The Education of Mrs. Brimley (17 page)

“Although my sister and I have received invitations in our youth to many formal occasions, our knowledge is somewhat dated as to what is appropriate under modern circumstances.” Cecilia hesitated as if her next words were troublesome. “I’d like your opinion on the style and fashion.”

“Of course,” Emma replied. It would do no good to protest on the grounds that years had passed since she had last seen an invitation of any sort. As much as she felt removed from London society, the sisters would be even farther along the path.

“Be sure to wear a heavy cloak,” Cecilia cautioned. “We’ll be taking the school’s rig. The winter sun, though bright, is rarely warm enough.”

A well-bundled Emma joined Cecelia in the open rig. Cecilia handled the reins in her heavy gloves as expertly as Henry, directing their route over frozen roads and ice-filled ruts.

“I suppose Lord Nicholas Chambers had need of his carriage today,” Emma observed, pulling the lap rug over her knees. “I must admit I appreciate his past generosity of sharing his closed vehicle on a cold day such as this.”

Cecilia sniffed. “It’s hardly generous to let a neighbor use an implement that would be wasting away for disuse otherwise. He doesn’t know how to associate with decent folk.” She glanced at Emma, a frown at home on her face. “Quite frankly, Mrs. Brimley, I don’t know how you manage on your visits.”

“We speak of art and painting,” Emma said. It was on her tongue to say that Lord Nicholas Chambers had been a perfect gentleman, but that was hardly true. Although he had not touched her beyond that one kiss, as had been their agreement, one could hardly call him a “gentleman” when his female guests were expected to disrobe in his company.

Emma eagerly observed the passing fields and low stone walls. Having studied Lord Chambers’s paintings at some length, she was anxious to see what lay beneath the snow, mud, and ice. The landscape was hardly as desolate as she had first perceived, but rather teeming with life, dormant now, but waiting to burst through the hibernating season in vibrant greens and lavender hues. The dales and downs would roll forth as far as the eye could see, and see it she would, she promised herself. “It’s really quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

“What did you say?” Cecilia asked, pulled from her own thoughts.

“The countryside. It’s beautiful in its own way, isn’t it?”

Cecilia smiled, a rare sight. “Very much so. Not everyone appreciates it. I’m glad that you do.”

“I had thought the girls would enjoy some of the poems that captured the beauty of this region. William Wordsworth traveled these parts, did he not?”

Cecilia nodded. “I met him once, when I was a little girl.”

“You met William Wordsworth?” Emma repeated in disbelief. She had trusted so many of his poems to heart that she imagined the poet to be something far grander than a mortal man.

“It was well known that he liked to walk the countryside, you see,” Cecilia said with a look that traveled far beyond the road ahead. “I was about seven years of age and he found me playing by a stream. It was a beautiful morning, fresh and new.”

“Did he write you into his poems?”

“That would be foolishness.” She scowled. “No, I did not inspire his work. But you are correct about the unique beauty of the shire. Wordsworth’s poems do speak to me. I remember there was one about the river Dove.”

“ ‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways/Beside the spring of Dove,’ ” Emma recited, having just read the poem the night before. Indeed, it was one of several that she had planned to offer the class. “ ‘A Maid whom there were none to praise/And very few to love.’ ”

Cecilia grimaced, clicked the reins, and recited the third stanza. “ ‘She lived unknown, and few could know/When Lucy ceased to be.’ Yes, that’s the one I remember. Sometimes I suspect that I’m that maid.”

“But you said—”

“I said I was seven years old when I met Wordsworth. I am not his Lucy.” She snapped the reins as if to call attention to her denial. “Still, that poem speaks to me.”

“How can you say that?” Emma scolded. “How many girls have you helped find a place in the world? I am sure they would sing your praises.” Cecilia had her faults, but no one could fault her love for “her” girls. Emma continued her rally.

“How many women would turn their home into a school, just for—”

“Pettibone is not our property,” Cecilia interjected.

“It’s not?” Emma stopped, perplexed. “I had assumed—”

“My sister and I run the school in exchange for room and board and a few extra shillings. Much like yourself.”

“But who?”

“Our patron keeps his identity a secret. All is handled through solicitors. But I will say this: I do not believe it is by accident that we are located where we are.”

Emma did a quick mental survey of the adjoining properties. “You believe Lord Nicholas Chambers is responsible for the school?”

Cecilia screwed her face tight as if she had bitten into a bitter fruit. “Not him. Not the younger. He would sooner spend his coin at the tavern than for gently bred women. No, his brother, the Marquess of Enon, he’s a man with a good heart and a pocket for charity.”

“Lord Chambers’s older brother?” Of course, he’d have to be the oldest brother to carry the title of Marquess. She hadn’t thought to inquire as to Chambers’s relations.

“He has never admitted as much, mind you. But we invite him to visit the school every year, and every year he comes.” Cecilia had a youthful gleam in her eye. In that moment Emma could see the family resemblance between the two sisters.

“Perhaps he will come to the ball,” Cecilia mused. “He would be a nice catch for one of the girls.”

“Will you invite Lord Nicholas Chambers as well?”

“I suppose we shall. Although I can only hope he will decline.” Cecilia’s lips thinned in her consideration. “Yes, he must be invited. He is providing painting lessons.”

And much more, Emma thought.

“Ah, we’re almost there,” Cecilia said. Smoke and the tops of a dozen or so chimneys loomed just over a hill.

Emma glanced over at her companion, whose disciplined and taciturn expression masked the regrets of a past lifetime. Imagine living a full life and believing no one would remember you when you left earthly cares behind. It was a burdensome thought, and unfortunately, a taste of her own future if she were to follow the Higgins sisters’ footsteps.

“Miss Cecilia, you are not the maid in the poem,” Emma stated with conviction and compassion. “I shall remember you.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper.

 
ALTHOUGH MINUSCULE BY LONDON STANDARDS, THE village with its shops and traffic warmed Emma’s spirits. Neighbors nodded greetings as they passed, harnesses jingled as carriages rumbled by, children chased dogs that chased children around houses and in between the strangers on the walkways.

Cecilia pulled into the village and left the rig in the hands of a capable liveryman. She made her way purposefully toward the stationer, nodding and exchanging polite words with several villagers. As the two women walked side by side, their crinolines made a formidable wall that swept the cobbled path from one side to the other. Should Emma and Cecilia encounter another woman, the two would surround the stranger in such a way that other women would need to wait for the exchange of a few pleasantries before they could pass unimpeded.

Men, however, would step out in the street to provide ample room for the ladies to pass. That is, all the men, except for the preoccupied one barreling his way in their direction.

“Don’t speak to him,” hissed Cecilia. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

Indeed Cecilia plowed ahead and didn’t acknowledge Chambers with as much as a nod. He, however, came to a complete stop in front of Emma.

“Mrs. Brimley, how nice to see you so unexpectedly.” He perused her from head to toe in a most familiar, and therefore disrespectful, fashion.

“I’m surprised to see you as well, sir.” Emma dipped in an informal curtsy, trying to hide the thrill at seeing him again.

“Mrs. Brimley!” hissed Cecilia. “Someone will see you.”

“What brings you out of your studio?” Emma asked, knowing the question was in clear violation of Cecilia’s dictate.

Chambers knew it as well, judging from the slight curve of his lip. His eyes sparkled. “New paints, among other things. My order from Paris has arrived.”

Wishing to prolong their encounter, Emma kept her hands enclosed in her muff, her arms tucked tightly to her sides, suspecting that Cecilia would willingly pull her along like an errant child if she could find a handhold. Even now, she tugged impatiently on Emma’s skirt.

Emma glanced toward the low clouds. “The weather appears to be on the mend.”

“Henry managed the roads without difficulty.” His eyes searched her face. His brows lifted as if he were waiting for an answer, or perhaps a question.

“Emma!” Cecilia hissed.

“I must go,” Emma explained, wishing she could stay. She’d missed the sound of his voice, his quick wit, and even the slight tilt of his head. Most especially, she missed the way she felt with him, although she hadn’t been able to put a word to describe it.

He nodded and placed a gloved hand to his tall hat as she continued up the walk with Cecilia.

“Mrs. Brimley,” he called after she had passed. She stopped and turned. “I almost forgot. I have something of yours.”

A smile leapt to her lips and she took a few steps back, leaving Cecilia to stew a short distance away. Chambers fumbled through the layers of his elegant frock coat, until he pulled something from the vicinity of his breast pocket.

“Here it is.” He slowly withdrew a folded bit of lacy cloth embroidered with the letter “W” from inside a breast pocket.

“My mother’s handkerchief!” she cried, taking the cloth from his gloved hands. “Where did you find it?”

Instinctively, she pressed the cloth to her bare cheek, absorbing the warmth that had come from his person. The faint scent of linseed oil filled her nose. She smiled.

“It smells like you.” She lowered her voice so Cecilia couldn’t hear.

“On the contrary.” He bent his head closer as well. A smile tipped his lips and warmed his eyes. “It reminds me of roses.” His gaze shifted low to her bodice. Suspecting he referred to the color of her corset, Emma felt her cheeks heat. The man knew no restraint; they were on a public street!

“I thought you might find comfort in it,” he said, his gaze warming her more than the winter sun.

“Yes. Thank you.” She quickly slipped the cloth in her muff. The return of her mother’s handkerchief meant more than she could express in public.

Chambers looked past Emma’s shoulder. “I believe your presence is required elsewhere.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Disappointment pulled at her throat. She wanted to say something to keep his attention, but he tipped his hat and continued down the street. Emma watched with a sense of loss, until Cecilia grabbed her by the crook of her arm and turned her to their destination.

“Why did you speak when I clearly said you shouldn’t?” she scolded.

“To do otherwise would be impolite, and a lady is always mindful of her etiquette.” That would silence Cecilia. She should have stopped there, but added, “Perhaps Lord Nicholas Chambers doesn’t visit Pettibone because he perceives he is disliked.”

“He would be correct,” Cecilia snarled. “He is probably en route to the tavern as we speak. His kind always finds a warm welcome there.”

Emma tried to turn to measure Chambers’s direction, but Cecilia tugged her into a shop.

 
THE TWO WOMEN ARRIVED BACK AT PETTIBONE IN THE fading light of the short winter day, pleased with the success of their mission. Although Cecilia had seethed to vent her displeasure at Emma’s familiarity with Chambers, Emma had proper etiquette on her side. Cecilia’s anger eventually dissolved in the procurement of various household necessities at a fair price. The invitations were properly ordered and the ride home swift and cordial. Emma still carried a warm glow from her chance encounter with Chambers. She had barely stepped down from the rig when Alice bolted out the door running in her direction.

“She’s gone, Mrs. Brimley. I knew she wanted to run away. I can’t find her anywhere. She’s gone.” Alice ran into her arms, knocking Emma slightly off balance and into the side of the rig.

“Who’s gone, Alice?” Cecilia demanded.

“I fear it is Charlotte,” Emma replied. “I promised Alice I would talk to her, but I haven’t had an opportunity.”

Beatrice followed in Alice’s wake, carrying a woolen shawl that she draped across the girl’s shoulders. “Charlotte didn’t come to her needlework class. We’ve searched the house from top to bottom. We had hoped you would have passed her on the road.”

Emma looked to Cecilia, whose dour expression said more than the negative movement of her head.

“We should inform Lord Chambers of the missing girl,” Emma said. “Perhaps he can be of assistance.” Cecilia frowned. Emma pulled her recently returned handkerchief from her muff to wipe the tear tracks from Alice’s face.

“Inside, all of you,” Cecilia said. “We can plan our course of action in the warmth of the house.”

Once they had closed the door on the cold and dark, Cecilia turned to Alice. “You knew Charlotte was planning this and you did not inform me?”

Alice pressed tighter to Emma’s side. “I didn’t think she’d try so soon. I thought she’d listen to Mrs. Brimley.”

“Alice did what she thought was correct. Now is not the time to assign fault.” Emma squeezed Alice’s shoulders with a reassuring hug. “The concern must be to find Charlotte before the temperature drops much lower. How long has she been gone?”

“Two hours,” Alice answered. “It’s been at least that long.”

“Go put on some warmer clothes and I’ll do the same,” Emma directed Alice with a gentle push to the stairs. “Meet me back here as soon as you’re ready.”