The Education of Mrs. Brimley (37 page)

“Cheer up, Emma. You should be happy. I could have left you in that convent to become a shriveled-up old prune like those other two.”

Dear heaven, his smug smile told her he supposed he was doing her a favor stealing her away from the very people she loved.

“Do not pretend you are my benefactor. You wouldn’t have bothered with me at all unless there was some profit in it for you.”

“Aye, you were always the smart one, you were.” He winked and stretched out his legs. “It’s a shame Penelope isn’t more like you that way. Maybe if she were smarter I wouldn’t have had to hire that chatty Lady Cavendish to find her a proper husband.”

“Lady Cavendish!” Emma couldn’t have been more surprised than if he had said Beatrice was assisting Penelope. What was going on?

“She sought me out, she did. Said she could help find Penelope a wealthy husband with her connections and all.” He leered at Emma. “Come to think of it, that’s what I’m doing. Helping you find a husband.”

The Scotland connection suddenly made sense. She recalled old stories about eloping couples dashing off to Gretna Green in Scotland. The place was legendary for quick nuptials. However, laws were passed to change all that about the time she was born.

“You can’t force me to marry someone against my will.” Now it was her turn for a smug smile. “You’d have to hold me hostage in Scotland for three weeks before I could marry there. I think that would be difficult even for you, to say nothing of the expense.”

If her uncle had a vulnerability, it would be in his purse.

“That would be true enough, missy, if you hadn’t had the good fortune to be born in Scotland.” His rat face almost split in two by the size of his grin. “Your mother never told you that, did she? She was so afraid you’d run off and leave her that she kept the truth from you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Emma snapped.

“Believe what you will.” He shrugged, then leaned close so that his nose bobbed mere inches from her own. “But know this. Enough coin in the right palm will buy a proper marriage whether you agree to it or not. There’s ways to make a reluctant bride eager, if you know what I mean.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’d drug me!”

He laughed. “I did it once already, didn’t I? What do you think?”

Emma sank back on the cushions. What was she to do now? She had no doubt that her uncle would stoop to just about any measure to ensure his nefarious scheme.

“If all goes according to plan, you’d be a right proper married woman within the week. You should be grateful to your old uncle. Looking out for you, I am.”

He had someone in play; she could see it in his beady little eyes.

“Who?” She managed with a grimace.

“Do you remember Mr. Perichilde?”

“The old man from Sussex?” Emma recoiled at the memory. They had met at one of the dinners she attended with Penelope. Now that she recalled, Uncle George did sequester himself with a tall thin man who resembled the grim reaper himself.

“That old man is desperate for an heir. Desperate enough to pay handsomely for a young untried bride like yourself. He’s waiting for us in Gretna Green.”

“He’s so old!” Emma gasped.

“I wouldn’t divest of those widow’s weeds, if you know what I mean.” He laughed heartily. “Perichilde will wear out long before you will.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“I told you, it’s for your own good. Who wants an old plow horse when there are young fillies on the market? You’re lucky to have an uncle like me. Besides, the fee Perichilde will pay will clear some debts.”

“I’m not an untried woman,” Emma said, desperate to make her uncle reconsider his plan. “Perichilde may not pay when he discovers that I’m no longer a virgin.”

Her uncle’s mouth dropped open. “That artist! You gave him your maidenhood? You silly chit. Did you think he would marry you?” He laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. “Why, he’s gallivanting around London looking for his next conquest. He even gave Penelope a twirl around the dance floor.” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t believe he really loved you, did you?”

Penelope and Nicholas! Emma felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Her eyes burned; she struggled for breath.

“You did, you did. I can see it in your face.” He cackled, then shook his head. “I should have known. I always said you were just like your mother. I thought you might have had more sense than lifting your skirts for the first pretty man that came sniffing.”

Her cheeks burned. Is that what she had done? Given herself to a man who chased after a woman’s virtue as another would hunt down a fox. In her mind, she heard his voice.
I have no knowledge of anything but debauchery.
She gasped. He had warned her on her first visit to Black Oak, yet she had refused to listen.

“I should have sold you to a brothel when I had the chance,” her uncle muttered, oblivious to her turmoil. He glanced up at her. “I would have, if you hadn’t run away. I gave my word to your mother that I wouldn’t harm you while she was alive. I waited all these years, watching you grow, spending good money on your education. I even chased off those two sorry suitors who came asking after you. All my scheming and then you up and disappear. You lifted your skirts for what? A bit of paint?”

He shook his head as if in true misery. Good, Emma thought. If nothing else, she had ruined her uncle’s plans. She had given her heart and her virtue for more than a “bit of paint,” as he so cruelly suggested. But her uncle wouldn’t understand that.

“Still,” he continued, “I gave my word to Perichilde, and a gentleman’s word is his bond.” George frowned, staring at her stomach. “If you’re lucky, you’ve already got a baby planted in your belly. If I don’t miss my guess, Perichilde will leave you alone once an heir is on its way.”

“A gentleman does not sell his relatives to the highest bidder. Your word is worthless,” Emma scoffed.

Her uncle scowled. “You think you are too good for the likes of a common man, but let me tell you, missy, there’s nothing you can do to change your fate.”

Emma crossed her arms and sank into silence. Perhaps a year ago she would have accepted his decree that this was to be her destiny. Marriage to an old man might even prove attractive to an inexperienced girl who hadn’t tasted true passion. But she wasn’t that inexperienced girl any longer. She refused to accept what her uncle called “fate.”

The nausea had passed, along with the lingering scent of laudanum. Emma sat up and arched her back and lifted her shoulders to ease the aching of her constrained position.

“What are you doing?” her uncle demanded. “That’s no posture for a lady. You’re acting like a servant who’s been on hands and knees all day. Behave. Someone might see you. Don’t force me to restrain you again.” He looked right and left as if through some miracle of nature, a stranger had affixed themselves to the side of the racing coach for the sole purpose of watching Emma flex her muscles.

“It’s the constraint that makes such movements necessary, Uncle.” Her protest made no mark on his dour expression. Until she determined some method of escape, she had best play along with his scheme. Escape would be easier with her hands unbound.

“Very well,” she said, with a sigh of resignation. “Perhaps you are correct. I am grateful that you have rescued me from Pettibone. I was tired of playing nursemaid to a bunch of snotty girls. I suppose marriage to an older, more experienced man is better than no marriage at all.”

His face brightened. “There you go. You were always a bright one. Now you’ll see that I’m right.”

“How much further to our destination?” she asked.

“We made great strides while you were sleeping. I’d estimate three more hours to cross the border, but we shall stop before that to pick up Perichilde.”

“He’s waiting for us?”

“I sent word to him as soon as I saw that painting. I didn’t give twenty-odd years of my life letting you and your mother live under my roof without learning to recognize you with or without your clothes.”

“You . . . you . . . spied on me?” she gasped. Was there no level to which this man would not sink?

“Not often, only when the opportunity presented itself.” He sneered. “I’m a man, after all.”

Not much of one, she thought.

“I never touched you. That’s more than you can say about that Lord Nicholas Chambers.”

The carriage pulled through the arch of an old stone inn with a sign in front proclaiming it “The George.” While the picturesque ivy climbing up half the building spoke of longevity, the subtle signs of disrepair indicated hard times. Like many of the old coach inns, this one had apparently suffered from the railroad diverting its previous revenues.

“There’s no one here that can help you, so there’s no sense in you trying anything. Do you understand me?” her uncle warned. She nodded as expected. “Good. Because if you do anything at all, I’ll tie you back up and haul you across the border quicker than you can say Jack Sprat. Now act the proper widow and behave yourself.”

Even with the loss of traffic, The George handled a bustling business as evidenced by the horses tied to the rail and the hardy masculine laughter that reached outside. The aromatic waft of a stew issued an invitation difficult to resist. Emma entered by her uncle’s side, her head demurely lowered but her mind alert for opportunities to change her fate. She needed time. Time to plan. Time to execute. If she could just get a message back to Nicholas, he’d help her. He may not love her the way she did him, but they had shared a bond. He would come to her aid much as he had to Charlotte’s.

But he was in London. The thought pushed her deeper in despair. He had mentioned in his letter that he planned to return to Yorkshire any day now. However, that letter was written before he became a constant news item in the
Times
. He might choose to stay in London indefinitely.

No, she had to think for herself if she was to avoid a life tied to a shriveled-up specter of a man.

A white-haired gentleman who looked to be as old as the inn itself manned the front desk. Her uncle stepped forward for the purpose of negotiating a room. Emma looked toward the large public area off to the side. She doubted she could find much assistance among the drunken male patrons. A serving girl, not much older than Alice, moved down the rows, filling tankards and delivering plates, without seeming to mind the occasional hand that fondled her backside.

Poor Alice. She’d believe Emma had run off and left her behind. The thought twisted Emma’s heart. Oh, to be back at Pettibone in the heart of female companionship. Female . . . that inspired an idea.

“We’ll be needing a private dining area as well,” Uncle George said, with an eye toward the public room. “Can you tell me if a fine gentleman by the name of Perichilde has arrived yet?”

Emma laid her hand on her uncle’s arm. “Uncle, I need to speak with you privately.”

“Time enough for that when we get our room. I’m checking now to see if your groom has arrived.” The clerk raised an eyebrow in her direction but otherwise appeared enthralled with his ledgers.

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” Emma whispered. “I have need to confide in another woman. You rushed me off from Pettibone without items necessary for female needs. I fear my monthly has begun.”

Her uncle cursed under his breath and yanked his arm away from her touch as if she had confided that she had the plague. “Saints above woman,” he hissed. “You don’t have to inform the general public. Don’t you have your ladies’ necessities?”

“I have them back at Pettibone. Had you given me time to pack . . .”

“Well, I couldn’t very well do that now, could I?” He looked around to make sure no one had heard him raise his voice. “What do you propose to do about it?”

“If I can talk to one of the women here, I’m sure they would give me what I need.”

“All right. Make it quick. Don’t offer to pay for anything. Until Perichilde arrives, our funds are low.”

She nodded, acting the obedient niece, and glided into the public room. The loud cacophony died down a bit upon her entrance. Whether it was the result of her widow’s attire or that she was the only woman fully clothed from head to toe, she wasn’t sure.

“Are tha’ lost?” one of the serving girls asked with an abbreviated curtsy and a dubious smile. “Not many ladies come her’ at this hour.”

Emma leaned close to the girl’s ear and whispered, “I’m not lost but I need your help. See that man standing by the clerk’s desk?” The girl nodded. “I’m being kidnapped. I need to send a note to Lord Nicholas Chambers in Leighton-on-the-Wold to—”

“Nicky?” the girl’s smile lit up her face. “Tha’ know Nicky?”

“Ssh!” Emma cautioned with a quick look over her shoulder. Uncle George appeared in deep conversation with the clerk, probably bargaining over the cost of the room. “Can you take me someplace quiet and less public?”

The girl nodded. She led the way up the back stairs to a dark corridor. “All the rooms are in use right now. But this’d be as quiet as tha’ll find this side of the inn.” A loud groan from behind one of the doors spoke of the activity inside. The girl smiled with a nod to the door. “That room’ll free up real quick.”

“I need a pen and some paper to write a note,” Emma said, squinting down the hallway. “I don’t suppose you have . . . ?”

“Not much call for writin’ up here.” The girl looked at her askance. “How do tha’ know Nicky? Thou one of his girls?”

“His girls?” Emma asked, annoyed. Maybe she could direct the girl to get the necessary writing supplies from the clerk? Would Uncle George get suspicious? Could this girl manage to slip her out of the inn to safety?

“Tha’ know, one of th’ girls he paints. He’s painted Rosie and Annie. I’ve always wanted him to paint my picture, but he says I’m too young. Do tha’ think I’m too young?”

Emma looked at the girl anew. “What’s your name?”

“Daisy, just like th’ flower. My mama says it means innocence.” She smiled, exposing a gap in yellowed teeth. “But I ain’t been that for near two years.” She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, certainly no older than Elizabeth. Emma bit her lip to hide her frown. Such a young girl to have so much earthy exposure.