The Education of Mrs. Brimley (25 page)

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 stick 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 wrinkles around Lady Cavendish’s eyes softened. “I would open my home to you, my dear, but that might prove difficult given Lord Cavendish’s delight in attractive young women.”

Emma blushed. No one had ever referred to her in those terms. No one but Chambers, she amended.

Lady Cavendish stood, causing Emma to rise as well.

“I am not unfamiliar with the scandalous way in which society treats women such as your mother.” Lady Cavendish met Emma’s gaze. “And yourself.”

The affection in her voice melted Emma’s apprehensions. Little had she expected that her deception would earn her an ally.

“I will keep your secret as long as your actions warrant such secrecy. Do not dishonor my recommendation, Mrs. Brimley, and I will do no harm to yours.”

 
NICHOLAS SAT ALONE IN HIS STUDIO, ADDING THE FINAL touches to Artemis’s veil. The necessary garment swirled behind the goddess as if caught in the breeze, allowing one end to conceal the feminine virtues considered too risqué for the times. Nicholas smiled. Although he disagreed with the popular trend of hiding such detail, he admitted he preferred to keep this aspect of Emma his private domain.

Emma’s natural beauty radiated through the layers of oil and varnish. His brushes had captured Emma’s innocence and sensuality in a way he had not envisioned. Few people viewing the painting would even notice the figure Actaeon hiding in the bushes. Without question, this represented his best work, his masterpiece.

Of course, Emma had often repeated requests to see the work while in progress; each time he had been careful to keep it draped from her view. He remembered her distress when she first viewed her half-naked body in the mirror. A smile teased his lips; of course, part of her distress was discovering that he had watched her artless removal of garments. He suspected she would disapprove of the full-frontal nude.

After their long afternoons of “instruction,” if she viewed the painting with even the smallest reproach or regret, it would cut him to the quick. Her beautiful sea green eyes, most assuredly, would never again gaze at him with trust and compassion. She’d shun him just like the prissy Pettibone headmistress. Her heart would harden against him. He gnawed on his lip. Why hadn’t he considered this before?

Because it was easier not to, an internal voice answered. He never expected to care so much for the scrawny black scarecrow that conveniently appeared on his doorstep. Ah, but she had plumped up nicely. He smiled, appreciating his reproduction of her luscious, inviting curves.

Abandoning this painting, or allowing her to view it, would mean an end to her visits. Deserting fashionable London society for the wilds of Yorkshire had dubbed him “strong willed,” but even he wasn’t strong enough to forswear Emma’s visits. So he kept the painting covered and in so doing, denied himself the opportunity to see appreciation of his mastery in her eyes. That penance was almost as bad as the other alternative.

An idea swirled in his mind of a new portrait with Emma again as the model. Even though she had indicated an unwillingness to return to his studio, he knew that wouldn’t last. He’d find a way to bring her back. His art and sanity demanded it.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway behind the closed door of his studio. Too heavy for Emma, he thought with disappointment. He quickly pulled a cloth over the painting.

The studio door swung open without the courtesy of a knock. William, bright and shiny as his new spit-polished boots, strode into the room.

“I don’t know what is more shocking, old man: to find you here alone or to find you sober.”

“Hello, William.” Nicholas swiveled on his stool to face his brother. Other than a new crease or two about William’s eyes and a general softness that attested to London living, the two brothers shared more similarities than differences. Nicholas sighed. His father dominated all things in life; it should be no surprise that he dominated the gene pool as well. “What foul wind blew you this far north?”

“A pretty young miss whose mother schemes to snare a title for the family tree.” William stepped forward to greet his brother, leaving a flustered Thomas in the doorway. Nicholas signaled all was well with a nod of his head. Thomas silently closed the door. “The going rate for a marquess is substantially more than her family coffers, so I thought it best to leave London before the mother concocts an entanglement from which I cannot escape. I’ll wager she’ll turn her sights on another before two weeks have passed.”

“So you intend to be my guest for the next two weeks?” Nicholas didn’t bother to hide his irritation. His brother’s visit would mean two more weeks without Emma.

“If you don’t mind . . .” William’s critical eye glanced around the studio, alighting briefly on each exposed painting.

Of course he minded! But for the life of him, Nicholas wasn’t sure how to explain the situation to his brother without calling undue attention to a certain masquerading widow wary of discovery. He couldn’t send him away without explanation and could not keep him without discomfort. Sighing, he chose the latter. “What are brothers for?”

“I envy you, you know,” William said, inspecting a pile of painted canvases stacked against the wall. “Living out here where no decent civilized man, or woman, would think to intercede. No scheming mothers or . . .”

“Meddling fathers?” Nicholas asked with sudden intuition. “Did he send you? Is that the real reason for this visit?”

“No. I told you the reason.” William’s expression mimicked injury. “But he does send his warm wishes and inquires as to when you will return to London.”

Nicholas picked up his paintbrush and swirled it in a murky jar. “I have no desire to return dragging my tail between my legs like a hound off the scent.”

“It would not be like that, Nicholas. He misses you. He’s just too stubborn to admit it.”

Nicholas made no response, letting the awkward silence suggest his discomfort with the topic. William’s gaze settled on the draped painting. “What are you working on? Is this for the Academy exhibition?”

Nicholas put a restraining hand on William’s arm. “It’s still wet. I wouldn’t want the cloth to smudge it.”

“You know, you should consider venturing away from those quaint little landscapes of yours.” William backed away from the easel. “Oh, they’re pretty enough, but there’s no meat to them, no purpose.”

“Are you an art critic now as well, William?” Nicholas raised a brow. “And you wonder why I prefer a residence far away from family comments?”

William scowled, then picked up a sketchbook from Nicholas’s desk. “I was only trying to be helpful, brother.” He flipped through the pages. “You know I believe in your talent. You just need challenge.”

He paused on one page; his lips pulled to a wide grin. “Now here’s something with purpose. Some local miss, I’ll venture. There’s something to be said for a woman without finery, feathers, and baubles. Something elemental and pristine.”

Nicholas rose and calmly removed the drawing of Emma’s face from his brother’s fingers. “Would you care for a brandy after your long trip?” He slipped the drawing in a drawer.

William pursed his lips briefly as if to protest, then thought better of it. “A brandy would be just the thing. Naturally, you will join me?” Nicholas nodded and set about to pour two drinks from a cut-crystal decanter.

A gray and white cat ambled out of its hiding spot beneath the desk, stretching his long legs and splaying his claws. William’s eyes lit with discovery. “What ho! Is this a new addition?”

William scooped the cat up and tucked him into the crook of his arm, scratching the appreciative cat between the ears.

Nicholas let a smile tip his lips. The discovery of his cat appeared to end William’s inquiries about the picture in his drawer. Clever cat. He’d instruct Henry to round up a special treat for a reward. Nicholas approached William with a glass of amber liquid.

“I should warn you that I’ve brought a houseguest with me,” William said, cat in one hand, drink in the other. “Lady Cavendish, a harmless matron from the fashionable set. She’s off visiting a relative or acquaintance at Pettibone while her third husband cavorts in London.”

“Hardly your usual company, William.” Nicholas sipped at his drink.

“I know, but her social position is such that I could not readily refuse. I shall make my calls on the spinster sisters a bit later today.”

Nicholas grimaced. “Why do you pander to those two old ladies?”

“Because they love me, brother.” William smiled. “Almost as much as they despise you.”

“My reputation has earned me the isolation I need to paint.” Nicholas scowled. “The last thing I want is for those two withered cows to march their stock by my door every few minutes.”

“Judging from that drawing”—William nodded toward the desk—“someone has marched through your door. Who is she?” He leered over the edge of his glass. “Perhaps the country miss would prefer the company of a well-mannered gentleman over that of an insolent rogue.”

Nicholas gripped the handle of his stick so hard he noticed his knuckles whitening. He willed his grip to lessen. “I know you, brother. You’ve been threatened with matrimonial pursuits before. Why are you really here?”

“I received an invitation.” William put down the cat and fished in his jacket pocket.

“Not from me you didn’t.”

“Of course not from you, brother. Parliament would go up in flames before I receive a social invitation from you. No, this is from your neighbor, the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” He retrieved a white envelope. “Ah, here it is. The pleasure of my company is requested for some sort of ball they’re hosting. Don’t tell me you weren’t invited?” He laughed. “I knew they despised you, but a cut direct to someone of your standing is truly extraordinary.”

“I received an invitation,” Nicholas conceded, irritated by his brother’s inference. “But I had planned not to attend.”

William tapped the corner of the envelope. “This arrived about the same time as the scheming mother. It was a sign from heaven and a convenient diversion.” He smiled broadly.

“Let’s toast to convenient diversions then.” Nicholas raised his glass in a mock salute before drinking deeply.

“Perhaps your visit is fortuitous.” Nicholas squinted in thought. “If you are planning to return to London, perhaps you can spare me a trip and deliver my recent work to the Academy jury for consideration.”

“Why not return with me and visit Father while you’re in town?” William suggested.

“He has no wish to see me.” Nicholas scowled. “I refuse to live up to his dictates. You know that.”

“He only wants what is best for you, Nicholas. He believes this period of pleasure-seeking indulgences away from family and society has run its course. You know he’s never taken your art seriously. It’s time to move on to familial responsibilities and obligations.”

“I’m the younger son. Familial responsibilities and obligations are your ballywick, are they not?” Nicholas smiled.

“He wants an heir, Nick. A woman with proper lineage is most likely in London.”

Nicholas scoffed. “All the more reason to stay away.” He couldn’t fathom a more ridiculous reason to return. “I hadn’t realized Father and the Pettibone spinisters had so much in common.”