Winter Is Past (10 page)

Althea looked toward the double doors, startled from her thoughts by the sound of their opening. A few of the men walked in, laughing and talking. The women gave their attention to them immediately, putting down their work. Althea glanced at the clock and saw with astonishment that a full hour had passed.

Stifling a yawn, she rose as the rest of the gentlemen entered, deciding now was the best time to excuse herself. She would check on Rebecca, then retire for the evening.

She exited without being noticed and entered the corridor. She leaned against the closed doors a moment, still in awe of the experience she had just been through. She had never felt such an acute perception of individuals as she was praying for them. Sometimes in the stillness of night, the Lord would lay someone on her heart to pray for, but it had never been as real and immediate as had happened this evening.

Her senses were still reeling. It was as if the Lord had given her a deep and valuable lesson in forgetting herself and looking through His eyes.
“To be about the Father's business.”

She took a deep breath and made her way to the staircase, leaving the muffled sounds of laughter and voices behind her. A deep weariness engulfed her as she grasped the handrail and began her ascent. It came to her how much she had lived since she had opened her eyes that morning before the first light of dawn.

Suddenly Althea looked up at the sound of soft, rapid footsteps coming down from the landing. Simon hurried down, not seeing her, his eyes focused on the carpet. Althea watched him for a few seconds, as polished and debonair in his evening clothes as the most titled gentleman present.

 

Simon glanced up and saw Althea and immediately broke into a smile, feeling a sudden desire to share his success with someone.

“I just looked in on Rebecca,” he added a bit sheepishly, embarrassed at being caught.

“Is she sleeping?” she asked softly.

Her presence, like her voice, always had a calming effect on him.

“Like an angel.” He stood on the step above her, trying to contain the feeling of suppressed energy inside him. He felt as if he were grinning like the village idiot.

“That's good,” she answered quietly. Simon kept looking at her, bringing his grin to a small smile he couldn't quite suppress. As he continued regarding her he noticed his drab little nurse was positively radiant herself.

“You are looking very pretty tonight,” he found himself saying.

She flushed as if not expecting that. “Thank you.”

“I'm not certain what it is.” He continued studying her, his eyes narrowed, a finger to his lips. “Yes…I see…you are no longer in gray.”

He paused, his gaze traveling down her long, pale throat, pearls
glistening against it like orbs on a snowy landscape, on down to her lower than normal décolletage. She had on a very elegant gown indeed, equal to those of the other ladies present that evening.

“That is a very becoming shade,” he added. “It transforms you, somehow. You should wear it more often.”

Her pale skin flushed up delicately, suffusing her throat and cheeks, hiding the pale scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He felt a spurt of pleasure, watching her feminine reaction, and realized she was not only a pious nurse, but a woman as well. Feeling magnanimous with his own victory, he decided to continue the compliments.

“There is something else.”

She looked up at him, her hand going to her throat. “Yes?”

He eyed her hair. It was swept up but in a softer manner than the coronet she customarily wore. Curling tendrils escaped, forming a golden halo around her face. “Your hair. You've done something to it.”

Her hand went to her hair. He smiled at the typically female response. “I—That is, is something amiss?”

He shook his head. “No. It is quite becoming. Softer, somehow.”

“Oh.” She looked away from him, settling her gaze somewhere around his cravat. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Simon found himself not wanting to move. He discovered he enjoyed paying Miss Breton compliments. “How is everything with the ladies?”

Her eyes moved upward again and he realized how pretty they were. He had thought them gray, but now saw them a pale green with hints of blue. They were fringed by light brown lashes, which glowed golden in the candlelight.

“Everything is going very well,” she answered.

“You're not going up already, are you? The entertainment is just beginning. Perhaps you could play a little for us.”

He gave his most charming smile and he was surprised when he felt her sudden withdrawal.

“I…I'm sorry.” She looked away from him. “I'm a little fatigued.”

“Of course, how thoughtless of me.” He moved aside immediately, suddenly tiring of the game. “Rest well.”

She stepped past him and walked up a few steps.

Still he did not move. “Miss Breton?”

She turned to look at him standing below her. “Yes, Mr. Aguilar?”

“You were wrong about the size of this dinner party.”

She frowned. “I don't understand.”

“You said it was a good number, not too large and not too small, which would give me a chance to give my attention to each one of my guests.”

“That is correct.”

“I fear I didn't have time to greet you all evening, and now you are running away.”

She made a motion with her hand. “Do not trouble yourself. I wasn't a guest. I was there to ‘make myself useful,' don't you remember?” she added with a smile.

This time her smile was neither shy nor feminine, but one of comradeship. He found it oddly comforting, like a friendly hand held out over a dangerous course. He returned it. “As well you did.” He looked at her standing there, probably unaware of how regal she looked. “Thank you for all your help. Thank you for attending.”

“It was nothing. I'm glad the evening was a success for you.” She bowed her head then turning, resumed her walk up the stairs.

Still he stood, watching her, until she moved from his view.

 

In the early morning hours Simon entered his daughter's room once again. The house was silent, the last guest having departed. Simon began untying his cravat, tired but satisfied. He gazed down at his daughter's sleeping form; a familiar feeling of helplessness engulfed him each time he looked at her like that. He strained his ears to hear her breathing, always afraid one of these nights it would stop altogether. But although he heard nothing, he finally distinguished the slight rise of her chest in the dim light.

He glanced toward the door to the sitting room. All was dark. Many a night, a light still showed through the cracks—but not
tonight. Miss Breton must indeed have been tired. Simon moved to the curtained window. He stood looking down, his hand pushing aside the velvet draperies a fraction. Lamplight lit the quiet streets at intervals, yellow aureoles in the dark and foggy night. Only one coach rolled past. Most of the residents of Mayfair were abed. Far off, the watch called out the hour.

Simon replayed the evening in his mind. Everyone he had wanted had attended. It had been a good mix: lords and ladies, key political figures, and some literary types to round out the gathering.

For his first foray into the fashionable world, it had gone well. To invite the upper echelons of society and have them accept his invitation—he'd waited a long time for that. Who would have dreamed such a thing possible when he'd been a lad at public school, at the mercy and scorn of these same people and their ilk? Some of the men who now sat in the House of Lords had been the ones who had most tormented him in school, calling him an Ephraimite and concocting the cruelest jests at his expense.

But this evening had been the beginning of a new phase for Simon. After a decade of toiling, he was beginning to see the fruit of his labor. The fashionable world was beginning to hang on to his words and follow his lead. It was more than politics. It was being a leader in society, an originator of ideas.

He relished those moments of witty sallies and repartee at the dinner table. His brow clouded an instant as he remembered the only awkward moment in the evening, that slight scene at the other end of the table between Miss Breton and the colonel's wife. A stupid conversation about religion. Simon curled his lip in disgust. Wasn't it always the way? He hoped his remark had put things in their proper perspective. It would not do to have it noised abroad that he had a Methodist under his roof. That was clearly not fashionable.

He should have known when he'd insisted Miss Breton attend the dinner party that the topic of religion would come up. He'd thought her well-bred enough to avoid the topic. Perhaps it hadn't
been her fault, he conceded, thinking about how quiet and unassuming she normally was. He knew Mrs. Ballyworth could be an outspoken harridan.

His thoughts turned to the shy, retiring Miss Breton. He thought of her reaction to his compliments that evening. So, the pious maiden had a feminine side, after all? He thought of the pleasure he'd taken in bringing it out. It had given him more pleasure than courting the greater ladies of society. He wondered why. Was it something of forbidden fruit?

Simon rubbed his cheek thoughtfully as he thought about a remark Lady Stanton-Lewis had made when he'd rejoined the ladies after dinner. Simon tried to recall what it was; he hadn't paid much attention at the time, his thoughts still on his encounter with Miss Breton on the stairway. Lady Stanton-Lewis had said something about the governess actually presuming to preside over the tea table and how she'd quickly put her in her place. He wondered now what had transpired. Had Lady Stanton-Lewis, too, noticed how attractive Miss Breton appeared and feared a rival? Lord knew, aside from Lady Eugenia—who was in a class by herself—none of the women this evening, with their overfed, bejeweled, pomaded appearances, could hold a candle to Miss Breton. There was a freshness, an understated elegance, in Rebecca's nurse. Tonight her manner and her bearing epitomized the lady.

For all her efforts to appear a woman of humble origins, she could not hide her aristocratic heritage. He shook his head, a smile playing about his lips. He was giving far too much thought and attention to a paid employee under his roof.

With an effort he turned to Lady Stanton-Lewis. Now there was an intriguing situation. The woman had taken a definite interest in him at the last social events he'd attended. He thought back. It had begun at the Summerstons' ball, where his hostess had introduced him to her. He remembered how entertaining she'd been, employing the kind of wit he appreciated—ridicule. She seemed to know something about everyone, most of it not
complimentary. He had been quite amused by her conversation at the kind of gathering he usually found tiresome, though a necessary evil in his political rise.

Lady Stanton-Lewis was quite knowledgeable about the inner workings of government, and seemed on a first-name basis with various members of the House present that evening. She'd amazed and flattered Simon with her awareness of his record on the backbench. He knew her salons were important events, and he coveted an invitation from her. Only the powerful elite were invited, both Tory and Whig.

Ever since the ball she'd singled him out, and he knew it was only a matter of time, if he played his cards right, before he would be admitted to her salon. He noticed how his invitations had increased since meeting her and wondered idly whether she had anything to do with it. He wouldn't be at all surprised. He knew how these things worked.

He had no illusions about himself as attracting the eye of hostesses. He did not possess any vanity about his own personal assets. He was neither a dandy nor a person who had ever known how to woo the ladies. Married young in a union arranged by his parents, as was the custom for them, he was almost as quickly widowed, and had spent the intervening years struggling to learn the ins and outs of government. He'd had no time for the opposite sex, until now….

Despite his family's fortune and his own rising position in government, he knew the stigma of his name as well as the taint associated with his family's fortune in trade and banking. But a connection with people like the Stanton-Lewises could prove a powerful asset indeed.

Besides, he hadn't been involved with a woman since Hannah passed away. Eight years. Eight long, lonely years. He usually didn't let himself think about it, driving himself instead to succeed in his career. Work had engulfed him during those years, for if he did nothing else, he was determined to be acknowledged for his mind. They might despise his heritage, his
looks, his family name, his fortune, but they would come to admire his mind.

The only relief he'd permitted himself in those eight years was Rebecca. The only bright spot. The apple of his eye. And now she was being taken away from him. He glanced toward his daughter's sleeping form, then turned his eyes toward the dark, overcast sky, his hand twisting the curtain in a sudden surge of helpless rage. If there was a God, as Miss Breton seemed convinced of, he was a mean-spirited, vengeful one whom Simon had no interest in knowing, but whom he would fight with everything that was in him.

T
he next morning Simon looked carefully at Althea over the edge of his newspaper when she entered the dining room promptly at half-past seven. Their glances met as soon as she stepped over the threshold. She smiled at him.

“Good morning.”

Her smile seemed bright and genuine. There were no discernible signs of fatigue from the previous night's entertainment, or any shyness over his compliments.

“Good morning.” He went back to the article he had been reading as she moved toward the sideboard. The words about the foreign secretary's announcement concerning the Holy Alliance and its next congress were mere black ink marks on paper as his ears caught the sound of silver against china, and the soft murmurs between Miss Breton and Harry the footman.

When she at last sat down, Simon looked over his newspaper again, and then stopped in annoyance at the bowed head saying grace over the bowl of porridge. Did she never eat anything but porridge? As she straightened and reached for the teapot, he
cleared his throat. Again he was interrupted, this time by Harry, who sprang to take the teapot from her.

Simon frowned, watching Harry's attentiveness to his nurse. Miss Breton smiled up at the footman, again murmuring her thanks. Since when had Harry become so quick on his feet?

Finally Miss Breton's attention was free. He waited as she took a sip of tea. “How did you enjoy the dinner party?”

She smiled, looking beyond him. “Quite well, thank you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, unable to detect any dissembling in her look. Her smile seemed fresh, almost dreamy, as if she too were savoring a success over the previous night. He thought once again about the remark made by Lady Stanton-Lewis, and it intrigued him enough to pursue it.

“The ladies treated you well?” he asked, this time putting his newspaper down enough to take a sip of coffee.

Her glance met his, but it was a straightforward look. “The ladies treated me as well as could be expected.” Then she took a generous spoonful of porridge.

“Meaning?” His cup clinked against its saucer.

She glanced at her spoon and laid it carefully at the edge of her bowl before replying. “As befitting ladies of their station, they cut me dead.”

He took this in, realizing if he hadn't before, the power Lady Stanton-Lewis wielded. “Every one?”

She nodded. “Every one.”

“Even Lizzy Appleby?” He mentioned the wife of a colleague who seemed mild-mannered and eager to please.

“Even Lizzy Appleby.” Althea tilted her head to one side. “I fear they little understood how to treat me.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked back down at her bowl, toying with her spoon. “I occupy that nebulous position of governess—neither quality nor servant. Hence, my presence must needs be ignored.” She glanced at him, a smile playing about her mouth. “In truth, I cannot say I blame them. A woman of dubious noble birth, a professed
Methodist, employed as a governess in an unmarried gentleman's establishment—” She coughed, her cheeks reddening. “A Jew at that.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds, Althea's eyes registering shock at her own remark, when suddenly Simon began to laugh. A second later, she joined him.

When their laughter subsided, he remembered something else she had said in describing herself. “What did you mean by ‘dubious noble birth'?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Didn't my brother tell you?”

He shook his head. “Tell me what?”

She smiled. “I was under the impression he had to tell you everything about me in order for you to agree to hire me.”

He smiled at the recollection. “Was I so very difficult about it?”

She shook her head. “You had good reason.”

“So what was Sky supposed to tell me? Is there some blemish in your family's history that no one is supposed to know about and yet somehow everyone does?”

She looked at him steadily. “Not in my family's history. In mine. I am Lord Caulfield's illegitimate daughter.”

Simon didn't know what to say. He looked at Harry, who was standing like a stick but had no doubt heard every word. He wanted to laugh at the irony; here, he'd been likening Miss Breton to his ideal of a lady and she was no more than Caulfield's by-blow.

He met Althea's direct gaze once again. “I believe we could debate whose situation is the more tawdry—a nobleman's illegitimate daughter or a moneylender Jew's son.”

She put her chin in her hand and considered. “It does present an interesting question.”

Once again Simon felt curiously warmed by that comradely remark. He sat back and looked at her in sympathy. “We're even, then, for the present. I'm terribly sorry about the evening. It must have been dreadful for you. And here I was congratulating myself earlier for insisting you attend. I thought you were having a grand time.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh, come now, Miss Breton. Earlier in the evening you were holding court at the far end of the table. You had Colonel Ballyworth and young Covington positively rapt. At one point I thought the whole table would erupt in controversy.”

She had the grace to blush at that and look down. “That wasn't about me. The Lord merely gave me an opening to talk about the mission, and I used it. Believe me—”

He waved away her excuses. “Yes, yes, I know. You did nothing. Their attention had nothing to do with a charming young lady telling them some heartrending stories about the plight of the poor in our city.”

She frowned at him, her color high. “Are you saying I attempted to prey upon their sympathy? If you think I was exaggerating in any way, I challenge you to go down there and see for yourself—”

“Miss Breton, calm yourself. I meant no such thing. I trust your word implicitly. I applaud you wholeheartedly if you manage to get some of them to loosen their purse strings. Anyway, that's not what we were talking about. I truly apologize for any discomfort I caused you in obliging you to attend the dinner. The fault is mine.” He regarded her silently for a moment, realizing how flattered old Ballyworth must have felt, having this young lady's attention through dinner. With her color high and those wisps of curls framing her face and those ingenuous eyes looking at a man with disconcerting directness, there was more to Miss Breton than he had first supposed. He noticed he was staring when she broke the connection and looked back down at her bowl.

He tried to get back to his paper, but found it difficult to let go of the previous night's event. Finally he put down the paper and pushed aside the remains of his toast. “How did you cope, by the way, with the ladies' insufferable behavior?”

She glanced up in surprise as if she had already put the whole thing behind her. For some reason, that annoyed Simon. Once again, a dreamy smile appeared on her face, which only increased Simon's irritation.

“Don't be sorry—the evening wasn't wasted.”

“You're being too generous, Miss Breton. Lady Stanton-Lewis mentioned something in passing that set me to wondering. But what you've told me sounds much worse than she implied.”

Althea raised an eyebrow. “I'm surprised Lady Stanton-Lewis noticed my situation. She gave no indication of it.”

Simon smiled in understanding. “I am not surprised. I find Lady Eugenia Stanton-Lewis a typical specimen of polite society—a product of her environment, if you would.” He considered a moment, hesitating before continuing. “Now you, on the other hand, are not typical at all. That is why I'm curious how you managed.”

“It wasn't so bad. Well, at first, a little, I must confess.” She smiled. “More than a little…more than I care to admit.”

He looked at her keenly, knowing exactly what it meant to be ignored in a roomful of people. He didn't know which was worse—to be ignored or ridiculed.

She was toying once again with her spoon. The two were silent a moment, each focused on personal thoughts. Simon finally spoke, “What did you mean—the evening wasn't ‘wasted'?”

Althea smiled again, her gaze wandering back to the window. “I was feeling quite uncomfortable, when the Lord led me to pray for each of those ladies.” She cleared her throat as if hesitating. “He…enabled me to really look at each one as I prayed, and suddenly I began to see things I normally would not have.” She looked at Simon, as if wanting him to understand something inexplicable. “It was the most extraordinary thing. It was as if I knew each one—truly knew them, had experienced their tears, their sorrows, when they're all alone and no one is watching. Suddenly I could see past the fancy evening gowns and jewels.” Her gaze reached out to Simon. “I could feel the Savior's love for them, how much He wants to embrace them if…if they would only permit Him.”

Her heartfelt words ended in a whisper. The room was silent.

Simon glanced at Harry, whose attention was fixed on Althea. Finally she gave a deep sigh, as if coming back to the present, and smiled.

“Before I knew it, an hour had elapsed, the gentlemen were coming in, and I could gracefully retire.”

Simon shoved himself to his feet. “Very touching.” He managed to keep his tone dry, but his heart was pounding. “I must be off. I thank you for the interesting narrative.” Before she could reply, he was walking to the door.

 

And he didn't know the half of it, thought Althea as she watched him depart the dining room. She tried not to feel hurt at his abrupt departure. For a few moments it had seemed that she'd broken past his usual irreverent view of the world. They had shared a moment of understanding and then, at her mention of the Lord, it was as if she had dashed a bucket of cold water on him and he'd remembered himself. As Althea finished her bowl of porridge, she tried to tell herself that he wasn't rejecting her, but her Savior. Her Savior had endured much more rejection than that when they'd spit in His face and nailed the stakes through His hands. Althea rose, dismissing the moment of self-pity.

Yes, there was much more to the story than she'd told Simon, she reminded herself, remembering all the moments leading up to the dinner party. He didn't realize how close he had come to having no dinner to serve. Althea straightened her shoulders, knowing she must face the kitchen staff—and principally the cook—that morning.

Harry sprang to open the door for her. “Thank you, Harry.” His attentiveness hadn't gone unnoticed by her. “How are things downstairs this morning?”

“Fine, thank you, miss.” He cleared his throat. “All 'cept Cook, that is.”

She nodded. “That is to be expected. I shall be down presently, as soon as I finish with Rebecca's toilette.”

An hour later, Althea stood before the kitchen door, wondering what she would find that day.

It was not what she had expected. She stopped short at the
crowd that awaited her. All the servants were present, some sitting, some standing. All stood when she entered.

Giles stepped forward and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Breton.”

She started at his polite tone, then looked around at each one in surprise.

“Miss Breton,” Giles continued, “on behalf of all the staff, I would like to express our appreciation of your efforts yesterday afternoon. We don't know how we would have managed without you. We are all deeply grateful.” Again he bowed. Before she could reply, all the servants had swarmed around her, each one expressing his or her thanks.

“Oh, miss, we didn't think 'twas possible—”

“If you 'adn't a come in just then—”

“'Ow did you hever learn to cook like that—we wouldn'ta believed hit if we 'adn't seen hit with our own eyes!”

“All the guests sent compliments down to the kitchen—”

Althea just stood there, too stunned to do anything else. She felt her eyes fill up as she glanced into each excited face and thanked the Lord for what He had done. In one evening He had accomplished what she hadn't been able to in a month.
They shall all come to know You,
she vowed, as she nodded into their smiling faces.

“Mr. Aguilar sent 'is compliments to Cook for such han excellent meal! 'Is very words! Han excellent meal!”

At the mention of Cook, all eyes turned to the woman in question. Up to then Althea had wondered where she was. Now she saw her, slumped at the dining room table, her head cradled in her arms. The room fell silent.

“May I speak to her?” she asked Giles.

“Mrs. Coates and I have reprimanded her severely this morning. She knows if she ever so much as takes a drop again, she will be dismissed on the spot, without references. You have leave to speak to her if you think it will do any good.” His tone suggested Cook was beyond redemption.

The cook meanwhile had lifted her head enough to glare at them. Althea sucked in her breath at the sight of her red, puffy face and the resentment in her eyes.

Althea approached her. “Why don't you come up to my sitting room, Mrs. Bentwood, so we can talk privately?”

The cook continued glaring at her. Althea just waited calmly, meeting her gaze. Finally Mrs. Bentwood looked down and began to heave herself out of her chair. Knowing how awful she must be feeling, Althea gave her a hand. When they reached the upper floor, Althea changed her mind and led Mrs. Bentwood directly into her bedroom and bid her lie on her bed.

She could sense the tension in Cook's body, but gently and firmly, as she had had to do many times at the mission, Althea got her to lie on the bed, then took a coverlet and spread it across her legs.

She turned to her dressing table and soaked a handkerchief in vinegar water. As she laid it on Mrs. Bentwood's forehead, the cook tried to protest, bringing an arm up to remove it.

“There, Mrs. Bentwood, don't fret,” she said in a soft tone, all the while keeping the cool handkerchief against the other woman's skin. “You just lie still a while. Rebecca's occupied right now and I have a few moments.”