Free The Education of Mrs. Brimley by Donna MacMeans

sipped the hot liquid.
    Steam from the cup added to the gathering moisture on her face. She resisted the urge to retrieve one of several handkerchiefs tucked up her sleeve to mop her forehead in an unseemly fashion. Instead, she snapped open the remembered black fan that dangled from her wrist, and waved a frantic current. This must be what inferno feels like. Although she’d brought the fan as another item of clothing to barter, she sorely needed its comfort. How apropos she should experience inferno in the midst of her deceit.
    “Perhaps we should get started on your painting,” she said, anxious to escape the sweltering room. “I have many questions to present to you.”
    His eyes narrowed slightly. “I can see that.”
    Still seated at the table, he selected a poker from an assemblage of implements, then stoked the fire, releasing even more heat into the room. “First, however, I wish to learn your philosophy on honesty and deceit. You recall I promised that your secret regarding your lack of experience is safe with me.”
    “Thank you for that, sir.” Her words, to her mind, issued slow and heavy as if she had to push them through the very air. Indeed, everything seemed heavier, her clothes, her eyelids, even the fan. She concentrated on waving it faster.
    “I need to know if my secret is safe with you.” His gaze leveled on her face. There seemed an unusual intensity about him, though exactly why she couldn’t discern.
    “Your secret?” Had she heard him correctly? “You haven’t shared a secret with me, sir.” She gave into temptation and attempted to discreetly blot her forehead with a lacy scrap of linen. The heat numbing her senses. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for another, as before?”
    “My secret lies in my art,” Chambers continued, holding her gaze captive. “The creation of a painting is personal beyond measure. If you come to this bargain lightly, it would render my art trivial. I would be deeply offended. I must know that you come to this agreement honestly and that you trust me to create a painting worthy of your sacrifice.”
    “I’m not a critic, sir.” She struggled to keep annoyance from her tone. Why wasn’t he as anxious to begin painting as she was to shed some of these superfluous layers? “I would not make light of your art.”
    “But are you a believer?” He leaned forward, emphatic in his discourse.
    Albeit a bit woozy, she looked deep into his eyes. Confidence resided there, as well as arrogance, but she glimpsed deeper emotions as well. Remembering his childlike innocence in the moonlight, she recognized both his yearning and his need for approval. Her heart expanded. He was not unlike her young charges at Pettibone: eager, trusting, and vulnerable. In those eyes, his eyes, all things were possible.
    “Yes.” Her lips spoke for her heart. “I believe in you.”
    “Excellent.” His wide smile shattered the brief spiritual connection.
    She blinked, trying to bring Chambers into focus. What just happened? His vulnerability collapsed behind rakish charm. Or was it all her imagination?
    The heat in the room, combined with the weight of all her garments, pulled the blood from her head. “Before we begin, my lord.” Her voice sounded slurred to her ears, distant. “There’s something I should tell you.” Was she even speaking?
    His brows descended, puzzlement chased across his face, then alarm. He drifted slightly to the right, along with the table and the fire.
    Light-headed, she tried to stand but her knees buckled. Her world dissolved to black.

Five

    CHAMBERS STARED IN DISBELIEF AT THE BUNDLE of wool and trimmings that had crumbled into his arms. Good Lord, he’d never meant to harm the girl.
    His hands caught her about her rib cage, but the garments thus captured slid up while her body slipped down. She hung from his hands like a drunken sailor.
    “Mrs. Brimley?” He gave her a gentle shake. The effort dislodged her spectacles while her head lolled to