition. Never before had he achieved such a subtle blending of technique and emotion. However, the subject matter on display for the general populace made him a little uneasy.

  “With the exhibition so close at hand, I would have expected you’d have the chosen piece framed, packed, and ready to go.” William shook his head. “This is exactly what Father means by not taking responsibility seriously. You procrastinate even in the things most important to you.”

  “William, you sound just like him.” Nicholas’s lips curled in a tight smile. “Come, let’s have another brandy and you can tell me about the charms of London and the lady who has chased you so far north.”

  Fifteen

  ONCE CECILIA RECEIVED WORD THAT THE MARQUESS of Enon planned to attend the festivities, no expense was spared transforming the school into an imitation of a fine London estate. All the furniture, except the piano, had been moved from the music room to create a space sufficiently large for dancing. The carpets were rolled up, exposing hardwood floors that amplified the sound of tapping toes and scurrying footfalls. Both the library and the salon had been cleared to accommodate the many anticipated patrons. Several villagers had been engaged as servants. Even Cook had been persuaded to wear a new gray dress under her wide white apron and a maid’s cap over her tidy gray-streaked bun. Already, faint notes from the hired ensemble warming up their instruments drifted up the stairs to Alice’s room.

  “Oh, Mrs. Brimley, isn’t this exciting? A real Marquess is coming to our ball. What if he asks us to dance?” Charlotte preened before a mirror.

  Emma’s thoughts turned to someone else whose seductive smile she’d rather see across the room, but wisely held her tongue. “Then you shall take care not to step on his toes.”

  She wove alyssum through Alice’s hair. “There should be many young men at Pettibone tonight. Take care not to ignore them for hopes of a dance with the Marquess of Enon.” She caught a movement from the corner of her eye. “Charlotte, that ribbon was meant for your hair, not to entertain the kitten.”

  “You look so beautiful tonight, Mrs. Brimley. What if the Marquess as
ks you to dance?” Alice asked. “Would you?”

  “It would be impolite to refuse,” she answered briskly. In truth, the likelihood was rare. Although Nicholas had convinced her she was not the ugly cousin that her uncle had suggested, there remained the issue of age. Her prime years had passed, her youth spent playing ladies’ maid to Penelope. Her fingers hesitated in Alice’s deep black locks as she recalled doing something similar with Penelope’s golden hair. Had she unknowingly been apprenticing for a future of service?

  Alice must have felt Emma’s hesitation. Her anxious glance in the mirror elicited Emma’s confident smile. When Emma caught the affection beaming from Alice’s eyes, she corrected herself. A world of difference existed between these girls and the selfish Penelope.

  “Now come, Charlotte, let me finish your hair. Alice, run and see if Elizabeth and Fanny are ready. The musicians have taken their places by the sound of it. Miss Higgins will want you all downstairs to properly welcome our guests.”

  After she had sent Charlotte off to follow the others, Emma glanced in the oval mirror on the wall. Earlier in the day, Beatrice had presented her with a beautiful gray satin gown, hand stitched by the two sisters to thank Emma for the skills she had brought to the girls. By no means would the garment challenge a Worth gown for high fashion, but its simple lines and lack of trim presented an elegant, refined reflection.

  “For the image of the school,” Cecilia had said when Emma offered her gratitude. The pair had grown so dear to her over the past months, it was easy to forget that she was their employee.

  A year ago, Emma imagined she would have been too self-conscious in the low-cut gown. Indeed the bodice barely covered the top of her corset, exposing the small strawberry birthmark on the lift of her left breast. However, after posing for long hours in less attire for Chambers, Emma found herself surprisingly comfortably in the rich fabric.

  She retrieved the long glove box sent by “the mysterious stranger” and removed the black lace gloves, pulling each to her elbow. Nicholas may not attend the ball, but her thoughts would fly to him every time the lace would cross her field of vision. Earbobs and a jet necklace completed the ensemble. She straightened her spine, wishing he could see her. She may not be the prettiest flower in the garden tonight, but she no longer played the role of a weed.