The Education of Mrs. Brimley

by Donna MacMeans

  The headmistress leaned forward, squinting. “Beatrice mentioned that you were much younger than we had anticipated. Sometimes my sister leaps to wild conclusions, but in this instance, I can see that she is correct. When exactly did your husband depart, Mrs. Brimley?”

  “He died in a tragic carriage accident nearly eighteen months ago. We married young, but alas, we were not married long.” Although she had rehearsed it well, the lie still warmed her cheeks. Emma dropped her gaze. With luck, the headmistress would interpret her blush as something else entirely.

  The woman waited a moment, touching the tops of her steepled fingers to thin, dry lips. “The length of your marriage is not important to us, but as I explained in our correspondence, it is mandatory that our new teacher have experienced marriage in her lifetime. Perhaps the girls will relate to a young widow more than they would to an older one.”

  The woman’s frown lessened, which Emma interpreted to signal acceptance. Her own smile born from relief threatened to surface, but Emma suppressed it, sensing it would not be appropriate.

  The older woman rose from her chair and strode to her desk. “You have already met Beatrice. She teaches needlework and the French language. I teach proper etiquette, grooming, and household management. You will be responsible for—”

  “Proper elocution and literature befitting young ladies,” Emma interjected, the suppressed smile bubbling to the surface. “Indeed, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Yes . . . well . . . there is one other subject you will be expected to teach. One that I did not mention in my letter but that should not be a problem given your experience.”

  The older woman avoided eye contact. Observing her uneasiness, Emma felt anxiety as well. Perhaps, if she reassured the headmistress as to the versatility of her own instruction, the conversation would return to its former easy discourse.

  “Mrs. Higgins—”

  “Miss Higgins,” the other woman corrected. “Neither my sister nor I ever married. That is the crux of our difficulty.”

  Confused, Emma mentally revisited her own education, trying to imagine how spinsterhood might prove difficult in the conduct of a school. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

  “Pettibone School for Young Ladies serves clientele of the first order,” the spinster said. “The wealthiest merchants and industrialists in the area send their daughters to us to mold into fine young women suited for marriage to gentlemen of the highest quality.”

  “Yes, yes, you mentioned that in your letters, but I still don’t understand.” Emma’s concern blossomed into foreboding. The headmistress was clearly uncomfortable with this topic. Why would this unsettle her so?

  “One of our patrons has suggested, quite correctly mind you, that the Pettibone School provides little in the way of instruction to prepare the girls for the intimacies of marriage, particularly the wedding night. Our patron quotes Mr. Copland’s definitive work on practical medicine that successful procreation can only be achieved if both parties are . . . well . . . agreeable to the process.”

  High color stained Miss Higgins’s cheeks. Fortunately, the older woman seemed oblivious to Emma’s own distress.

  “As the generation of heirs is a desired goal of marriage, we must prepare our girls for their ultimate responsibility.” Cecilia brought her gaze in direct line with Emma. “And teaching this, therefore, will be your responsibility.”

  Emma’s foreboding exploded to full-blown panic. “But what if—”

  “I must say that I am not in favor of this course of study,” the headmistress interrupted with a frown. “I believe certain behaviors”—she waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss them—“should remain unmentioned in polite society. However, our patron was quite emphatic. Therefore, I must insist that if you are not agreeable to teaching this subject matter, we will make arrangements to send you back to London.”

  Emma’s panic plummeted into despair. London, she knew, was not an option. This was not the time, she supposed, to confess she had no more knowledge about the subject of intimacy than the girls she was expected to teach.

  “I am shocked,” she stalled, trying to order her thoughts. “You never suggested in your letter . . .”

  The woman winced ever so slightly. “I was afraid you would not make the journey to Yorkshire if I had confided the true nature of your responsibilities. I apologize for my deceit, but it was necessary under the circumstances.”

  Emma glanced at the headmistress, who stood as unwavering as the Dover cliffs. They apparently shared a common thread of deceit. Would that make Miss Higgins more accepting should her own hidden truth emerge? Emma squashed that thought before it could fully develop. The consequences of admitting her lack of experience remained too severe to chance confiding in Miss Higgins.

  “Will I be teaching elocution and literature as well?”

  “Yes, of course. Pettibone will profit from a teacher of your background and training.”

  Emma worried her lower lip. No training had ever prepared her for this situation. She took a breath, then glanced at the gallery of faces on the wall: kind, friendly faces. She’d need their kindness and friendship if she was to succeed.

  “When do my classes begin?”

  Miss Higgins’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. “I suppose you will need a day to organize before assuming your duties. I will alternate your classes with those of the dance tutor. Let us begin the day after tomorrow.”

  Miss Higgins picked up a little bell. “Now that the matter is settled, I shall ring for tea. Beatrice shall join us, and we will all become better acquainted.”

  The day after tomorrow! That didn’t allow much time, Emma thought, fighting back rising alarm. Her fingers sought out her mother’s wedding band and the sense of calm it conveyed. She had one day of reprieve. Every day away from London allowed her trail to grow a little colder. She’d use the day to think of something. Although she wasn’t at all sure what.

  The moment Miss Higgins opened the door, Beatrice stumbled in with all the tea elements on a silver tray. One side of her face had reddened as if it had been pressed against the door.

  Emma suppressed a grin.

  “We anticipated your need for nourishment after such an arduous trip,” Beatrice explained in a rush.

  “Mrs. Brimley has agreed to the teaching arrangement we discussed.” Cecilia poured a cup of tea, then handed it to Emma. “I thought she might have some questions about Pettibone that we might answer.”

  “That is wonderful news.” Beatrice’s gray curls bobbed with approval. “Lady Cavendish’s letter of reference praised your credentials to such high extremes, we would have been disappointed if you had declined our offer.”

  Emma smiled faintly, relieved that her forgery had been accepted as genuine, but still ashamed to have resorted to such deceitful measures. Fortunately, the likelihood that the true Lady Cavendish would learn of her transgression was as remote as Leighton-on-the-Wold itself.

  “I’m so pleased to be here,” Emma said, shaking her head to turn down an offer of sugar and cream. “I do have one question, although it’s not specifically about Pettibone.” Steam from the hot liquid warmed her nose and fogged her eyeglasses.

  “What might that be, dear?” Beatrice asked.

  Emma sipped and smiled, letting the languid heat spread from the inside out. “What can you tell me about the man in the carriage?”

  “Henry, the driver?” Beatrice asked, sounding surprised.

  “No, the gentleman in the carriage.” Emma sipped a bit more of the fortifying liquid. Nothing could be so horrid that a good cup of tea couldn’t improve. “The driver referred to him as ‘his lordship.’ ”

  Cecilia’s cup clattered to the saucer. “Chambers was in the carriage?” She directed a glare toward her sister as chilling as the snow piled outside.

  Beatrice wrung her hands. “Henry didn’t say anything about his lordship. I didn’t know he was there.”

  Cecilia turned to Emma.
“Did he offend you in any way? What did he say?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did he touch you?”

  Alarmed by their reaction, Emma placed her cup and saucer carefully on a side table. “Indeed no. He slept almost the entire ride. Is something wrong?”

  “Pettibone School has been built on the most stringent standards of respectability.” Cecilia rose to pace the small room, wringing her hands. “Association with Lord Nicholas Chambers could place our pristine reputation in jeopardy. His behavior is not consistent with that of a gentleman.” She stopped in front of Emma. “Did anyone see you enter the carriage?”

  “He’s an artist,” Beatrice explained. “A painter. Tavern women come and go from his estate at all hours of the night.” Her twinkling eyes widened with excitement and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he’s extremely handsome. Did you think so, Mrs. Brimley?”

  “Beatrice!” Cecilia hissed. “How many times must I warn you that such talk does you no credit? He is a dissolute rake who uses women.”

  Beatrice quailed before her sister, clearly chastised.

  Cecilia turned to Emma. “Answer me, Mrs. Brimley. I must know if we are ruined.”

  “No one save the driver saw me enter, and it was extremely dark in the carriage. If I hadn’t heard his breathing, I would not have known he was there at all,” Emma said, quickly determining that her conversation with the attractive gentleman, as innocent as it had been, had best remain private.

  Cecilia sighed. “Good. Henry knows to hold his tongue.”

  Beatrice leaned toward Emma. “His estate borders ours, barely a mile distant, riding through the woods.”

  “It is bad enough that we have need to borrow his conveyance on occasion. We should not be forced to endure his person as well.” Cecilia sniffed, as if to suggest the demon lord had selected his estate for the sole purpose of taunting innocent Pettibone women.

  “My sister believes Lord Nicholas Chambers allows us use of his carriage because he relishes the thought of decent folk sitting on cushions that have witnessed all sorts of debauchery.” Despite Cecilia’s earlier rebuke, Beatrice’s eyes shone bright with curiosity.

  The suggestion of debauchery, mentioned in connection with the man in the carriage, sent a ripple of interest deep through Emma. She shifted, uncomfortable with the foreign feeling, and tried to shift her focus as well. Still, the man’s lazy half smile refused to abandon her thoughts.

  “Needless to say,” Cecilia said, raising her hand to interrupt her sister, “I will not allow that man’s close proximity to influence our girls. Now that you understand the danger, Mrs. Brimley, I am sure you will be ever vigilant and do the same.”

  Emma nodded. As difficult as it might prove to forget the intriguing lines of Lord Nicholas Chambers’s face traced in moonlight, or the unexpected thrill of their brief clandestine journey, those experiences were more in tune with those of a heroine in a light novel. Such flights of fantasy rarely touched her reality.

  It was just as well. A man who spoke poetry even when not in full possession of his wits could prove only a distraction to her immediate problem. She must obtain sufficient intelligence to portray a convincing widow, else she’d be back on her uncle’s doorstep. And that was completely unacceptable.

  EMMA MET THE GIRLS AT THE SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY—too many to remember all the names and faces. They swirled around her in pretty frocks, giggling and whispering. Emma suspected she was the subject of those poorly hidden discussions. In her black bombazine and horn-rimmed glasses, she felt like a weed in a flourishing cottage garden.

  She was introduced to many of the serving staff, none of whom appeared to be married. She’d find no font of knowledge in those quarters.

  Emma set out to explore the great manor that housed the school. With luck she hoped to discover a library with a text that might offer enlightenment on intimacy. She was proceeding down one hallway when her name, uttered in a low conversation, floated through the very air.

  “Have you seen the new teacher?”

  Surprised, she stopped just short of a turn in the hallway. As a new teacher, she probably should scold the girls for such vulgar behavior as gossiping, but curiosity got the better of her. She flattened herself against the wall paneling and listened. She couldn’t see faces, but their voices carried clear and close around the near corner.

  “She speaks funny,” a younger voice said.

  “That’s because she’s from London, you silly goose. They all sound like that, all hoity-toity down there.”

  One voice lowered to a near whisper. “I heard she arrived in a carriage all alone with Lord Bedchambers.”

  Emma’s cheek heated against the cool paneling. How could news of her unorthodox arrival travel so quickly? Surely the Higgins sisters had not publicized the circumstances.

  “If her belly starts to grow,” the first girl said, “we’ll know it’s not from Cook’s meals.”

  “Fanny, you are so wicked!” Laughter echoed off the walls.

  “Girls!” Beatrice’s voice interrupted the merriment. “Have you no better place to be?”

  Emma shriveled inside. The years should have toughened her hide to the hurtful prickings of the privileged, but the unkind laughter still struck deep.

  Emma silently tiptoed back down the hall before rushing to the opposite wing of the house. Embarrassed by the overheard conversation and by her equally improper eavesdropping, she pushed through the first door she encountered and stumbled into the library.

  Her pulse raced from her hasty flight, while the girls’ taunts still echoed in her ears. She sank onto a wooden chair and braced her forehead with her hands. She had come all this way yet still remained an object of ridicule. How foolish to run away from home, thinking to escape the whispers and scorn.

  Deep in the recesses of her mind, she heard laughter, her uncle’s laughter. The mere thought of him sent an icy chill tripping down her spine. Determined to rid herself of the memory, she pushed herself from the chair. She had managed to escape London without his notice. If she was to stay hidden, she’d best get to work.

  The upper portion of three walls in the library were lined with bookshelves, more empty than full. Emma found a few dusty novels, mostly by the late Mr. Dickens, Mrs. Beeton’s thick tome on household management, and several collected volumes of fashion magazines and needlework patterns. Just as she resigned herself to needing an alternate strategy, she spied a volume on a high shelf beyond her reach. It lay flat so as not to be obvious to the casual observer.

  Pulling a small step stool into position, Emma stretched to her full height to retrieve the book, a sizeable medical text, and looked at the title: Mr. Copland’s A Dictionary of Practical Medicine.

  “There you are. I’d been hoping you’d be here.” Delighted with her find, she stepped off the stool and took the volume to a nearby table. The book opened a bit too naturally to worn pages marking the discussions on conception. Although she readily discovered Mr. Copland’s assertion regarding enjoyment of intimacy, she could find no mention on how that enjoyment was to be obtained.

  Belatedly, she realized that had the information been so available, Miss Higgins could teach the class as well as she.

  “Have you found what you’re searching for, Mrs. Brimley?” Cecilia asked, startling Emma from her examination of the text.

  “Miss Higgins! Yes . . . I was checking to see what books I could use in my literature sessions.” She readjusted her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose. “Your novels complement my volumes on poetry. These shall do quite nicely.”

  Miss Higgins glanced at the open text. Her brow raised.

  “Do you plan to discuss female hysteria in your literature class?”

  Emma closed the book. “I was curious as to the ailments listed. I suppose in a remote location such as this, doctors are difficult to obtain. How far is the nearest village?”

  “You rode through it last night.”

  Emma recalled passing a handful of buildings, a
church, and at least one tavern.

  “But if one of the girls is seriously ill, we send word to Hull or York. It may take several hours, but we are not without medical resources.” Cecilia cocked a brow. “Are you planning to need the assistance of a doctor?”

  “No, I was just curious,” Emma replied quickly, although she certainly wished for a doctor’s knowledge at present.

  Cecilia gazed about the library. “I think this room will do well for your classes. Naturally, I’ve selected only a few of the older girls to receive instruction.” She nodded to herself, apparently pleased with her decision. “I’ll let them know to meet you here tomorrow, and Mrs. Brimley”—her gaze leveled on Emma—“I believe I will attend your first class.”

  Emma stared at Cecilia’s retreating back. Tomorrow! Her heart raced. In the space of a night and day, she could easily be unmasked as a fraud and sent packing.

  She paced the room, trying to calm her frantic thoughts. Her needs were immediate, her resources were not. She paused, removing first a handkerchief from her cuff, then her spectacles from her nose.

  “Cleaner vision means clearer focus,” she recited, allowing her mother’s familiar words and the repetitive action of polishing her lenses to calm her nerves. “Sharp focus on any problem leads to possibilities.” She pushed the cleaned glasses back in place. “Possibilities lead to . . .”

  Her gaze lingered on the title of a small treatise lying on a low table, The Art of Arranging Cut Flowers.

  The word “art” reminded her of “artist.” A memory of the dark angel stirred her thoughts. Only an educated man would have recognized Lord Byron’s poem. An educated man would surely have books, and as an artist who painted the human figure, he might keep texts that addressed anatomical issues as well.

  “Possibilities lead to solutions,” she murmured, completing her mother’s familiar stanza. A flame of hope ignited deep inside. Miss Higgins had mentioned that the distance to Lord Nicholas Chambers’s estate was not far.

  Miss Higgins. The tiny flame sputtered, uncertain. Emma recalled Miss Higgins’s prohibition of association with the man in the carriage. She bit her lip. Calling on him might prove just as disastrous as not calling on him. Her stomach twisted in turmoil.