The Education of Mrs. Brimley

by Donna MacMeans

  “From all appearances, the widow Brimley has plumped since her last visit,” Thomas offered from the doorway.

  Nicholas winced. This was not a morning for sudden motions or deciphering riddles. “What exactly do you mean by ‘plumped’? She’s not a pigeon, Thomas.”

  “With your permission, sir, when Mrs. Brimley called two nights ago, I noted her attire appeared a bit large for her frame.”

  “Yes, I noticed that as well. She was drowning in all that ill-fitting black cloth,” Nicholas said, remembering his own desire to view her free of all that baggage. Heat flared in his groin. Seeking relief, he splashed water on his face.

  “This morning,” Thomas said, stepping back into the room to drape a towel over one arm, “she can barely fasten the buttons on the same garment.”

  Nicholas stopped his motions and glanced over his shoulder toward Thomas. He ignored the offered towel, preferring the stimulation of the water dripping down his chest. How could she fill that monstrosity of a dress in so few days? Even gluttony required time to pad one’s figure . . . pad? Instantly, he recognized the reason for her “plumping.” The chit hoped to best him at his own game.

  Appreciation of her ingenuity pulled at his lips. It was no small wonder he enjoyed her company, a challenge at every turn. But if she thought she could thwart his purposes with his own terms, then she underestimated the extent of his desires. Now, what to do about it?

  He pulled a cloth from Thomas’s arm and turned back to the mirror, scowling at his reflection.

  “Did you place Mrs. Brimley in the front salon?” He watched the mirror for Thomas’s nod. “Is the fire lit for her comfort?”

  “Yes, sir, I prepared it myself.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled, blotting his face with the cloth. The plump pigeon was set for roasting.

  “I would like breakfast served in the salon. Please set the table for the widow and myself directly in front of the fire.”

  Thomas’s brow creased in an unusual display of puzzlement. “But won’t that be rather hot for—”

  “Directly in front, Thomas.” Nicholas insisted, swabbing the cloth over his chest hair to catch the clinging droplets.

  “Yes, sir. I will attend to it immediately.”

  Nicholas smiled, choosing not to elaborate. It was time for the teacher to be taught a lesson. “Please inform Mrs. Brimley that I shall be down presently.”

  EMMA PACED THE LENGTH OF THE SALON, NOT AN EASY task given the weight of the garments journeying with her. Dismissing the tingling excitement coursing through her veins at the prospect of seeing him again, she schooled herself to focus. Her feminine desires mustn’t interfere with this educational opportunity.

  She mentally rehearsed the series of questions she planned to ask his lordship, assuming his offer was still available.

  Dear heavens! What if he had found another model to meet his needs? Another woman, a comely one well endowed with feminine attributes, could be disrobed in his studio this very minute. She stopped in her tracks. Rejection tore through her belly. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been rejected before. The few suitors who had offered tepid kisses during her lackluster season had balked at the prospect of marriage. That was not correct, she amended. They had balked at marriage to her, as both had married someone else within a year’s time. The pain from those prior snubs stabbed at her anew. Her fingers tried to curl into a fist, but the layering of gloves of various lengths made the motion impossible. Instead her fingers leaned into a fat claw.

  Still, the possibility that Chambers would choose someone else to model for his painting disturbed her beyond the pale. She would lose her bartering position, that was certain. But, she had the distinct impression she would lose something else as well. She bit her lip and crushed her linen handkerchief in her palm. He must still need her. He must.

  Thomas appeared carrying a wooden table that he proceeded to set before the fire.

  “His lordship shall appear presently. May I offer something for your comfort?”

  Relieved, Emma shook her head no. If Lord Nicholas Chambers planned to receive her, he must still require her services. Her trip to Black Oak was not in vain.

  Although the prospect of unfastening buttons and removing layers of fabric in Chambers’s presence kept her nerves on edge, she remained satisfied that her multiple layers would protect her from revealing anything of an intimate nature. The thought offered a semblance of control. She could do this.

  Thomas returned with linens, china, and silver and proceeded to arrange the table for a meal. Emma chose to study the landscapes lining the salon’s walls while she waited. The room had been too dark and she too nervous on her prior visit to notice them.

  A shift in the current of the room prickled the back of her neck and lifted gooseflesh on arms buried beneath three layers of sleeves. With sharp awareness, she knew the cause. Lord Nicholas Chambers had arrived.

  “Widow Brimley, I had not anticipated seeing you so soon.”

  She turned and curtsied, her stomach twisted into tight knots. Why did the sight of him, the mere sound of his voice, reduce her insides to warm mush?

  “I have been admiring your collection of artwork.” Her words stuck and scraped her throat like dry toast. “Particularly these charming landscapes.”

  His lips thinned. “Charming, Mrs. Brimley?” His eyes glittered dangerously. Her chest tightened. Somehow her words had given offense, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “They were produced by a local painter, not worthy of much notice.” He frowned.

  For just an instant, she thought she saw a flash of pain, of vulnerability. However, it quickly passed behind a façade of confident arrogance. She readjusted her glasses. Perhaps she had been mistaken.

  He moved toward the table, his walking stick not in evidence. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

  “I’ve already eaten, thank you.” It was a lie, of course. She couldn’t eat and expect to squeeze into all these clothes, but he wouldn’t know that.

  “Then please do me the honor of sitting with me by the fire. We can talk while I take a bit of refreshment.” He motioned her toward a chair with an assertive sweep of his arm.

  The seat he had indicated was too close to the fire for comfort, but she couldn’t politely refuse. Hopefully, his lordship was a quick eater. The warmth generated by his presence alone could melt the waxworks at Madame Tussauds. She negotiated her multiple layers into the breadth of the chair.

  “Am I to assume by your visit this morning that you have reconsidered my offer?” he asked, after both had been seated at the table. She smiled nervously, reminding herself that her overdressed state allowed her to play the vixen without compromise to her virtue.

  “The girls had more questions,” she stated. Beatrice and Cecilia had questions as well, but she didn’t mention them. “I have little choice but to accept your proposal.”

  “I see.” His gaze slowly swept from her eyes to momentarily rest on her lips, before a prolonged appraisal of her clothes-inflated chest. She shifted a bit on the chair, afraid he might see too much.

  A tight smile pulled at his lips before he carefully, and oh-so-slowly, slathered cream onto some hearty scones. He offered one to her, but at her refusal, placed it on his plate, proceeding to carefully dish eggs, potatoes, and various meats.

  The scent of the lavish fare set her stomach to complain. She bit her lip, hoping Chambers didn’t notice. A rivulet of moisture raced between her shoulder blades down to the small of her back. Her black bodice held the heat from the fire too efficiently. What the top layer captured, the two below retained.

  “I am honored that you have placed your faith and trust in me by accepting my proposal fairly and honestly,” he said after what seemed to be many protracted moments. “I believe honesty to be one of the great undervalued virtues. Don’t you agree, Miss Brimley?” A dimple flashed for a moment before his face settled into a more serious expression.

  “Honesty is importan
t,” she replied. Although at the moment, garbed in every piece of clothing that she owned, she didn’t feel very honest in her representation. She tried to ignore the moisture dampening the first layer of undergarments.

  “William Shakespeare once wrote that ‘honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.’ ” Lifting a small jar, he poured a thick stream of amber honey onto a waiting scone. He placed the sweetened biscuit on her plate. “Sugar, Mrs. Brimley?”

  “Shakespeare!” Enthusiasm displaced some of her discomfort. “You read the bard as well as Lord Byron?” This was the conversation she longed to share. She leaned forward. “I’m partial to sonnets myself. In fact, I am teaching literature appropriate for young ladies as well as”—she averted her eyes—“other courses.”

  She returned her gaze to his. How unfortunate that after today, after she had secured all her answers, she’d not be allowed to talk about literature, or art, or anything else with him again. A pang of remorse twitched at her lips.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes a study of empathy.

  Shock sizzled across her chest like snowflakes on heated skin. She pulled back in her chair and stared. Had he read her thoughts? What else did he know?

  He reached for the teapot. “I thought Thomas had offered you tea. Allow me to pour. A nice hot cup of tea on such a cold day should warm you for the work ahead.”

  He was just well mannered! Almost giddy at her false impression, she shook her head no. He poured the hot liquid anyway. She almost giggled. He certainly wasn’t as perceptive as she had credited him, otherwise he would have honored her refusal. Without thought, she sipped the hot liquid.

  Steam from the cup added to the gathering moisture on her face. She resisted the urge to retrieve one of several handkerchiefs tucked up her sleeve to mop her forehead in an unseemly fashion. Instead, she snapped open the remembered black fan that dangled from her wrist, and waved a frantic current. This must be what inferno feels like. Although she’d brought the fan as another item of clothing to barter, she sorely needed its comfort. How apropos she should experience inferno in the midst of her deceit.

  “Perhaps we should get started on your painting,” she said, anxious to escape the sweltering room. “I have many questions to present to you.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “I can see that.”

  Still seated at the table, he selected a poker from an assemblage of implements, then stoked the fire, releasing even more heat into the room. “First, however, I wish to learn your philosophy on honesty and deceit. You recall I promised that your secret regarding your lack of experience is safe with me.”

  “Thank you for that, sir.” Her words, to her mind, issued slow and heavy as if she had to push them through the very air. Indeed, everything seemed heavier, her clothes, her eyelids, even the fan. She concentrated on waving it faster.

  “I need to know if my secret is safe with you.” His gaze leveled on her face. There seemed an unusual intensity about him, though exactly why she couldn’t discern.

  “Your secret?” Had she heard him correctly? “You haven’t shared a secret with me, sir.” She gave into temptation and attempted to discreetly blot her forehead with a lacy scrap of linen. The heat numbing her senses. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for another, as before?”

  “My secret lies in my art,” Chambers continued, holding her gaze captive. “The creation of a painting is personal beyond measure. If you come to this bargain lightly, it would render my art trivial. I would be deeply offended. I must know that you come to this agreement honestly and that you trust me to create a painting worthy of your sacrifice.”

  “I’m not a critic, sir.” She struggled to keep annoyance from her tone. Why wasn’t he as anxious to begin painting as she was to shed some of these superfluous layers? “I would not make light of your art.”

  “But are you a believer?” He leaned forward, emphatic in his discourse.

  Albeit a bit woozy, she looked deep into his eyes. Confidence resided there, as well as arrogance, but she glimpsed deeper emotions as well. Remembering his childlike innocence in the moonlight, she recognized both his yearning and his need for approval. Her heart expanded. He was not unlike her young charges at Pettibone: eager, trusting, and vulnerable. In those eyes, his eyes, all things were possible.

  “Yes.” Her lips spoke for her heart. “I believe in you.”

  “Excellent.” His wide smile shattered the brief spiritual connection.

  She blinked, trying to bring Chambers into focus. What just happened? His vulnerability collapsed behind rakish charm. Or was it all her imagination?

  The heat in the room, combined with the weight of all her garments, pulled the blood from her head. “Before we begin, my lord.” Her voice sounded slurred to her ears, distant. “There’s something I should tell you.” Was she even speaking?

  His brows descended, puzzlement chased across his face, then alarm. He drifted slightly to the right, along with the table and the fire.

  Light-headed, she tried to stand but her knees buckled. Her world dissolved to black.

  Five

  CHAMBERS STARED IN DISBELIEF AT THE BUNDLE of wool and trimmings that had crumbled into his arms. Good Lord, he’d never meant to harm the girl.

  His hands caught her about her rib cage, but the garments thus captured slid up while her body slipped down. She hung from his hands like a drunken sailor.

  “Mrs. Brimley?” He gave her a gentle shake. The effort dislodged her spectacles while her head lolled to one side. The peaches and cream complexion he’d noted earlier drained to a stark white. Her hat slipped from its proud mooring and settled at an absurd angle just above her closed eyelids.

  “Thomas!” he bellowed, his heart hammering in his throat.

  The voluminous garments negated his awkward attempts to pull her to a chair. Finally, he straddled her spineless body like one might a racehorse and hauled her to a seat cushion. If he hadn’t halted her continued downward progress, she would have easily tumbled out of the chair and onto the floor.

  “Thomas!”

  “I’m here, sir,” a calm voice answered from the doorway.

  Chambers half turned while supporting the woman in place. “I think she’s fainted,” he gasped. “Hold her for me. Mind her spectacles. They’ve fallen somewhere on the floor.”

  Once Thomas kept her positioned, Chambers moved his ear toward her mouth. The gentle puff of warm sweet breath brought instant relief, draining away his heightened anxiety.

  “She’s breathing, thank God.” He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “What happened, sir?” Thomas asked, holding Mrs. Brimley in place.

  “It must have been the heat. Those clothes weigh at least a stone, probably more.” He grimaced. Bloody fool. He should have known better than to enter this child’s game. He could almost picture William’s disapproving countenance. This time it would be well deserved.

  Nicholas slipped one arm beneath the general location of her knees and the other around her back. “Let’s move her away from the fire.”

  “Are you sure, sir? Won’t you let me do that?” Thomas asked an instant before Nicholas scooped her into his arms.

  “No. My leg will hold.” He grimaced, dismissing the pain that shot up his thigh into his hip. He alone was responsible for putting the poor girl into this predicament. He alone would see her through. Her head tipped back exposing a long fragile neck. A gentle lift of his forearm adjusted her head back into his chest.

  He looked down, letting her body reposition in his arms. She was like a bird. A poor, broken bird injured by his hand. All the weight of her garments left his arms and settled heavy about his heart.

  “Where to, sir?” Thomas asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Arianne’s room at the top of the stairs.” Nicholas moved awkwardly toward the door.

  “Bring me some water and smelling salts, if you can find them,” he called over his shoulder. “She
’ll need a maid to remove some of these clothes.”

  “I sent the maids away for the day,” Thomas said behind him. “You didn’t want any word of Mrs. Brimley’s presence traveling back to the school.”

  Bloody hell, he’d forgotten about that. Another bit of poor judgment to add to his growing list. “Then have Henry get that wife of his. She’ll know what to do and stay mum about it.” He took the steps as best he could, taking care to avoid the copious quantities of fabric that threatened underfoot. It was a wonder the woman could move with all this ghastly wool wrapped insidiously about her.

  Once Nicholas cleared the stairs, Thomas hurried in front to open the door and pull back the bed coverings. Nicholas laid Mrs. Brimley on the bed, then sat down beside her to catch his breath. The pain in his leg screamed bloody murder, but this was not the time for the solace of a numbing brandy. Hearing Thomas’s footsteps pound back down the stairs, Nicholas leaned over his prone companion.

  “Mrs. Brimley, wake up.” He removed the silly hat and lightly tapped her cheek, watching for a flutter of her lashes.

  She lay unconscious like a sleeping child. Not quite like a child, he amended, casting an eye down her definitely feminine curves. Hesitant to risk bruising her skin with a more substantial tap, he ran a knuckle instead along a delicate cheekbone, and leaned closer, lowering his voice to a gentle entreaty. “Mrs. Brimley?”

  Still no response.

  “Confound it, woman.” He pulled back before calling over his shoulder. “Thomas, where’s that water?”

  He attacked the large buttons on her bodice jacket, pushing the jet buttons through tight buttonholes. Once the jacket was unfastened, he still faced the task of pulling it off her limp body. He did so as delicately as he could, then tossed the jacket to a nearby chair and proceeded with the next item. Rocking her from side to side to track down elusive hooks, buttons, and ties, he managed to wield his way through the jacket, two skirts, a dress, and a horsehair bustle. He paused long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow.