The Education of Mrs. Brimley

by Donna MacMeans

  A familiar jab of frustration stabbed at her heart, reminding her of the loneliness that went hand in hand with her unique ability. She had no choice but to accept her fate. She sighed. Anger couldn’t change what God had made. Better to concentrate on providing for her family, which brought her thoughts back to tonight.

  Lucinda doused the lamps on the mantle and on the wall, before returning to the parlor window. She’d been spotted. Consequences always followed a sighting. At best the rumors of ghosts and headless horsemen would reappear, at worst they would need to once again find a new home. What would it be like to not have to schedule one’s existence to the phases of the moon? To not constantly worry about being labeled the devil’s child or a witch? Perhaps she was being too vigilant. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Still, an uneasiness settled heavy about her heart.

  THE NEXT MORNING, JAMES SPOTTED THE QUAINT TOWN house easily enough. Although the flowers that had bloomed so enchantingly in the moonlight were closed and twisted tight, he remembered the location and the glimmer of the brass plaque by the door. How could he forget this location? Late into the wee hours of the morning, he had contemplated the mystery woman and her magnificent feats of magic—if, indeed, they were magic. One way or another, he was determined to find out.

  Already he had learned through inquisition of the neighboring merchants, that a widow, Mrs. Eugenia Gertrude, and her three nieces had rented the residence. The information pleased him as it validated his sighting of a widow the evening before.

  The town house faced a park, so he found an empty bench and watched the front of the house. The day stretched on with no remarkable activity. Indeed he had invested enough time on that hard bench to have read his copy of the Illustrated Times five times front to back. He stood to stretch when a closed carriage pulled up in front of the town house. Watching with interest, he observed a rather broad Mrs. Farthington exit and climb the few steps to the townhouse with difficulty. She was ushered inside without incident.

  James crossed the street, moving closer to the front of the house. Mrs. Farthington’s husband, a gentleman who, it had been rumored, had fallen on some desperate times, was well-known around the gambling hells where Lord Pembroke frequented. James would be willing to bet that the Farthingtons were the link between the mystery widow and Lord Pembroke’s safe.

  When Mrs. Farthington reemerged thirty minutes later, Locke was ready. He hailed a cab to follow her home. The mystery widow did not realize it, but the noose about her enchanting neck was about to tighten.

  JAMES HADN’T ENGAGED IN DISGUISE SINCE HIS TRAVELING days with a caravan crossing the Karakum Desert in Central Asia. He affixed a bushy mustache that made his upper lip all but disappear, then added bushy eyebrows as well. Padding thickened his waist and gave him a bit of a belly before he covered it all with an unfashionable tweed jacket, knickerbockers, and gaiters. He checked his image in the mirror, confident that if the widow had glimpsed him in Pembroke’s study, she certainly wouldn’t recognize him now. With spirited determination, he journeyed to the widow’s address and rang the bell. He glanced at the brass plaque by the door, “Appointments during daylight hours only.” What in the devil did that mean?

  A cat, black as the widow’s gown, jaunted up the steps and wove its lithe body between his legs. “What have we here?”

  He scooped the cat up in his arms and was giving it a good scratch between the ears when the door opened.

  “Oh my.” The stout woman held her hands out for the cat. “Has our Shadow been digging in your gardens? I’m so sorry.”

  “Not at all.” Disappointment clawed at his throat. Although the woman at the door was dressed in widow’s weeds, she certainly couldn’t be the same woman he had observed leaving the brougham. Her height was about right. He would have taken an oath that she had been a bit thinner last evening, but perhaps that was a trick of the moonlight. He cleared his throat. “No, this fellow just joined me on the step.” He handed the cat over to its owner. “I had hoped to see the lady of the house.”

  “I suppose that would be me, sir.” She stroked the cat’s head and studied him from her position in the doorway.

  “Oh!” He snatched the brown bowler from his head. “I’m Laurence Langtree.” He cast a nervous eye to the street. “I’m told that we might be able to do business.”

  “Is that so?” She cocked her head, and frowned. “And what kind of business would that be?”

  Mrs. Farthington had prepared him for this very question. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Recovery business.”

  Her face brightened. “Then I suppose you should come in so we can talk.” She moved back from the doorway, letting James cross the threshold.

  An ornate grandfather clock complete with a lunar phase dial immediately caught his attention. It was clearly the most valuable piece of furniture in the cluttered room. However, if he wasn’t mistaken, that bump beneath the flowery tablecloth hid the lock mechanism for a small safe. He smiled, remembering his last encounter with a safe and his reason for being here.

  “I have been advised that you possess, shall we say, some remarkable attributes in the area of recovery.”

  “I, sir?” She smiled, though it did not reach to her eyes. “Whoever told you that?”

  “I am loath to name sources. I wish to respect privacy whenever possible.”

  “In that case, I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. . . .”

  “Langtree. Laurence Langtree.”

  Footsteps sounded behind him. “Aunt Eugenia, I wonder if you would mind—”

  James turned toward the voice and stood stunned. This was the one. This had to be her. She had a proud, straight nose with just the slightest uplift on the end and the high cheekbones that had molded the veil. Yet, there was so much more. Her eyes were the deep blue of the evening sky just before the sun slipped from view, made all the more striking by her almost luminous skin. It had been wise of her to wear a black veil, he thought with appreciation, for skin like that would outshine the moon.

  “Mr. Langtree, this is my niece, Miss Lucinda Havershaw.”

  “Miss Havershaw.” Even her name suited her, Lucinda with hair the color of moonlight and a curtsy borne of good manners.

  “Mr. Langtree believes he has need of your recovery services.”

  “Oh?” Her head cocked and intelligent eyes assessed him. He felt a stirring in his bones. Yes, this was the talented one he’d encountered the previous night. She wiped her hands on a handkerchief she removed from her serviceable pinafore. “I apologize, sir. I was doing a bit of gardening in back.” She motioned for them to sit. “What precisely did you wish recovered, Mr. Langtree?”

  Not surprising, her voice was as enchanting as her appearance. He was in the presence of an angel. Even her scent was bewitching. Something floral, something familiar . . .

  “Mr. Langtree?”

  Pull yourself together, man! She’ll think you’re a drooling idiot. He cleared his throat. “A pocket watch of great sentimental value.”

  “You’ve lost your watch?”

  “In a manner of speaking, it is in another’s possession.” He watched her amazing eyes. He could almost see the clockwork of her mind, the tumblers clicking . . . Her eyes narrowed.

  “I’m not a thief, Mr. Langtree.”

  “Of course not.” Liar. A thief is exactly what you are, and one of the best I’ve ever seen. He smiled, ever so slightly. “The watch belongs to me even though it currently resides in another’s pocket.”

  Her brows lifted. “How could such an injustice have ever occurred?”

  Sarcasm! He swallowed the grin that threatened to spread across his face. “The watch was initially . . . my father’s.” He feigned sadness hoping to appear sincere. “As I mentioned, it has great sentimental value.” He accepted an offered tea cup from the aunt and sipped. “My mother decided to gift it to her paramour even though it was not hers to give.”

  “Have you asked your mother to retrieve the watch f
or you?” The slight tilt of her lips suggested she thought he was a bit addlepated, which was his intention. However, he was sorely tempted to drop the pretense just so he’d stand taller in her eyes. Still, he needed to finish the game.

  “She wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. Farthington suggested I come to you.” The name had registered with her aunt, but the only hint of recognition in the niece was the faintest separation in her enticing lips. She was competent at hiding her emotions. Thank the powers that be that the likes of Miss Havershaw would never be admitted to the gentlemen’s clubs for the purposes of a card game. He’d lose his shirt. Of course, if he lost it to Miss Havershaw, that might not be the worst experience. “Mrs. Farthington mentioned that you had retrieved an item for her for which she is very grateful.”

  “Yes, well, I would have preferred that Mrs. Farthington had not shared that information.” She narrowed her gaze, studying him with an air of skepticism. He concentrated on the tea cup, hoping to avoid her scrutiny.

  “Are you familiar with Lord Pembroke, Mr. Langtree?”

  What the devil? His disguise must be failing! He delicately touched his napkin to his upper lip, just in case the steam from the tea had weakened the spirit gum. He used the moment to regain his poise before resuming the facade.

  “No. I’m afraid not.” He balled the napkin in his palm. “Of course, I expect to show my gratitude with a financial boon for the return of my watch.”

  She studied him a moment longer, her distrust still lingering, then glanced at the tall parlor clock. “How much of a boon, Mr. Langtree?”

  “Shall we say, twenty pounds?” Her eyes widened and he hastened to add before she questioned his generosity. “It is a very dear and rare watch.”

  Judging from the state of her brougham and the parlor furnishings, it would be a difficult offer to decline. Besides, he hadn’t the social boon that she had extracted from Mrs. Farthington.

  “Perhaps you should tell us more about this watch, Mr. Langtree,” the aunt interceded with a piqued interest. “Where do you suspect it to be?”

  And so he did. Their tea finished and the bait set, he stood to take his leave. “When do you suppose I’ll see my dear watch again?”

  He noticed the aunt’s eyes shift to the tall clock in the corner, while Miss Havershaw kept him firmly in her gaze.

  “I imagine before the week is out,” the aunt said.

  He nodded. “Good day, ladies.”

  LUCINDA ATTEMPTED TO DISCRETELY PEER THROUGH the draperies at Mr. Langtree once he had left the town house. There was something about the man. Something that just didn’t register true. His clothes and mannerisms seemed at odds to the sharp glittering acuity in his eyes. There was something familiar about him. The fine hairs at the base of her neck prickled.

  “This has certainly turned into a profitable week.” Aunt Eugenia could hardly contain her excitement. “First, Mrs. Farthington and then Mr. Langtree, we shall have enough funds for the household expenses and a little extra to put aside for the winter.”

  Winter, Lucinda grimaced, Aunt Eugenia’s euphemism for living on the street. Fighting starvation while avoiding detection, without a shelter to call home and with hungry mouths to feed . . . Yes, she understood her aunt’s joy at avoiding that dire turn of circumstances. But still, there was something about that man . . .

  She recalled his expression when she had first entered the room. A delicious warmth had spread beneath her corset at his appreciative stare. Even now, at the memory, a strange fluttering pushed at her stays. Then he spoke, his voice soft and deep, like a childhood lullaby meant to seduce the listener into doing one’s bidding . . .

  “Lucinda? Are you listening to me, dear?”

  Her aunt’s voice chased Mr. Langtree’s pleasant attributes from her thoughts. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  “I was noting that you only have about two more nights of full moonlight left. When do you propose to retrieve Mr. Langtree’s watch?”

  She bit her lip. On one hand, the unsettling contradictions about Mr. Langtree’s person could cause her to dismiss the notion of retrieving his watch. However, should she do that, she would miss the opportunity of seeing and hearing him again. Then, of course, there was the question of financial need . . .

  “Tonight,” Lucinda replied, with a nod to her aunt. “Best to keep the winter at bay.”

  Before beginning her writing career in earnest, Donna MacMeans kept books of a different nature. A certified public accountant, she only recently abandoned the exciting world of debits and credits to return to her passion: writing romances. Her debut novel, The Education of Mrs. Brimley, won the 2006 Golden Heart for Best Long Historical. Originally from Towson, Maryland, she currently resides in central Ohio with her husband, two adult children, and loyal canine protector, Oreo.

  Donna loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at P.O. Box 1981, Westerville, Ohio 43086.

  Visit her website at www.DonnaMacMeans.com.