The Education of Mrs. Brimley Read Online Free PDF

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    “All right, Mrs. Brimley. As you appear to hold me hostage, to what purpose do I owe this pleasure?”
    She was tongue-tied. What to say? How to begin to explain her awkward, embarrassing need?
    He turned to a small table by his side. “May I offer you a brandy? It might loosen your tongue.”
    She stiffened her spine, annoyed with herself and her cowardice. “I don’t indulge, sir.”
    “More’s the pity.” He began to pour from a crystal decanter. “My model has abandoned me at a most inconvenient time.” He paused, then glanced at an empty canvas across the room. “No, I correct myself. At a time that is worse than inconvenient. At a catastrophic time.”
    He raised his arm to a prominent burgundy velvet divan situated on a raised dais in the center of the room. “As you can see, my model has failed to materialize. In her stead, a madwoman with a plea has assaulted my household to discuss”—he glanced back at her—“what was it . . . a book?”
    He saluted her with his filled glass. “At this point, a stiff drink is about the only sensible course of action.”
    Her breath caught. He moved like a finely crafted poem: strong, fluid, purposeful. Watching him swallow the amber liquid, she was transported back to the intimacy of that shared carriage. Her throat felt as dry as the pages of her books. He swirled the liquid in his glass and looked to her, expectant, waiting. She shook herself from her reverie.
    “I’m not a madwoman, sir. I’ve come in search of knowledge.” He was a learned man, she reminded herself. And a talented artist, as evidenced by the dozen or so masterfully rendered landscapes and still-life arrangements scattered about the room. Surely he could help her. She smiled at the thought. Once he understood her need, he would most certainly oblige.
    “Then you’ve come to the wrong place.” He grasped the walking stick propped against the table, then carried his glass to a nearby easel. “Ask anyone. I have no knowledge of anything but debauchery.” He sneered in her direction. “Surely a young widow would have no wish to learn about that.”
    The smile slid from her face. In one sense, this was exactly the knowledge she was seeking, but only the polite form of debauchery, the sort between a husband and wife. From the anger and disappointment in his voice, perhaps asking for his assistance would be tantamount to an insult. She searched in her cuff for the comfort of her mother’s handkerchief. This was not proceeding according to plan.
    “Let me begin again,” she managed, searching for the right words. “This is most difficult to explain.”
    She moved deeper into the room, moving closer to the elegant divan, such an odd placement for an extravagant piece. Then she remembered Beatrice’s and his mention of debauchery. Is that where it took place? On a raised elevated platform so others could see. She had heard rumors in London of such practices, but she had never encountered physical evidence. Her heart raced. She had indeed stumbled into the devil’s den.
    Feeling familiar warmth coddle her cheeks, she turned her back to the furniture, studying instead a painting of a bowl of fruit until her face could cool. “I . . . I was hoping you might have a book or some drawings that I might study—”
    Laughter rumbled from his chest. He exchanged a small canvas at the easel for paper tacked on a board. “Are you a critic, Mrs. Brimley? Is that what you wish to discuss?” The humor left his voice. “I have critics aplenty. I don’t require another.”
    “I’m not a critic,” she said, surprised. “How could one criticize your obvious talent? Why I could almost pluck one of the cherries out of this painting and suck its sweet nectar.”
    He stared at her. “You think I have talent?”
    “I’m not an art critic, my lord,” she said, believing she may have trespassed the proper boundaries of pride. “But I do find this painting quite pleasing.”
    She glanced back