Winter Is Past (13 page)

“You said she threw up her meal?”

“Yes. Maybe she had too much excitement this afternoon.”

“Undoubtedly. She is no longer accustomed to her boisterous cousins.”

“But she was enjoying herself so much.” After a moment, Althea added, “At least we didn't have to give her more laudanum. She seemed to feel better right away. I'm sorry I woke you—it was just that she didn't want to be left alone.”

“Call me whenever she needs me.”

The two were silent after that. Althea mused that many were the sickbeds she'd sat at over the past few years, but she'd never quite imagined the scene she found herself in at the present. A little girl, her wealthy Jewish father, in an area of London she never imagined she'd live in again.

She swallowed a sip of tea, then held the hot mug in her lap, wrapped in both hands. “I woke from a dream that I was leaving Cádiz on that last ship in 1492. A little girl's cries turned out to be Rebecca's.”

Simon chuckled. “My stories made an impression on you. Did they dispel or merely confirm your opinion of my people?”

She shook her head in the dark. “I knew little about your people, and I admit what little I knew was mostly hearsay. Well, not quite all. I have met some Jewish moneylenders firsthand in Whitechapel, and their conduct is not flattering to your race.”

“I can well imagine.” He took a sip of tea. “I hope you understand that their predominance in the moneylending field has little to do with choice. They have been denied entry into most professions in Christian Europe since the Middle Ages.”

“I begin to better understand that. I also know there is greed and avarice in every culture. It is not limited to the few Jews I have seen in the East End.”

Rebecca mumbled, and Althea leaned forward. But the girl resumed her quiet sleep.

This time Simon broke the stillness. “Now that I have given you an outline of my family's history, as well as my own infamous jour
ney into Parliament, why don't you give me a little of Miss Breton's history? Why she is here, nursing a sick child, instead of being in the thick of a London Season.”

His question paralleled her own train of thought of a moment ago. She smiled in the dim light.

Before she could formulate a reply, he said, “Your brother didn't speak of your past, he only spoke your marvels. I received the impression you'd practically resurrected him from the dead.”

“The Lord brought my brother back from near death. When he returned from the West Indies, he had a recurring fever. It nearly killed him.”

“He said you were the only one able to nurse him back.”

She smiled slightly. “The Lord sent me to him.” She paused. “I—I had been estranged from my family for some years on account of my faith. But I felt a tugging to go to him, felt that he needed me at that time. It turned out that he was very ill.” She took a careful sip of her tea. “The Lord led Tertius out of the darkness into the light. His healing was an added blessing.”

Simon made no comment. After a moment he brought the conversation back to his original question. “So, why aren't you enjoying the London Season instead of sitting here in obscurity, little better than a low-paid menial servant?”

She looked down into her tea. “I have had my share of London Seasons.”

“Oh? You don't look old enough to have already reached a point of satiety with all that society offers.”

“I am twenty-six, long past the age of London Seasons.”

“Then, why are you not enjoying the role of young matron among the ton?”

“As your father said, married and producing an heir?”

“I apologize for my father's ill-timed and ill-judged remark. Women have a narrowly defined position in our culture.”

“As they do in fashionable society. In any case, you don't have to apologize for your father. He merely spoke his mind.”

“As I will mine—why
aren't
you married with an heir or two?
Though I still maintain you are not so old as to be completely on the shelf.”

“Oh, quite on the shelf by society's standards.” She rubbed the rim of her cup with her fingertip, wondering whether to proceed. Something about the night and the hour gave her the courage to speak. “Well, to be perfectly honest, I had only one offer during my two London Seasons.”

“Oh, come, Miss Breton, that I don't believe. I know how these things work. Marriage is arranged by title and portion, both of which you had. It is not so very different among my people. My marriage was arranged from the time I underwent my Bar Mitzvah.”

“You were promised to your wife when you were thirteen?” she asked in wonder.

“Oh, yes. My father and Hannah's father saw it as a mutually profitable alliance. Her family was in iron and steel, ours in cotton mills and finance. We were in the middle of the war. We quadrupled our fortune between orders for armaments and uniforms for soldiers and loans to the Crown.”

“I see.” Although she knew well how marriages were arranged, it sounded so cold-blooded, pairing a wedding with a war.

“So you can't convince me you had only one offer, Miss Breton. I know your world doesn't operate so very differently from mine. And that is aside from the obvious considerations—an attractive, personable young lady of good birth.”

Attractive, personable
—was that how he saw her? “You are correct when you say our worlds are not so very different. Where you miscalculate is the part about my good birth. You forget I was Lord Caulfield's illegitimate daughter.”

“But Tertius made it very clear you are his sister. If your father brought you up in his home, he must have acknowledged you fully.”

“No.” She hesitated, looking down at her mug. If his entry into Parliament was ignoble, it was no less so than her own history.
“You see, when I was brought to live in the marquess's household at the age of two, I was acknowledged only as Lord Caulfield's ward. No one, except Lord Caulfield himself, knew my origins. To Lady Caulfield and her two sons, Edmund, the eldest, and Tertius, and to the vast troop of servants and retainers at Pembroke Park, I was Lord Caulfield's ward. I grew up believing I was the orphan child of his good friends across the Channel who had died in the Terror of 'Ninety-three.”

“And what was the truth?”

“What I have told you.” She took a sip of the now lukewarm tea. “I was the result of Lord Caulfield's indiscretion with a chorus member of the French opera.”

“Ah!”

She smiled at his shadowy figure across the bed. “You see?”

He nodded. “A lot has been explained to me now.”

Feeling vaguely annoyed by his knowing tone, she asked, “Such as?”

“Why a noblewoman with London society open to her would renounce it all to live among the lower classes of London.”

“What makes you think that would be the reason?”

“Knowing that you were merely the illegitimate offspring of a lord, no matter how exalted his title, might make you feel unworthy of the full honors due his lineage.”

“Don't assume too much, Mr. Aguilar,” she said quietly, shaken to the core at how clearly he'd discerned her original feelings, though he was incorrect in his conclusions. “I could do the same from my vantage.”

“Fire away, Miss Breton. I have a thick skin.”

She considered. “Perhaps you place too high a value on reaching that rarified milieu of 10,000 families which comprise the Fashionable World merely because it is something that has been denied you.”

“Up until now.”

“Up until now,” she agreed. “Just be aware that the mere fact that the door seems to be opening does not make it worthwhile.
The apostle Paul tells us that although all things are lawful to us, not all things are expedient.”

“I take your warning into due consideration, Miss Breton.” He placed his mug down on the night table. “However, this evening I find your history much more intriguing than my own. When did you become Lady Althea, as your brother refers to you?”

“My—” She cleared her throat. “My father revealed my true background to me, and acknowledged his relationship to me, just before I entered my first Season. But he didn't make it publicly known at that time. Lady Caulfield was alive then, and none of us wanted to cause her any pain, least of all myself. Although we had never been close, she had never treated me unkindly. I never knew how much of the truth she knew or suspected—I suppose she had made some conjectures over my parentage, but she never let on what she knew.

“After her death, my father insisted on acknowledging me publicly. He wanted to bestow his name upon me and accord me all that he felt was due me.”

“But you have not accepted the title of ‘Lady,' nor the full benefits falling to the only daughter of the Marquess of Caulfield?” His tone reflected his incredulity.

“I have the full benefits, if you mean I have my father's love and affection.” She didn't mention that it had taken many years to receive those. “As for his fortune, I use my share to help alleviate the needs of the poor at the mission. And going by ‘Lady Althea' would do me little good, and perhaps some harm, in the neighborhood where I've been called to work.”

She fell silent, wondering what he thought of her now that he knew her background, wondering still more what he would say if he knew the whole story of her disgraceful second Season.

S
unday morning Althea awakened tired but with a sense of purpose as she went down to the kitchen. She found Cook and her two kitchen maids and scullery maid already waiting for her at the dining table.

“Good morning.” She smiled at them as she laid her black Bible on the table. “Will anyone be joining us?”

“Good morning, miss. No, miss, no one else is joining us. Mrs. Coates is visiting with 'er relatives. Mr. Giles went out early. The footmen are around but they say they don't want no part with Methodism, beggin' your pardon.”

“That's quite all right.” She sat down and opened her Bible. “Before we continue, let me explain something. The reason we are gathered here has nothing to do with Methodism. We are here to hear and study the word of God. You are all free to attend the church of your choice, but as I noticed you didn't go to church—” Althea turned to Mrs. Bentwood “—I invited you as well as anyone else who would care to, to join me in studying the Scriptures on Sunday morning.

“Shall we begin?” She smiled at each one in turn. They all nodded their heads. “Now, I realize some of you cannot read, but don't let that deter you from hearing our Lord's word. I shall ask Mr. Aguilar's permission to begin teaching you the alphabet, and I'm sure you'll be reading in no time. For the present, just listen as I read. Let us all turn to the Book of Saint John.”

 

In the afternoon Althea knocked on Simon's library door with the express intention of obtaining such permission, as well as to speak to him about a few other household items that had been on her mind. When she found no one in, she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She wasn't quite sure how she would face her employer this morning after her candidness of the night before. She had told him things she had not discussed with anyone but her brother and her pastor, and that not for many years.

Giving herself a mental shake, Althea put on her things to go out for her walk. There was a hint of spring in the March air as she made her way to Hyde Park. She walked down Park Lane, bypassing the most traveled areas where people went to see and be seen. She wandered toward the open meadows, where sheep had been let out to graze after their winter confinement. She could imagine their sense of freedom in those vast pastures after a winter in their stables. When she allowed herself to compare her present restricted life to the one she had lived prior to taking on this nursing assignment, she could easily experience a sense of frustration, of asking, “Why, Lord?” or “How long?” She knew it was at times like these that she must most trust and obey and have patience.

She walked briskly, her head bowed against the wind, humming into her muffler, taking pleasure in the physical exertions of walking and breathing deeply. She slowed her pace as her body warmed. She began contemplating her bucolic surroundings far from the city noises and to voice her thanksgiving in song.

When she was ready to turn homeward, she spotted a lone rider. As he drew closer, she thought he resembled Simon. She
knew Parliament was not in session that afternoon. What should she do? Wait until he drew nearer? Or choose another direction?

She was being silly. She did want to talk to him. Why did she feel shy after her confessions the evening before? She braced herself to face the encounter.

 

“Good afternoon, Miss Breton.” Simon reined in his horse and tipped the curly brim of his beaver hat to her.

She looked up at him, and he was struck with how beautiful she looked. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair wind-tossed about her bonnet. Even her gray pelisse couldn't detract from the health and well-being she radiated. He realized he no longer thought of her as a gray governess; since the dinner party he'd begun thinking of her as a golden girl. Her hair was a deep burnished shade of gold, somewhere between blond and brown. He caught himself wondering what it would look like loose; he imagined a mass of curls, for wherever a strand managed to escape its tight coronet, it caught the light in a dazzle of gold.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Aguilar,” she replied, her gaze sliding away from his as soon as she'd uttered the words.

She looked as if she might resume her walk. Before she could do so, he dismounted and came toward her, keeping a loose hold on the reins. “I trust you were able to get some rest last night?” he asked in a solicitous tone.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied breathlessly.

“You have walked a long way.”

“No—Yes. I—I was just on my way back. Rebecca will soon be waking.”

“Yes.” He continued looking at her, remembering their late-evening conversation. “No more dreams of exile?”

Her high color spread over her entire face. “No, no dreams at all.”

Was it possible she was embarrassed over the things she had told him? They were certainly no worse than his own revelations.
To put her at ease, he looked away from her to the tree-dotted landscape beyond.

“Rebecca was tired today,” he commented.

“Yes, she's napping now.”

He glanced back at her. “I've sent for her physician. He'll be coming by tomorrow morning.”

“I see.”

He sensed disapproval and frowned. Dr. Roseberry was one of Harley Street's finest—if one went by his fees and the recommendations of the hypochondriac matrons of Mayfair.

“He doesn't do her much good,” he conceded, “but for what it's worth, I thought he should take a look at her.”

“Yes, certainly.”

She seemed on the verge of adding something, so when she remained silent, he pressed her. “Is there something else I should be doing? You are the one closest to Rebecca. If there is anything I have neglected, please tell me at once.”

She hesitated so long, her gray eyes fixed intently on him, that he knew she wanted to speak yet struggled to do so.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, having come to trust her judgment implicitly concerning his daughter.

Finally, she just shook her head and looked away. “No. It was nothing. You are doing all you can.”

Simon would have insisted but stopped himself. It struck him with a certainty that she would have said something in a religious vein. Well, he'd already given her permission to see to his daughter's spiritual needs. He would give her no encouragement to minister to
his.
He turned to his horse and stroked its nose.

“Mr. Aguilar?”

He could hear the hesitant yet determined voice. “Yes?”

“I wanted to ask you…a few…things.”

Intrigued, Simon turned his full attention back to her. “Yes?” he prodded her when she didn't answer right away.

The wind continued to tousle her hair beneath the bonnet.

She cleared her throat. “That is, I meant to ask you earlier, but you were not in your library. Perhaps this is not the time—”

“It is as good a time as any. I am meeting someone presently—” He took a look up and down the avenue, but not seeing the person he expected, he turned back to her. “Fire away, Miss Breton.”

She looked disconcerted. “It's…yes, well…three matters, actually.” She cleared her throat again, a sound he was beginning to notice hid her nervousness when she was determined to pursue a course that daunted her. “The first, ahem…is that I've begun a…a…Bible study in the kitchen…this morning, as a matter of fact.” She hurried on. “You see, I noticed that most of the servants don't attend any kind of church service, and I thought I would make myself available to any who wished to study the Scriptures with me. I…I should have asked your permission beforehand, and I wish to apologize, but if I could—”

Was that all that had her so bothered? He waved a gloved hand. “It is your and the servants' day off. You have no need of my permission with whatever you engage in in your free time. If that is the way all of you choose to spend your morning, I have no objection. What else?”

He hid his smile at her look, which showed she'd not expected such a quick dismissal of the topic she'd found so difficult.

“Oh, thank you, sir. That is most kind of you.”

He smiled openly this time, realizing it gave him pleasure to please her.

“The other matter—or the second matter, that is—is the state of some of the serving maids.”

He quirked a dark eyebrow upward. “Their state?”

“I mean to say the state of their education is what concerns me.”

“Their education? What are they lacking in order to perform their jobs?”

“Literacy.”

“Literacy?” What was she talking about? “Does this hinder them in carrying out their duties?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. The fact that they do not know how to read can be injurious. For example, the other night—”

She stopped in mid-sentence as if regretting what she would have said. Betraying some behavior of the servants?

“At any rate, I was busy with something and I needed Dot—that is, one of your parlor maids—to sit with Rebecca for a few hours, and she was not able to read to her.”

“Well, now, I don't imagine that caused a great upheaval in the running of the household,” he drawled.

“No.” Althea smiled. “Rebecca ended up reading to her. But that is not the point. The point is that a young woman of Dot's capacity ought to be able to read.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, what did you have in mind, Miss Breton?” He glanced back down the path, knowing he should soon be seeing the one with whom he had a rendezvous.

She hurried on as if conscious that he was pressed for time.

“I would like permission to begin instruction in reading to those servants who wish to avail themselves in their free time—and my free time, I might add. I won't take any time away from what Rebecca needs—”

He scrutinized her through his spectacles. Was she planning on crusading through his entire household? “Very well, Miss Breton. You wish to reform my household in the spiritual and educational realms. I will concede what I did when I first hired you. A trial basis—isn't that what you proposed then?”

She nodded vigorously as if afraid he might go back on his word.

“Very well. Undertake another trial period, shall we say a month, in which you implement these improvements in the well-being of my servants?” Frankly, he doubted she would see much improvement in a month's time. As for her finding the time, he thought she was being optimistic to think she could sandwich a general literacy campaign between her nursing duties. Rebecca had been remarkably well throughout Miss Breton's sojourn. If she should take a turn for the worse, he didn't want to think what that would entail.

He moved away from her and remounted his horse. “If we see
you are making progress for their betterment, and it doesn't interfere with your duties to Rebecca, as you say, then you may carry on with them. Agreed?”

She expelled a breath. “Agreed, Mr. Aguilar, and thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Don't thank me. You haven't proved yourself yet. Though I have no doubt that you will, as you did with your first trial. Now, was there anything else, Miss Breton?”

He didn't expect anything but another expression of gratitude.

But she took another breath and continued. “The final thing has to do with the kitchen. Could you please authorize someone to come in and improve the ventilation over the cookstove?”

He stared at her in utter bewilderment.

She hurried on. “It is stifling to work down there. Cook's health is in danger. I've seen many kitchens where they have improved the ventilation by the placement of a small window leading to the street. I could recommend a carpenter or mason—”

He held up a hand to stop her litany. “Please, Miss Breton, I don't need a sermon.” He tapped his riding crop against his leg, as she stood still, biting her underlip, looking strangely appealing. He looked down the path again, seeing a rider at last, off in the distance. The sight brought him back to his reasons for being out in the park today.

He turned his attention back to Miss Breton, suddenly amused at the temerity of all her suggestions in the space of a few minutes. “Very well, Miss Breton, see to whatever it is you need. If it means an improvement in the food Cook sends upstairs, I support the improvement in full measure. Although I must say she rose to the occasion the night of the dinner party.”

She smiled widely at that. “Thank you, sir, I shall tell Mrs. Coates and Giles about your decision.”

He raised an eyebrow. “My decision? Somehow I feel as if I had very little to do with it. Now, is that all you wished to request?”

He knew his mockery was unmistakable, but she ignored it. “
Thank you,
sir! Yes, that is all for the moment.”

“I am glad to hear it, Miss Breton.” He touched a hand once more to his brim. “In that case, I must bid you farewell. I am meeting Lady Eugenia, whom I see riding toward me at this very moment.”

“You are riding with Lady Stanton-Lewis?”

Simon turned at the sound of dismay in Miss Breton's voice. She was watching the rider approach.

“Yes,” he replied, looking down at the nurse, a trace of defiance in his tone. Why did he feel as if he was doing something wrong and must justify it? “I am beginning my apprenticeship in that heretofore forbidden world of society we discussed last night.” He added, “Wish me luck.”

“I don't believe in luck anymore,” she answered quietly.

“What is it you believe in, then?”

“That ‘the steps of a righteous man are ordered by the Lord.'”

He looked at her for a moment longer. “So be it. Pray for me, then.” Again he gave her a mocking salute.

Althea watched him ride toward Lady Stanton-Lewis. Her heart was troubled. Yes, she would pray for him.

 

“Now, you copy these letters for me.” Althea pushed the slates toward the two kitchen maids. She watched them for a few seconds. Martha's tongue stuck outward as she struggled to form the alphabet letters on the slate.