The Education of Mrs. Brimley (7 page)

The other girls, except the loyal friend Charlotte, dissolved in hearty laughter.

Emma clapped her hands to quiet them down. “Ladies, ladies, that will be quite enough. Miss Higgins could substitute another course of study if this one proves too disruptive.”

The girls hid their laughter under smug smiles. Cecilia smiled approval from the back wall.

“I think that is a very good question.” Emma patted the hand of a furiously blushing Alice. “I haven’t any brothers either. Perhaps if I had, I would have been less surprised on my wedding night.”

After viewing Lord Nicholas Chambers’s drawing, she could well imagine how shocked and unprepared she would have been had she actually experienced a wedding night. Perhaps the spinster sisters had the right idea. Unfortunately, they had entrusted the wrong person.

“That was courageous, Alice. Thank you.” Emma was rewarded with a timid smile. “As the rest of you believe yourselves to be quite knowledgeable, perhaps someone can answer Alice’s question?”

“They have a snake in front like a dancing cobra,” the defiant one said. Emma instantly recognized the voice as belonging to the girl the others in the hallway had called Fanny. She committed the face to memory.

Fanny continued her discourse by holding a curved arm close to her chest. “If you don’t keep the snake caged, the snake will strike.”

Her hand lunged at poor Alice. Both Alice and the one next to her shrieked. Fanny laughed at their reactions.

“That’s quite enough, young lady,” Emma scolded before turning her attention to Alice. “Young gentlemen do not have snakes, but they do have an appendage where we do not.”

Emma straightened, assuming her teacher stance. “The great poet, John Donne, once said—”

Several girls moaned in unison beneath their breath. Emma continued, undaunted by their lack of appreciation for poetry.

“ ‘Love’s mysteries in souls do grow, but yet the body is his book.’ Perhaps we shall let the body be our book and begin with a description of the masculine form.” Especially as this was the only information she had to impart. Despite her resolve not to think of him, she issued a silent thank you to Lord Nicholas Chambers. The mere thought of his name initiated a flutter low beneath her stays. She shifted uncomfortably and forced her focus back to her students.

She glanced back to Cecilia, who stood behind the girls. “May I draw an illustration?”

The older woman cautiously nodded before taking a step closer. Emma selected a seat in the midst of the girls and did her best to reproduce the intimate components of Mr. Rodin’s statue. The girls crowded around her shoulder; even Cecilia ventured a peek.

Fanny screwed up her face. “How can they prod you when it’s curled up like that?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, ‘prod you’?” She glanced at Emma in alarm. “Can they do that?”

“Why would they want to?” another asked.

“Does it hurt to be prodded?”

The cage door opened and all manner of questions burst forth, flapping about Emma’s ears like gulls diving for fish. An incessant clapping of hands silenced the girls. Cecilia towered above them all.

“We will have order in this room,” she demanded.

The girls quickly dispersed back to their seats.

“I believe Mrs. Brimley has covered quite enough new territory for one day. If these sessions are to continue, I shall expect to see more structure and discipline.”

The girls lowered their heads, avoiding eye contact. Although grateful that Cecilia had saved her from proving her own ignorance, Emma nevertheless felt the sting of her reference to class discipline.

“I suggest each of you write down your questions, so Mrs. Brimley can present the answers in an organized, civilized fashion. And Miss Barnesworth”—Fanny looked up—“you will resolve to keep your vulgarities to yourself.”

Charlotte hid a giggle behind her hand. Fanny cast a sideways glare at Emma. However, all heads peaceably bent to the task of writing questions. Questions, Emma worried, she didn’t have answers for.

Cecilia signaled for Emma to join her in the hall. Emma rose, her stomach churning at her anticipated chastisement.

“We owe our patron gratitude for suggesting education in these intimate matters,” Cecilia said once they were safely out of earshot of the young pupils. “The girls’ enthusiasm and desire prove the necessity for such information.”

“Yes, madam,” Emma said, surprised not only by the lack of reproach but also that Cecilia’s attitude closely mirrored her own. “I appreciate your suggestion of the lists,” she said, regarding the older sister with new appreciation. “I will definitely use them to advantage.”

Cecilia nodded. “So you shall. I will give you my list of questions in the morning.”

“Your list?” Emma stepped back. “Does that mean you will be attending the rest of the classes?”

Cecilia smiled, turned on her heel, then continued down the hall.

 
AS THE GIRLS SILENTLY FILED OUT OF THE LIBRARY, Emma collected their papers, pages and pages of carefully penned lines. After the last student handed over her assignment, Emma slumped into a chair and scanned the collection of questions. Most of the inquiries echoed her own, and she hadn’t even seen Cecilia’s list.

Despair overwhelmed her. Only one person could provide sufficient information to answer these questions and he—she shuddered—he demanded an exorbitant price. She shuffled through the papers. Even if she were so desperate as to accept Lord Nicholas Chambers’s outlandish offer, she didn’t have enough items of clothing to garner all the needed answers. She ticked off on her fingers the layers of petticoats, her drawers, chemise, and corset. Remembering how he allowed her to ask a question for each shoe, she added four fingers to accommodate her stockings and gloves. She ran out of digits and started a quick count on paper. Her propriety would unravel long before the questions expired.

She retrieved her mother’s handkerchief from her cuff, squeezing it briefly before she proceeded to clean her lenses. A faint essence of rose petals, her mother’s fragrance, drifted to her nose. “I wish you were here, Mama. Oh, the questions I would ask.”

She gazed at the crumpled linen, hoping for spiritual guidance, but thoughts of a practical nature intervened. Would the handkerchief count as an item of clothing? Her spectacles? She replaced the glasses on her nose. She wore both on her person, did she not?

And if the handkerchief counted, what else could she layer to barter for answers? A victorious grin bubbled from deep inside. In retrospect, perhaps she possessed enough clothing after all.

She would pay another visit to Lord Nicholas Chambers, only this time she’d be prepared for his devil’s bargain.

“BLOODY HELL, THOMAS, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY induce you to wake me at this infernal hour?”

Chambers resisted opening his eyes. For two evenings straight he had made a foray to the Bleatin’ Ram but in both cases returned with only a hangover for company. The women had welcomed him with great enthusiasm. Yet even after several drinks, none seemed to satisfy. Ever since that curious widow had trespassed . . .

“It is eleven o’clock in the morning sir, and you have a visitor.”

Chambers groaned. “Don’t tell me William has descended upon us again. For all his good intentions, I do wish my brother would lavish them on someone else.”

“You are the Marquess’s only brother, sir.”

Chambers opened one eye. “Surely, we have some disreputable cousins hiding closer to London. Can’t he visit them?”

“This visitor is a woman, sir. The widow Brimley has returned.”

“The widow Brimley?” Both eyes opened, blinking rapidly until they adjusted to the sunlight streaming through the window. A spark of sensual awareness ignited deep inside him, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. “I thought we had frightened her back to London.”

“Apparently not, sir.”

The sarcasm in Thomas’s stoic reply brought a smile to Chambers’s lips. He pulled himself upright, then braced his body while his head struggled to find balance.

“I took the precaution of bringing your head remedy, sir.”

“Thomas, you are a saint.” Chambers accepted the offered restorative and downed it quickly before the taste registered. Grimacing, he handed back the empty glass. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“Nonsense, sir, you are in your prime.”

“William would beg to differ.”

Thomas poured hot water into the basin and stacked fresh towels by the bowl.

“If the widow has returned,” Chambers said, following the progress of his valet, “perhaps she plans to accept my offer.” Why else would she return? His chest expanded with tingling anticipation. If his head didn’t already pound so much, he’d crow with triumph.

“What offer is that, sir?” Thomas asked.

“I’m attempting to barter her services as a model.” A smile tilted his lips in spite of the resulting throbbing at his temples.
She was such a challenge, seducing her will be pure delight. I wonder if that pretty blush travels down to her toes.
He stopped short. Where had those thoughts come from? He glanced to the pillow indented from his slumber. He must still be dreaming.

He started an unsteady course toward the basin, the aftereffects of the previous night’s activities affecting his gait more than his weakened leg. “Naturally Thomas, I’m trusting the household to keep her presence here a secret.”

“I shall remind the staff to be discreet. Do you need my assistance to dress for the day?”

“No, no. Don’t tarry here.” Nicholas rubbed his hand over his chin stubble, anxious to hurry through the morning rituals. One didn’t squander precious daylight when there was painting to be done. Miss Brimley . . . rather, Artemis awaits!

“Go pull the draperies from the studio windows. And Thomas,” he said, bracing his arms on the table supporting the basin, “do find the young widow something to eat. We have squirrels in the garden better fed than she.”

“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.