“What’s this?” Chambers asked, accepting the extended offering. He opened it, scanning the contents. “A ball at Pettibone? Is there no end to the commotion you bring, Mrs. Brimley?”
She smiled. If he was back to calling her by her alias, then the storm had indeed passed. “What do you mean, commotion? You’ll attend, of course.”
“I certainly will not.” He scowled. “I will not preen and strut for the benefit of the spinster sisters and their stable of breeding stock.” He glanced over at her. “You will be there, I suppose, in your insufferable black.”
She nodded. “It’s part of the role I must play.”
“I treasure my solitude, Mrs. Brimley. It’s the reason I came to Yorkshire instead of following some predetermined road in London. Pettibone has left me comfortably alone. Since your arrival, I have had unconscious women in my parlor, uninvited children in my stable, and now unwanted invitations to parties. What is next, Mrs. Brimley? Visits from the old biddies themselves?”
She frowned, knowing how Beatrice had originally hoped to deliver the invitation herself. “You won’t come?”
“No,” he repeated. “I won’t come.”
“Then I suppose your brother will stand in your stead,” she replied lightly, then turned to retreat to the easel. The girls would be concerned by their absence.
“You know of the Marquess?” A soft thud reassured her that he was following behind. A sense of power flashed through her.
“Miss Higgins speaks very highly of him. She sent him an invitation over a week ago.” Emma pushed some stray tendrils up under her hat before chancing a look his way. “Of course, there is no guarantee that he’ll travel all the way from London.”
Chambers hesitated, his eyes slightly narrowed, one brow arched.
So the invitation to the Marquess of Enon troubled him, she noted with an inward smile. Fine. Let him stew in his family difficulties, just as he had dismissed hers.
Emma glanced at the clouds building in the sky. “I think it’s time we return. I had promised the sisters we’d return before tea.”
ONCE EMMA’S BACK HAD TURNED, NICHOLAS BEHEADED an innocent daisy with the tip of his stick. Bloody hell! Guests at Black Oak would limit his opportunities with Emma. His servants would honor his edict not to speak about Emma’s visits, but he couldn’t trust his brother or any of his traveling companions to do the same.
He glanced at the sway of Emma’s bustle as she collected her young charges, imagining for the moment the curve of her derriere without the artificial enhancement. A smile tugged at his lips.
“You can’t hide behind their skirts forever, Emma.” He kept his voice low so only the breeze that pushed at his face could hear. “Guests or no guests, I’ll have you and your enticing pink corset back in my studio to complete your education or my name isn’t Lord Nicholas Bedchambers.”
Fourteen
WITH ALL THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE BALL, NEITHER Cecilia nor Beatrice managed to participate in Emma’s classes, much to her delight. The class had moved upstairs to the Higgins sisters’ large bedroom, while preparations continued underfoot on the first floor. In the sanctity of the sparsely furnished room, the girls discussed kissing techniques at great length. Mentally reflecting on her first kiss with Nicholas, Emma warned that the timing of a kiss might not be of their choosing, then she suggested the possibility of an unfamiliar type of kiss.
“Ladies, I’d like you to stick out your tongues as far as they can go. Now move them to the right. Move them to the left. Up to the top and down.”
All the girls stood in a line with their tongues rotating in a well-ordered drill.
“Why do we have to do this, Mrs. Brimley?” Alice asked.
“Because sometimes when kissing, men like to do battle with their tongues. You should be prepared to accept your husband’s tongue if he chooses to explore with it.”
Accept it, pray for it, demand it, she thought, remembering that internal explosion the last time Nicholas chose to explore her with his tongue. A quiver rimmed her feminine core and rippled up through her chest.
“Mrs. Brimley, are you all right?” Charlotte’s eyes opened to wide circles. “Your face turned pink all over.”
“I shall be fine.” Retrieving her mother’s handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her forehead. “I’m just excited about the ball.”
The girls readily accepted the mistruth, and after a brief giggling fit, returned to the tongue exercises with renewed vigor. Emma smiled with affection. Silly girls, they had so much to learn.
“But if a man wishes to explore with his tongue,” said Elizabeth, pausing long enough to scowl, “why are we doing this?”
“Because some men find it stimulating if you explore their mouths with your tongue as well.” Three of the girls groaned, the other two laughed. Emma clapped her hands for order. “Therefore, we are doing tongue dexterity exercises.”
“This does not seem ladylike,” Elizabeth said, although it sounded more like “adie-ike” with her tongue extended.
“It’s not meant to be ladylike, Elizabeth. Once you are properly married, many of society’s rules are forgotten for purposes of more earthy concerns.”
“Urte kaherns?” Charlotte asked.
“Procreation,” Emma answered. “Production of heirs. That is, after all, why we are having this class.” Her stern look silenced the anticipated snickers but did nothing to curb her own regret. She would most likely never sample the earthy concerns found in a marriage bed.
“Now I want you to roll your tongues in a tighter circle like this.” She demonstrated. “And to help you, I’ve brought you these candy sticks.” She produced the assortment of striped sugar confections that she had purchased in town. She placed one in each outstretched hand. “Pretend the candy is the man’s tongue and swirl your tongue around it, just so.”
“What does a man taste like?” Elizabeth asked, a faraway look in her eye. “Does he taste as sweet as this candy?”
“If he does,” plump Hannah added, “I’m going to collect all the kisses I can.” The girls laughed and Emma smiled indulgently.
“No, a man doesn’t taste sweet.” Emma glanced out the window at the wide green lawn bordered by woods. Black Oak lay just beyond, out of sight of the school. Not far in distance, it would be forever closed to her, now that she had decided not to return to Chambers’s studio. Longing rose from her heart and congealed in her throat causing her voice to drop. “He tastes a bit like . . . warmed brandy. Powerful . . . potent, yet soft and gentle, all at the same time.”
She closed her eyes and pressed a handkerchief to her nose, inhaling the faint scent of oils and turpentine.
The girls giggled. The sound jolted Emma back to reality, and in the process, knocked her glasses askew. She readjusted them just as Cecilia knocked on the doorframe.
“I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs. Brimley, but you have a visitor.”
Emma hesitated. “A visitor?” Only Chambers knew of her presence at Pettibone, and he certainly wouldn’t call for a visit.
“Yes, an old friend who is most anxious to see you once again.” Cecilia bestowed one of her rare smiles, increasing Emma’s already heightened anxiety.
“Girls, continue practicing your exercises,” Emma said, tucking the handkerchief back in her sleeve. “I’ll return shortly.”
She tried to keep concern off her face, but her heart quickened its pace. Had she become too comfortable here at Pettibone? Had she let down her guard and unconsciously let her past intrude? She no longer kept a packed valise handy in case she had to flee on a moment’s notice. Of course, even if she exercised that plan, she had no where to go.
The two women descended the main staircase. Whereas Cecilia tended to be the more somber of the two, the lightness to her step left Emma mystified. She hurried Emma along as if she were a prized ewe brought to market. Cecilia led Emma to the very salon where she herself was first entertained. Beatrice obscured her view of the visitor, but judging by the
rich trimmings on her fashionable overskirt, the mysterious woman was not only wealthy, she was also not local. At least the visitor was female and therefore not her uncle. She issued a soft sigh of relief.
“Here she is, Lady Cavendish, our own Mrs. Brimley,” Cecilia announced.
Emma stopped, a smile of greeting frozen on her lips. Lady Cavendish!
Beatrice stepped aside, allowing full access to the very woman whose signature Emma had forged on a glowing letter of reference. What should be a reunion of acquaintances was truly a meeting of strangers. Emma’s tongue felt too thick to offer a greeting. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She waited stiff as a board for an accusatory finger to denounce her as a fraud.
Lady Cavendish was an older woman, perhaps five or six years beyond her mother’s own age. Her keen eyes leveled on Emma, and her lips curved in a knowing tilt.
Lady Cavendish dipped her head, reminding Emma to do the same. Indeed, Emma scolded herself; as the younger party, she should have been the one to initiate the greeting, if shock and dread hadn’t robbed her senseless.
“Mrs. Brimley,” Lady Cavendish said, “it is so good to see you again. I was most pleased to hear of your position here at Pettibone.”
Emma just smiled. What else could she do? Though she longed to ask how Lady Cavendish managed to find her, her tongue apparently had forgotten how to work. A vile sickening swirled in her stomach.
Beatrice, however, after imploring all to sit and be comfortable, supplied the explanation that Emma lacked. She twisted toward Emma.
“My sister and I were so pleased with your abilities that we wrote to Lady Cavendish to thank her for her letter of reference.” Beatrice twisted back to Lady Cavendish. “We had not entertained the hopes of finding someone of Mrs. Brimley’s refinement. Once we saw your letter we knew at once that Mrs. Brimley would be perfect for Pettibone, and we certainly were not wrong.” Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm. “I don’t know how we managed before without her.”
“A school of this nature needs an experienced woman,” Cecilia continued, “to offer guidance of a more worldly nature.”
“Indeed.” Emma felt Lady Cavendish’s intonation go right through her. “I’m pleased that my dear friend has filled the role so admirably. But I wonder if Mrs. Brimley and I may speak in private? We have much to discuss.”
“I wish I had known you were coming,” Emma offered tightly, maintaining the appearance that she knew this lady. “I could have rearranged my teaching schedule. As it is I have so little time . . .”
“The indiscretion was mine, I’m afraid.” Lady Cavendish continued the hoax, pretending that they were not absolute strangers. “I didn’t realize that I would be traveling this way till quite late. I could not send advance notice.”
“But you will stay for the Pettibone Ball?” Beatrice asked, lace bobbing with her emphatic nod. “I’m sure it will not be as grand as those to which you are accustomed, but the girls will want to make your acquaintance. You will be our honored guest.”
“But I . . .”
“Please, Lady Cavendish,” Cecilia intoned. “We are hoping to introduce our ladies and demonstrate the skills they have learned at Pettibone. Your presence at this event will guarantee its success. Our reputation shall be greatly enhanced to have a guest of your social caliber.”
“I suppose I could ask my host if I could extend my visit,” Lady Cavendish demurred with a slight smile in Emma’s direction. A cold chill of premonition settled over her. What game was in play here?
“Where are you staying?” Emma asked a bit urgently.
“At Black Oak,” Lady Cavendish replied. “The Marquess of Enon was traveling in this direction, and I thought I might share his carriage so that I might visit with my old friend.”
“You have an old friend at Black Oak?” Beatrice asked gaily. Emma tensed. Chambers had not mentioned friends in society’s circles. Was there another deceit afoot?
“My old friend is you, Mrs. Brimley, not anyone at Black Oak.” Lady Cavendish’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Miss Higgins’s letter stirred my curiosity about my old friend.” Her emphasis carved an awkward pause.
Cecilia looked to Emma, then to Lady Cavendish, and back to Emma. “I suppose we should leave you two alone to discuss private matters.” Her tone suggested she and Emma would later confer privately. “The tea is still hot. Let us know if we can make your visit more enjoyable.”
Emma freshened Lady Cavendish’s cup and poured one for herself while listening for retreating footsteps down the hall. Once satisfied that they were quite alone, Emma left her cup cooling on the saucer and turned to Lady Cavendish. “Why are you here?”
“I was curious,” she said, a calculating gleam in her eye. “I don’t seem to recall writing a letter of reference for a young widow. You can imagine my surprise when I received a highly complimentary letter on my excellent referral. Why, quite naturally I wished to meet this enterprising young widow who has capitalized on my reputation.” Lady Cavendish smiled ever so slightly, then gazed at Emma over her cup.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Emma whispered. “Teaching here at the Pettibone School for Young Ladies provided a much needed opportunity to escape London. I knew they would require validation for the position.” She pulled her mother’s handkerchief from her cuff, crushing it in her hand. Lady Cavendish’s gaze followed the gesture.
“Why me?” she asked.
“I’d heard my mother mention your name,” Emma said. “And, of course, you are well known in society, thus your name carries a certain prestige. I never imagined that you’d travel this far north. Even if you did, I supposed that the Pettibone School for Young Ladies would escape your notice.”
Though Emma had hoped otherwise, her compliment made little impression. Lady Cavendish tilted her head and narrowed her focus. “Your mother spoke of me? Do I know her?”
“My mother died shortly before Christmas.” Regret at lost opportunities settled in Emma’s stomach. Her gaze dropped to the crumpled linen in her palm.
“I’m sorry,” Lady Cavendish replied before squinting her eyes toward the window. “Brimley . . . Brimley . . . that name has a ring of familiarity, in an obscure way.” She glanced back at Emma. “Did I know your husband?”
“I’m not a widow, Lady Cavendish.” Emma correctly anticipated Lady Cavendish’s look of surprise. “The school specified that the proper applicant be a widow, and so I invented a husband.”
The admission brought a smile to Lady Cavendish’s lips. She leaned forward. “I believe those invented husbands are often the best kind.”
They shared a laugh that violently shook the ribbons and silk flowers attached to Lady Cavendish’s hat and eased Emma’s fear of condemnation. She breathed a bit easier.
Lady Cavendish’s smile narrowed. She studied Emma’s face while appearing to reach some internal conclusion. “While I do not condone the appropriation of another’s reputation to serve one’s own purpose, I am inclined to believe that the gratitude of Miss Higgins and her sister shows you have served my reputation well. However,” she added, her face taking on a stern bent, “if I am to be a participant in the charade you have constructed, I must know if you have invented more than just a husband.”
Emma hesitated, reluctant to place her fate in this woman’s hands.
“You mentioned that you needed to escape London,” Lady Cavendish prodded. “Are you a criminal, Mrs. Brimley?”
“No, not at all,” Emma gasped, never expecting one could conceive of such a question. “I needed to escape my uncle who had dubious plans for my future.”
“Your uncle’s name would be?”
Emma chewed on her lower lip. Once her uncle’s name was revealed, it would be a simple matter to trace back to . . .
“Speak up girl, or I shall call back those two droll sisters and explain that you are a liar and a charlatan,” Lady Cavendish snapped. She tapped the tip of her parasol on the floor, reminding Emma of another who used a walking st
ick to punctuate his thoughts. He held her secrets as well.
“My name is Emma Heatherston,” she said, summoning her courage. “My uncle is Mr. George Heatherston.”
“And the name Brimley? Quick girl. Where did you find that particular name?”
“I had heard both my uncle and mother mention it. I thought perhaps it might be . . .” She dropped her head, her voice little more than a whisper. “My father’s name.”
“Silly girl, your story twists and turns like Parliament’s temper.” Lady Cavendish shook her head. “A child does not ‘borrow’ a father’s name unless—” Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “A by-blow?”
Emma’s throat tightened; she nodded.
Lady Cavendish pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner. “What is the nature of this dubious plan your uncle has designed?”
“He seeks to barter me for money. I left London before I became part of his nefarious scheme.”
“Barter you? Whatever nonsense is this?”
“It is not nonsense, I assure you. I know what I overheard. It is best that I remain hidden from him.”
“For how long, child?”
“Until he loses interest in finding me. Until I no longer have value.”
“This is a sordid story, Miss Heatherston.” She pushed on the handle of her parasol in consternation. “I shall daresay attempt to get to the bottom of it when I return to London.” She dropped her voice to conspiratorial tones. “I’m considered a bit of an amateur sleuth, you know.”
“No!” Emma cautioned. “You mustn’t do that. My uncle will only become suspicious and renew his efforts to find me. Please don’t stir the waters. And may I prevail on you, Lady Cavendish, to refer to me as Mrs. Brimley? If the sisters expect otherwise, I shall be cast adrift.”
Lady Cavendish seemed surprised. “Those two? Why, did I not just hear them say they could not function efficiently without you?”
“The sisters would feel betrayed if they learn I have been less than honest with my identity. They would feel honor bound to insist on my departure.” She dropped her head. “And I have no where else to go.”
The Education of Mrs. Brimley Page 18
