The Education of Mrs. Brimley

by Donna MacMeans

  She paused midway down the stairs as if she could hear his exasperating thoughts. She glanced toward his hiding place before performing a more intense study of the wide expanse of floor between the foot of the stairs and the door.

  “Are you planning to run away again, Mrs. Brimley?” he challenged, allowing free reign to the irritation stirred by his mental scolding. He stepped into the spacious entry. “At least this time you’ve retained your shoes.”

  She blushed, drawing that winsome pink to her cheeks that stirred a reaction in his private regions.

  “I’m afraid I shall have to decline your invitation for refreshment,” she said, straightening as if she balanced Dickens’s complete works on her reordered topknot. “I’m long overdue at Pettibone and the spinsters will ask questions.” She continued her downward progress toward him.

  He lifted the bundle of garments from her arms. “Then I shall escort you to be certain that you don’t faint en route.” He stilled the beginning of her protest with his hand, lowering his voice to a more intimate level. “Were you planning to leave without bidding me farewell?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Her lower lip fell in apparent distress as if she couldn’t choose between good manners and good sense. Chambers smiled to himself. He’d wager she’d choose good manners.

  “Lord Chambers,” she said, pushing her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose, “our bargain is obviously forfeit. I think it best if I leave immediately.”

  “Why should our bargain be forfeit?” he asked with an innocent air. “Have you suddenly discovered all there is to know about relations between a man and a woman?”

  Her green eyes, luminous like polished emeralds, narrowed behind the cover of the lenses. Her lips pulled to a taut straight line.

  “You’ve undressed me, much to your amusement and my shame,” she said in a voice akin to a harsh whisper. “You’ve accomplished your goal as men are wont to do. The spinsters warned me about you, and I didn’t listen. It’s time to end this play. It’s past time for me to leave.”

  How had the trusting girl in the pink corset transformed so quickly into a judgmental prude in an ugly black dress? He could accept, perhaps, chastisement over pinning her to the bed. However, to accuse him of wanting to merely strip her naked, as if he were not already intimately familiar with a woman’s body, that was beyond contempt. He tossed her pile of garments into a nearby chair, letting them fly pell-mell over the furniture. He advanced on her, effectively backing her toward the wall.

  “Don’t come near me,” she said, panic affecting her voice.

  “My mission, as you call it, is to complete a painting, Mrs. Brimley. A painting that I cannot hope to finish without your assistance.” She could not retreat further, yet he still pressed on, perversely enjoying the alarm flashing in her eyes. Let her be worried. Her fool trick had cost him several years growth as it was.

  “My purpose in undressing you was not part of a schoolboy’s prank, but rather to alleviate the intense heat you suffered while wearing an inappropriate amount of clothing.”

  He braced one arm against the wall, blocking her means of escape.

  Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  He braced his other arm alongside her, trapping her in the narrow space between his chest and the wall. “If I’m to be accused of being dishonorable, I’m bloody well going to get something for the trouble.”

  She was trapped, much like a fox in a hole. Just as he had manipulated her in his bed upstairs, she was once again ensnared by his arms. She looked toward the hallway for assistance, but the broadcloth encasing Chambers’s well-muscled arm blocked her view.

  Emma turned her gaze back toward Chambers, intent on pointing out the inappropriateness of his behavior. Before she could say a word, his lips crushed down on hers. She tried to shake her head, but his hands moved quickly to hold her firmly in place. Once the shock of his actions passed, she eased her struggle, focusing instead on his kiss.

  His kiss! She had dreamed of precisely this moment from the day of her arrival at Pettibone. Poets wrote odes about the power of a kiss, though her limited experience in this area had shown the fireworks at the Crystal Palace to be far more exciting. However, with a man like Chambers . . . emotions should swell to dizzying proportions, desire should explode at the meeting of their lips. She waited . . .

  Nothing happened. No bells rang in the heavens. No outpouring of rhyme engaged the spirit. Perhaps she was what her uncle had implied her to be: a cold fish. Her euphoria faded in a crush of disappointment.

  The pressure eased, taking with it the discomfort of having her lips plastered to her teeth. She willed herself to relax. After all, stealing a kiss was hardly akin to stealing her virtue. His hands gentled on the sides of her face. She felt the soft tracing of his thumb edge along her cheek. His lips teased hers with playful little tugs.

  “Open for me, sweet lady.” He whispered before kissing her eyebrow. “Let me show you how it feels to be truly kissed.” He kissed the other eyebrow. “Then you’ll have an experience to share with your girls.”

  “Really, sir, I hardly think—”

  He seized the opportunity her words afforded him. Instantly, his lips joined hers in the most delightful fashion. Half out of curiosity, she pressed back with wondrous results. His hands found her waist and pulled her tight against his solid chest. She had to move her hands to his forearms to avoid having them crushed. The strength in them reminded her that just a few hours earlier, these very arms had carried her up the steps. Heat, ignited earlier by his intense stare, spread at the thought of being lifted by his arms and cradled by this chest. Tingles raced to her fingertips.

  Suddenly, his tongue touched hers, then teased and coaxed an interchange of play. A strange sensation to have someone inside a part of one’s body, she marveled, exciting and surprisingly delicious. Curious about this unique stimulation, she allowed her tongue to trace the length of his. A low rumble vibrated throughout his chest. He pulled her closer still, bending her frame into his. She could have lived a lifetime in that moment. Surrounded by another, sharing a breath.

  After too short a time, he withdrew, and Emma, believing it was part of the play, followed the retreat of his lips. Somewhere her disappointment had disappeared.

  “So you like my kisses, Mrs. Brimley,” Chambers said with a superior lilt.

  Her eyes opened to his dazzling smile. “It appears I like kissing,” she admitted. It would do no good to deny that fact when she had so enthusiastically responded. Who would have thought that the mating of two lips could set other parts of the body to simmer and hum?

  “I don’t know if my enjoyment has to do particularly with your kisses, Lord Chambers. I simply don’t have enough experience to compare.” Although her response had been honest, she silently admitted to enjoying the surprise that widened his eyes a moment before his laughter shook her frame as well as his own.

  “I have the experience you lack, madam, and I’ve been told my kisses are better than most.”

  “Proper etiquette would demand no less of a response.” Although in truth, none of her texts addressed such an issue.

  “Yet etiquette didn’t prevail upon you to praise my kisses.” His hands dropped from her waist. She felt an instant sensation of loss.

  “I apologize, sir. My manners must have deserted me.” As well as any sense of propriety, she mentally added.

  “Come,” he ordered, tugging at her elbow. “You need to eat.”

  He guided her to the salon and to the very table she had visited earlier, only now she noted it had been moved a reasonable distance from the fire. She picked up a piece of toast and slathered a swatch of butter across it. He, in turn, picked up a glass of amber liquid and drank with great swallows.

  “You gave me quite a fright,” he said in a low, hypnotic voice.

  He held her gaze a moment, then returned the empty glass to the table. He cocked his head and scowled until she popped the buttered toast into her mouth
and speared a bit of jumbled egg on her fork.

  “Mrs. Brimley, I have apologized for my rash behavior upstairs—”

  “Yet not below?”

  His lips turned in an indulgent smile. “You, however, have not apologized to me for your deceit.”

  Her mouth tightened, and by the satisfied expression on his face, he knew he had struck the mark.

  “I had a number of questions. More than what the apparel of a typical day would allow,” she said.

  His shuttered eyes stared at her without expression, his mouth thinned, and his dimple was a fading memory. She had hoped to close the discussion, but he didn’t believe her. An ancient ache pulled at her as if she were once again a little girl caught stealing a forbidden sweet.

  “In truth,” she confessed, “I did purposefully overdress. I did not wish to disrobe to a dishonorable state.”

  “Yet, you wanted honest answers from me.”

  She nodded, more embarrassed at acknowledging her deceit than she had felt appearing in her corset. The irony was not lost on her. She dropped her gaze to the plate.

  “Mrs. Brimley.” He reached across the table and stroked the underside of her chin. With gentle pressure, he raised her gaze to his. Her pulse quickened at his touch. Already she had experienced a degree of unsought intimacy with this man. She should feel a deep repulsion, or at minimum, a deep resentment. But as her gaze met his, a longing expanded with a dangerous pull of promise and intrigue.

  “I still require your assistance to complete my painting, and I assume you still require mine. I propose we continue our original bargain, with a stipulation that no matter what, we will be honest with each other. No more deceits,” he scolded lightly. “Are we agreed?”

  She watched his lips, wondering if brandy still burned if tasted from a man’s lips. She wanted . . . all the things a proper lady shouldn’t desire. Ah, but you’re not a proper lady, are you? her uncle’s voice intruded. You’re a tramp like your mother was a tramp. It’s in the blood.

  She pulled back from the soft stroke of his fingers. “I have a stipulation.”

  “What is that?” He asked, his eyes caressing her as if his fingers still made contact.

  “Under no circumstances will you touch me with your person.”

  His eyes widened a moment before his brow dived in a frown. He crossed his arms in front of him. “I recall no complaint when I carried you upstairs.”

  “I was unconscious, sir.” Heat singed her cheeks before she could marshal control. He would choose the very incident that had so entranced her moments before. “The circumstances of our meetings are immodest at best. I only seek to minimize the improprieties.”

  An eyebrow lifted, giving him an imperial air. “No more kisses?”

  “Especially no more kisses,” she said, hiding her disappointment. Too much of that tactile knowledge would land her in the “desperate straits” suffered by her mother.

  Chambers studied her a moment before a satisfied smile lifted his mustache. He rose, assumedly to check the fire. However, upon his return to the table, he stepped behind her, slowly easing his hands down the sides of her chair.

  She stiffened, uncomfortable with him hidden from her sight, yet intrigued by his close proximity. His heated breath stirred the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, coaxing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

  “Perhaps you should experience my touch before you so casually dismiss it?” His whisper drew shivers up her spine, while his hand stroked an invisible barrier near her forearm.

  She held her breath, afraid her true desires would respond rather than her refined intellect. He waited a few more agonizing seconds, then stood. “As you wish, Mrs. Brimley. Agreed.”

  “I have one more request, a favor, actually,” she said, a little giddy from her small victory. As long as he couldn’t touch her, she was safe from the disastrous consequences suffered by her mother.

  “In all the activity this morning, I haven’t had the opportunity to ask you some questions. I know that if I hadn’t tried to deceive you, I would have received information to present to my girls. But I’ll be expected to teach them something new, and now . . .”

  “Mrs. Brimley, one consequence of undressing you today is the discovery of all the incidentals that women wear for the pursuit of fashion. You have cuffs and collars, panels and skirts . . .” He pointed to the various items, then paused. “I propose I answer one question for each of the representative items that I removed today, provided they are promptly removed when next you enter my studio.”

  “Promptly?” She cringed at the idea of starting their sessions in such an undressed state. “Can you define ‘promptly’?”

  His frown conveyed more than words. He jabbed a finger toward her plate.

  “Agreed,” she said with little enthusiasm before finishing her eggs with two quick bites. She patted her mouth with a napkin, sipped the tea warming by her plate, and then delved into the matter at hand.

  “I’d like to discuss the issue of pain.”

  HENRY BROUGHT HER BACK AS BEFORE, LEAVING HER A discreet distance from the school. She walked the final distance, climbed the stone steps, then paused a moment. Full-bodied chords of an awkwardly played piano piece escaped through the stone and mortar.

  Talent night, she remembered. The girls were required to demonstrate their musical progress. Every proper young lady should have some musical talent either through voice or instrument.

  Emma was taught to play the piano, primarily to accompany Penelope at various dinner parties and outings. Actually, everything Emma was taught was meant to show Penelope to advantage. She was raised with enough knowledge of social mores to be Penelope’s companion, foil for her beauty, fodder for her conversation. At least in music Emma found a bit of revenge. Penelope never could carry a tune, a fact that was nevertheless blamed on Emma’s crude abilities. Penelope’s performances always signaled the end of a dinner party, which worked to Emma’s advantage. Why prolong an evening of gossiping debutants, lewd laughter, and awkward stares?

  An off chord grated on Emma’s ear, rousing her from reminiscing.

  The weekly recital should offer a diversion from her entrance. Congratulating herself on her bit of fortune, she opened the oak door as silently as possible. Once inside, she slipped out of her boots and tiptoed across the hall toward the stairs.

  “Mrs. Brimley.” Cecilia’s voice stopped Emma in the process of avoiding the squeaky floorboard in the second riser. Her stomach roiled at the summons, but she dutifully turned.

  Cecilia stood just outside the music room, a frown etched deeply in her face. “We were beginning to worry about your prolonged absence. Come here please.” Cecilia looked pointedly at her borrowed valise. “Now.”

  Just as Emma made slow silent progress toward her, Cecilia left the gathering in the music room and led the way toward the sitting room that doubled as an office.

  Without the accompanying clatter of boots, Emma sailed by the music room with only the soft rustle of crinolines. Yet to her own ears, each of her silent steps rang loudly as if someone were tolling a death knell. Sparring with Chambers had exhausted her reserves for intellectual combat. She feared she’d be no match for Cecilia if the older woman challenged her shield of deceit.

  The labored repetition of practiced chords slowed as she approached the office. Cecilia waited at the far end of the room. “Close the door,” she said.

  Emma noted even the lack of feigned courtesy. Just as she was about to comply with Cecilia’s order, Beatrice hurried in with a piece of handiwork. She quickly glanced at Emma, her eyes wide with alarm, then rushed to a seat near her sister, her head bent over her round embroidery hoop. Emma closed the door.

  The headmistress did not bid Emma to sit or in any way make herself comfortable. Emma’s toes wriggled in discomfort on the cool, drafty floor.

  “Mrs. Brimley, it is difficult enough to monitor and oversee the whereabouts of our twenty-seven students. I should not be forced to do the same f
or my teachers. You were hired for your presence, not your absence. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, madam,” Emma answered, feeling much smaller than the loss of her boots allowed.

  “I realize life here may be vastly different to the life you enjoyed in London. One might even say difficult in comparison.” Cecilia motioned to the valise. “Were you running away? If so, you are headed in the wrong direction.”

  “No, madam. I was not running away.”

  Cecilia waited, then sighed in apparent frustration. “Good heavens, child, where were you? We have been worried sick.”

  Cecilia’s evident concern made Emma’s admission all the more difficult. She stiffened her back and fixed her gaze on a spot on the wall. “I was visiting Lord Nicholas Chambers.”

  Beatrice gasped. When Emma allowed her gaze to drop to Cecilia’s face, she recognized the shocked expression of betrayal. It was the same look that had graced her own features a time or two in the past. Emma’s posture softened, wishing to ease them of the discomfort she had caused, but Cecilia held up a restraining hand.

  “Did you not understand that we disapprove of association with Lord Nicholas Chambers? That his reputation could easily tarnish ours?”

  “I knew you would disapprove. That is why I didn’t tell you before that I had need of inspecting his library.” She should be alarmed at the ease with which these mistruths rolled off her tongue. She would worry about that later. Right now she needed to pacify the sisters. “Once there, we engaged in a conversation about art, and I lost track of the hour.”

  Beatrice continued to punish her captive linen at a frantic pace. The porcelain filigree clock on the mantle ticked in rhythm to the tapping of Cecilia’s foot on a patch of wooden floor. In the elongated silence, Emma realized the notes from the music room had mercifully ceased.

  “If it hadn’t been for Lady Cavendish’s claims that you were a lady of high deportment and ethics,” Cecilia said half to herself, “I believe I would have insisted you return to London the minute you inquired about Lord Nicholas Chambers. I knew that brief association would come to no good.” Cecilia stared across the short distance of the room, alternately squinting her eyes and shaking her head in an internal battle. Having apparently come to some conclusion, her face softened. “Still, I suppose your widow’s status does allow a certain latitude. Perhaps this transgression is not as grievous as it would have been otherwise. As this is an isolated incident—”