The Education of Mrs. Brimley

by Donna MacMeans

  “A gentleman does not sell his relatives to the highest bidder. Your word is worthless,” Emma scoffed.

  Her uncle scowled. “You think you are too good for the likes of a common man, but let me tell you, missy, there’s nothing you can do to change your fate.”

  Emma crossed her arms and sank into silence. Perhaps a year ago she would have accepted his decree that this was to be her destiny. Marriage to an old man might even prove attractive to an inexperienced girl who hadn’t tasted true passion. But she wasn’t that inexperienced girl any longer. She refused to accept what her uncle called “fate.”

  The nausea had passed, along with the lingering scent of laudanum. Emma sat up and arched her back and lifted her shoulders to ease the aching of her constrained position.

  “What are you doing?” her uncle demanded. “That’s no posture for a lady. You’re acting like a servant who’s been on hands and knees all day. Behave. Someone might see you. Don’t force me to restrain you again.” He looked right and left as if through some miracle of nature, a stranger had affixed themselves to the side of the racing coach for the sole purpose of watching Emma flex her muscles.

  “It’s the constraint that makes such movements necessary, Uncle.” Her protest made no mark on his dour expression. Until she determined some method of escape, she had best play along with his scheme. Escape would be easier with her hands unbound.

  “Very well,” she said, with a sigh of resignation. “Perhaps you are correct. I am grateful that you have rescued me from Pettibone. I was tired of playing nursemaid to a bunch of snotty girls. I suppose marriage to an older, more experienced man is better than no marriage at all.”

  His face brightened. “There you go. You were always a bright one. Now you’ll see that I’m right.”

  “How much further to our destination?” she asked.

  “We made great strides while you were sleeping. I’d estimate three more hours to cross the border, but we shall stop before that to pick up Perichilde.”

  “He’s waiting for us?”

  “I sent word to him as soon as I saw that painting. I didn’t give twenty-odd years of my life letting you and your mother live under my roof without learning to recognize you with or without your clothes.”

  “You . . . you . . . spied on me?” she gasped. Was there no level to which this man would not sink?

  “Not often, only when the opportunity presented itself.” He sneered. “I’m a man, after all.”

  Not much of one, she thought.

  “I never touched you. That’s more than you can say about that Lord Nicholas Chambers.”

  The carriage pulled through the arch of an old stone inn with a sign in front proclaiming it “The George.” While the picturesque ivy climbing up half the building spoke of longevity, the subtle signs of disrepair indicated hard times. Like many of the old coach inns, this one had apparently suffered from the railroad diverting its previous revenues.

  “There’s no one here that can help you, so there’s no sense in you trying anything. Do you understand me?” her uncle warned. She nodded as expected. “Good. Because if you do anything at all, I’ll tie you back up and haul you across the border quicker than you can say Jack Sprat. Now act the proper widow and behave yourself.”

  Even with the loss of traffic, The George handled a bustling business as evidenced by the horses tied to the rail and the hardy masculine laughter that reached outside. The aromatic waft of a stew issued an invitation difficult to resist. Emma entered by her uncle’s side, her head demurely lowered but her mind alert for opportunities to change her fate. She needed time. Time to plan. Time to execute. If she could just get a message back to Nicholas, he’d help her. He may not love her the way she did him, but they had shared a bond. He would come to her aid much as he had to Charlotte’s.

  But he was in London. The thought pushed her deeper in despair. He had mentioned in his letter that he planned to return to Yorkshire any day now. However, that letter was written before he became a constant news item in the Times. He might choose to stay in London indefinitely.

  No, she had to think for herself if she was to avoid a life tied to a shriveled-up specter of a man.

  A white-haired gentleman who looked to be as old as the inn itself manned the front desk. Her uncle stepped forward for the purpose of negotiating a room. Emma looked toward the large public area off to the side. She doubted she could find much assistance among the drunken male patrons. A serving girl, not much older than Alice, moved down the rows, filling tankards and delivering plates, without seeming to mind the occasional hand that fondled her backside.

  Poor Alice. She’d believe Emma had run off and left her behind. The thought twisted Emma’s heart. Oh, to be back at Pettibone in the heart of female companionship. Female . . . that inspired an idea.

  “We’ll be needing a private dining area as well,” Uncle George said, with an eye toward the public room. “Can you tell me if a fine gentleman by the name of Perichilde has arrived yet?”

  Emma laid her hand on her uncle’s arm. “Uncle, I need to speak with you privately.”

  “Time enough for that when we get our room. I’m checking now to see if your groom has arrived.” The clerk raised an eyebrow in her direction but otherwise appeared enthralled with his ledgers.

  “I don’t think I can wait that long,” Emma whispered. “I have need to confide in another woman. You rushed me off from Pettibone without items necessary for female needs. I fear my monthly has begun.”

  Her uncle cursed under his breath and yanked his arm away from her touch as if she had confided that she had the plague. “Saints above woman,” he hissed. “You don’t have to inform the general public. Don’t you have your ladies’ necessities?”

  “I have them back at Pettibone. Had you given me time to pack . . .”

  “Well, I couldn’t very well do that now, could I?” He looked around to make sure no one had heard him raise his voice. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “If I can talk to one of the women here, I’m sure they would give me what I need.”

  “All right. Make it quick. Don’t offer to pay for anything. Until Perichilde arrives, our funds are low.”

  She nodded, acting the obedient niece, and glided into the public room. The loud cacophony died down a bit upon her entrance. Whether it was the result of her widow’s attire or that she was the only woman fully clothed from head to toe, she wasn’t sure.

  “Are tha’ lost?” one of the serving girls asked with an abbreviated curtsy and a dubious smile. “Not many ladies come her’ at this hour.”

  Emma leaned close to the girl’s ear and whispered, “I’m not lost but I need your help. See that man standing by the clerk’s desk?” The girl nodded. “I’m being kidnapped. I need to send a note to Lord Nicholas Chambers in Leighton-on-the-Wold to—”

  “Nicky?” the girl’s smile lit up her face. “Tha’ know Nicky?”

  “Ssh!” Emma cautioned with a quick look over her shoulder. Uncle George appeared in deep conversation with the clerk, probably bargaining over the cost of the room. “Can you take me someplace quiet and less public?”

  The girl nodded. She led the way up the back stairs to a dark corridor. “All the rooms are in use right now. But this’d be as quiet as tha’ll find this side of the inn.” A loud groan from behind one of the doors spoke of the activity inside. The girl smiled with a nod to the door. “That room’ll free up real quick.”

  “I need a pen and some paper to write a note,” Emma said, squinting down the hallway. “I don’t suppose you have . . . ?”

  “Not much call for writin’ up here.” The girl looked at her askance. “How do tha’ know Nicky? Thou one of his girls?”

  “His girls?” Emma asked, annoyed. Maybe she could direct the girl to get the necessary writing supplies from the clerk? Would Uncle George get suspicious? Could this girl manage to slip her out of the inn to safety?

  “Tha’ know, one of th’ girls he paints
. He’s painted Rosie and Annie. I’ve always wanted him to paint my picture, but he says I’m too young. Do tha’ think I’m too young?”

  Emma looked at the girl anew. “What’s your name?”

  “Daisy, just like th’ flower. My mama says it means innocence.” She smiled, exposing a gap in yellowed teeth. “But I ain’t been that for near two years.” She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, certainly no older than Elizabeth. Emma bit her lip to hide her frown. Such a young girl to have so much earthy exposure.

  “We ain’t seen Nick . . . Lord Nicholas Chambers for nigh on six months. I don’t know when I can get a message to him. If tha’ld be a friend of his, we—the other girls and me—we’ll help tha’ out if we can.”

  “Well, Daisy, you’re right. I’m one of ‘Nicky’s girls,’ and I’m in trouble.” Emma hated to involve such a child in her scheme, but she saw little choice. “That man downstairs is trying to sneak me across the border into Scotland to marry me to someone I don’t like. Lord Nicholas . . . Nicky . . . is in London, but he would stop—”

  “London!” Daisy’s eyes widened before she shook her head. “It’ll take a week or more for us to get a message that far. I don’t suppose thou’s planning to stay a week?”

  “No. I think my uncle plans to leave tonight.” Emma glanced at Daisy’s loose attire, a glimmer of an idea taking root. “Maybe you could hide me until the note gets through?”

  “No unused rooms to hide thee in.” Daisy studied her. “In that getup, tha’ll stand out like the Queen herself come callin’.”

  Emma glanced down at the widow’s garb that covered her as efficiently as a burial shroud. In contrast, Daisy displayed more skin than fabric.

  “If I could blend in, my uncle might not notice.” But could she bare that much skin in public? She’d bared much more in private, she reminded herself. She could do this.

  “May I borrow some of your clothes?” Emma asked, completing a mental inventory of her appearance. “And maybe you can help me with my hair?”

  Daisy’s face split with a toothy smile. “Sounds like we’s got ourselves another girl.”

  “WHERE IS SHE!” GEORGE HEATHERSTON BELLOWED. Patrons paused in the lifting of their tankards. “I saw her come into this room. Where did she go?”

  “There’s only one exit on this side of the inn and you were standing right by it,” the elderly clerk patiently explained for the third time. “If we allowed other methods of egress, we’d lose half of our revenues.”

  “Then she must be here somewhere.” Heatherston charged into the public room, rousing some sleeping patrons, who protested the disturbance.

  Emma concentrated on pouring ale into the tankard of a lone man in the corner. She had shed her spectacles to complete her disguise, making the task of aiming the liquid more difficult. Her hair, loosened from its braided bun, flowed long over her shoulders. She tilted her head, hoping the curtain of hair would hide her face from her uncle as well.

  “What’s up here?” Heatherston asked at the base of steps.

  “That’s our entertainment quarters,” the clerk said with a nervous glance upstairs. “I’m sure the young widow would not go up there. No decent lady would.”

  “Decent, my foot.” Heatherston stomped up the steps. “Emma, you come down here.”

  The man at Emma’s table slipped his hand along the back of her skirt, pressing the backs of her thighs. “Rosie, me love,” his voice slurred. “How about tha’ givin’ a poor sot a free un.”

  “Ssh!” Emma whispered. “I’m not Rosie. Mind your manners.” She slapped at his hand.

  She could hear her uncle’s heavy tread and billowing voice overhead. Her heart raced. If she made a mad dash for the door, her exit would surely be noted and reported to Uncle George. Besides, he’d be down those steps in a thrice if he had cause. Patience, she cautioned. If she merely worked her way toward the door while he was engaged upstairs, she might be able to slip away unnoticed.

  She heard him pound on a door. “Emma, come out of there, you little slut. I know you’re in there.”

  Her drunken patron’s errant hand journeyed round her backside, the trespass all the more personal without the benefit of her bustle. “Come on, be a sport.” Although with his elongated “s” and lack of a definite “t,” she could be mistaken as to his meaning.

  With a glance toward the doorway, she continued to pour until the ale overflowed the tankard, then spilled over the table and onto the patron’s lap.

  “Ey! Whot the devil!” He stood in a hurry, swiping his hand over the damp material.

  “So sorry,” Emma crooned. At least his hands were no longer her concern. “Let me get a rag to wipe up.”

  Overhead, her uncle’s insistent knocking was followed by the sound of splintering wood. Emma used a corner of her apron to wipe off the table, casting a furtive glance to the inn’s entrance.

  Sounds of a scuffle erupted overhead. Before she could move toward the door, a body tumbled down the steps to land in a heap at her feet. Emma quickly glanced at the man on his backside at precisely the same moment that a gleam of recognition lit her uncle’s eyes.

  “Enough of the table. Whot about me pants!” Her customer grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Yur not Rosie. Who are you?”

  She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but his grip tightened. A drunken leer spread across his face.

  “You’re a feisty one, ain’t ya? How about being feisty with me upstairs?”

  She could hear Uncle George scrambling behind her. But the harder she struggled against her captor, the tighter he held. “Please!” she begged. “Please let me go.”

  “Not till ya wipe off me pants.” The drunkard sneered. “Wipe them off real good.”

  “Let her go,” Uncle George said from behind her.

  “I saw her first,” the stranger protested.

  “Well maybe I’ll let you have her when I’m through with her.” Uncle George pushed some shillings into the man’s hand. “Here. Buy yourself another whore.”

  The man’s face lit up. He released Emma’s arm and walked at a tilt toward the middle of the room. Emma tried to turn and run, but her uncle was faster. He grabbed both her arms and held her in front of him.

  “You cheap bit of trash.” His foul breath heated her ear. She turned away, fear racing through her. “Perichilde is too good for the likes of you.”

  He piloted her further into the room’s shadows. “You with your head buried in books. You and your mother always thought you were too good to wait on the likes of me. Now look at you. I have a mind to take you upstairs, strip off those rags, and teach you just what you are good for.”

  “I think you’ve taught her enough for one day.” Nicholas! Her heart recognized his voice. She tried to twist round to see him, but her uncle blocked the way.

  Apparently Uncle George hadn’t her talent of recognition. “I thought I told you to leave us alone.” He growled over his shoulder. “You’ve got your money. Now get out of here.”

  “Let the lady go.”

  Uncle George laughed. “You must be blind. This is no lady. This is nothing but a bloody whore.”

  Emma heard the sound of splintering wood and a cry of pain, then felt her uncle releasing her arms. She spun about in time to see Nicholas’s fist crash into Uncle George’s face. Her uncle sank to the floor in a sprawl alongside a broken walking stick.

  Nicholas stepped awkwardly toward her, then lightly took her arms. “Are you all right?”

  His voice poured over her like warm chocolate. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest with its fierce pounding. Emma fumbled in a pocket to retrieve her glasses. Once she could see clearly, she threw her arms around his neck.

  He staggered back half a step, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. His fingers pulled back her curtain of hair, exposing her neck. His light kiss on her sensitive skin sent tremors of ecstasy straight through to her toes.

  “Did he hurt you?
” he asked, holding her tight.

  “No, but I think he might have if you hadn’t arrived.” Giddy with relief, she could barely stand.

  “That’s me.” The soft chuckle in his voice rekindled a spark in her that had lain dormant for several weeks. “Always in the nick of time.”

  “How did you find me?” She pulled back so she could see his handsome face. Latent desperation caught her, an awareness of what almost had happened. Her hand trembled where it rested on his shirt. Her throat burned, making speech difficult. “I . . . I thought I’d never see you again.”

  A shadow of uncertainty flashed across his face. He squeezed her arm, then released her. “We’ll have time for answers later. Let’s get you out of here before your uncle wakes up.”

  She hesitated. “Are we just going to leave him here?”

  Chambers looked down his nose at the bundle at his feet. “Yes,” he said simply. “I think he can find his own way back to London.”

  She looked down at the stained garments that barely covered her chest. “What about my clothes? I can’t leave like this.”

  Chambers pulled off his riding jacket and wrapped it over her shoulders. He leaned close to her ear. “Are you still wearing that pink corset?”

  She nodded. Indeed, she had selected it this morning in memory of him.

  “Then you’re wearing all the clothes you need.”

  Delicious ripples tingled through her chest. She wasn’t convinced her attire was appropriate, but they had no time to argue. She wrapped her arm around his waist so she could assist him in their progress to the front door. After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted her help.

  As they approached the entrance arm in arm, a withered old man stepped up to the clerk’s desk.

  “My name is Perichilde,” Emma heard the man say behind her. “I believe I am expected.”

  Twenty-four

  ONCE OUTSIDE, EMMA IMMEDIATELY RECOGNIZED Lord Byron tied to the rail. A gruff man stroked the horse’s head with great affection. Nicholas helped Emma up into an open two-wheel gig before speaking privately with him. The man nodded approval and waved them off.