Winter Is Past (19 page)

One afternoon as she returned from a brisk walk, a habit she'd suspended during Rebecca's fever, she heard muffled laughter through the library door. Just as she began to untie her bonnet ribbons, the door opened and Lady Stanton-Lewis appeared.

“Now, Simon, I shall expect you there tomorrow evening. You can't get out of it just because half the company present are dead bores.”

Simon made a remark Althea didn't catch. Feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable at the thought of meeting the two of them, Althea's eyes darted about for escape. Lady Stanton-Lewis tapped Simon against the arm with her fan. “How naughty of you.” She gave a low, throaty laugh. “What would Griff say?”

The two began to walk toward her. Althea stood still, not knowing where to go. Lady Stanton-Lewis in her elegant laven
der afternoon dress and hat stood almost as tall as Simon. Althea could not help marveling at the lady's ensemble; every accessory matched, from kid boots to ruffled parasol. Lady Stanton-Lewis pulled on a pair of lavender gloves.

Simon caught sight of Althea. “Ah, there you are, Miss Breton. I must say, you look refreshed from your walk.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Aguilar.” She turned to Lady Stanton-Lewis, her lips feeling stiff. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

The lady ignored her greeting. She gave a final tug to her gloves and turned to Simon. “Be a darling and accompany Winnie tonight to White's. I need you to keep an eye on him for me.” She lowered her voice. “I depend on you.”

Whether Althea's presence there inhibited him from saying something more tender or not, he only quipped, “Then, heaven help you.”

Lady Stanton-Lewis laughed as he opened the door to escort her to her awaiting curricle.

Althea began her slow ascent up the stairs, suddenly feeling as if she were a hundred years old.

 

Late that evening Simon sat at cards with a group of men at White's. It was the first time he'd been admitted into the men's club.

It was thanks to Lord Stanton-Lewis that he'd gained entry. The baron was nowhere to be seen at the moment. The last time Simon had caught a glimpse of him, he'd been deep into a game of hazard. Simon had tossed the dice for a few rounds, but had soon found the winning and losing of vast sums of money on the throw of a pair of dice an incredible stupidity.

He'd finally settled on what he supposed was a rather tame hand of loo with a group of dandies of varying ages.

“It's been a frightful bore since Brummell fled for the Continent last year. London hasn't been the same since,” commented one named Algernon with a yawn. He was a regular at Lady Stanton-Lewis's, although Simon hadn't quite figured out the attrac
tion for her. To Simon's eye, the aged dandy had nothing to offer but an exaggerated opinion of himself.

“I suppose London became a bit unseasonable when his debts topped forty-thousand,” Simon replied dryly.

“I heard he's holding court in some rooming house in Calais.” Snickers of laughter greeted the remark of a Lord Islingworth, another perfumed and pomaded dandy, whose manicured fingers stretched lazily forward to take his cards.

“Only the best ton is permitted entry, by all accounts. One can't pass through Calais without presenting one's card,” said a youngish fop going by the ridiculous name of Winnie. He was the one Lady Stanton-Lewis had asked Simon to look after. With good reason, he thought, seeing the pile of vouchers Winnie had already signed over to Islingworth. He turned his high, starched neck cloth toward Algernon. “Saw you at the Regent's grand fête at Carlton House last week. Sad crush there.”

“Frightfully.”

Algernon took up his cards. “Since he and Brummell had their falling-out, London has been in a sad decline.”

“I say it's too many people being let into fashionable circles. These days you're as liable to run into a factory owner at Lady Richardson's as a peer of the realm,” drawled Islingworth.

“You just have to know whose parties to attend. Some hostesses are still maintaining their ton.”

“At least White's hasn't followed the general decline,” sniffed Winnie. “Here the little black ball still rolls.”

All but Simon smiled slyly. He eyed his cards, wondering what they thought of his presence there tonight.

“And there's always Almack's,” added Winnie. “The patronesses haven't bowed to any outside pressures. They keep watch over the vouchers as assiduously as a reformed prostitute her virtue.”

The others laughed. “Not even the Duke of Wellington was admitted when he arrived seven minutes too late for the dancing.”

Algernon gave Simon a measured look from across the round table. “Heard you got a voucher.”

Simon nodded. “For next week.”

Islingworth narrowed his eyes at him. “Lady Castlereagh must have approved you.”

“I guess she didn't blackball me,” he answered. They all laughed at that.

“Mind you're not late,” Winnie warned him with a chuckle, laying down his hand on the green baize cloth.

“And wear the right attire. Knee breeches or black tights—no trousers or pantaloons or you'll be turned away.”

“Almack's isn't all it's cracked up to be,” Islingworth remarked in a bored tone as he picked up the cards for the next trick. “Nothing but weak lemonade and lukewarm tea with a few dry biscuits to pass as refreshment, and strictly regulated dancing.”

“At least they finally approved the waltz,” put in Winnie.

“Long after the entire Continent was dancing it,” said Islingworth disparagingly.

“But you must admit, the place does keep out the vulgar roturiers that seem to find their way into every other nook and cranny of society these days,” said Winnie in defense of the venerable establishment.

“You won't find any rich bankers at Almack's,” Algernon agreed.

The conversation turned to horses, then back to gaming. Finally it came to women. It seemed each one had either a ballet dancer or an opera girl tucked away somewhere. Simon thought about Althea's parentage and wondered whether it ever occurred to these men the far-reaching consequences of their actions. At least Althea had a father who had given her his name, but how many gentlemen would acknowledge an illegitimate offspring?

After another trick, Simon excused himself. He'd lost half the amount he'd allotted himself for playing and decided not to try to recoup his losses. He preferred losing twice the amount over enduring more of their conversation. He sauntered down to the billiard room and watched the play for a while, but soon found himself calling for his coach. There were several places he could
stop in at the hour of ten. The opera and theater would just be over, with their crowds going out to supper or to various routs and balls.

But Simon instructed his coachman to take him home. Since his return a fortnight ago, he'd been out every night Parliament wasn't in session. And when the House adjourned early, he usually made his way to either Lady Eugenia's salon or to some party for which he'd received an invitation.

He would come home in time for his late-night watch with his daughter. He'd usually find Althea curled up, asleep on the armchair. As soon as he had roused her, she would scurry out of the room before he had a chance to so much as ask her how she was. He wondered at times whether she was fleeing him as much as he her.

He couldn't forget the feel of her in his arms that first night back, no matter how much he tried to dismiss it. But her warm body, the clean smell of her nightcap beneath his nostrils, the soft tendrils of hair escaping their braid, all continued to tease his memory. He hadn't forgotten his father's warning to him. It would do no good to let any sentimental feelings for Rebecca's nurse influence him at this time. So, he let her run away without trying to detain her.

In a careless moment, he had jokingly confided to Lady Eugenia his father's plans for his second marriage. To his surprise, she had been in wholehearted agreement, reviewing his father's candidates with him. Like a general planning a campaign, she'd listed the pros and cons of each one of the half-dozen debutantes deemed favorable, and finally settled on the top two choices. Simon had ironically thanked her for leaving him any choice in the selection at all.

She had laughed, saying, “You shall thank me afterward for helping you make the selection. Don't tell me you want the tedious task of courting each one of these silly little chits yourself, do you?”

He had to admit the prospect did not entertain him.

“I know you shall find these two candidates acceptable. They'll make you good little wives if you house and feed them properly. Buy them some nice trinkets, give them a generous line of credit at the mantua maker, and they'll give you no trouble at all.”

“You make them sound like the perfect mistresses rather than wives.”

“What is the difference? You want them to be available when you need them, yet to not interfere in your other activities.”

Simon entered his silent house, depressed with his thoughts. Giles had left a lamp for him. Simon turned it up and proceeded to remove his wraps. He looked toward the library. It was a little past ten, still early enough to do some work. His book was not advancing very rapidly, since he'd been staying up most nights. His mornings, which used to be his most productive time, were now spent abed. He was becoming just like those fops he'd observed with contempt earlier in the evening.

Hardly, another voice told him. No matter how like them he dressed and talked, he would never succeed in hiding his origins. He knew they tolerated him at places like White's only because he was known for his originality and wit in the House and because of his favor with the prime minister. He'd even managed to amuse the Prince Regent the handful of times he'd been in his company.

Lady Eugenia's marked attention had no doubt also opened doors. She gave him an opportunity to display his wit, thanks to her salon. Because of his popularity there, other hostesses were coveting Simon's name.

Without any conscious decision, Simon began to climb the stairs and, reaching the top, directed his feet toward Rebecca's room. Since it was earlier than the time he usually appeared there, he gave a light knock. Althea's immediate reply told him that she was still awake.

“Good evening.” He kept his hand upon the door handle, gauging her reaction to his appearance.

“Good evening.” She looked up from her reading, displaying surprise at his presence.

Since she made no further comment, he felt obliged to explain. “I'm home a little earlier tonight and thought I'd see how things were going.”

She sat up straighter and closed her Bible, leaving a finger in her place.

He advanced into the room and brought another chair over to the bed, hoping she would not leave right away as she had every other night.

“How is Rebecca?” he asked quickly, to keep Althea engaged.

“Sleeping quietly.” She added, “She's still very weak and only drank a little broth this evening. I read to her some, but don't know how much she took in.”

Simon touched his sleeping daughter's hand. It rested lightly on the coverlet. Her fingers were long and slim, the fingernails long ovals. He remembered the joy when she'd been born and he'd held her in his arms for the first time. She'd been a healthy, robust baby then, her vigor in sharp contrast to Hannah's weakness after the birth. Hannah had contracted a fever in those days following the birth and died.

But that real paternal love—fierce, tender, heartbreaking—hadn't occurred until Rebecca was a year-and-a-half-old toddler, reaching for him, her dark curls tousled, her ruffled white pinafore crumpled, calling out
“Abba”
as she wrapped chubby arms about his neck and planted warm, wet kisses on his cheek.

Rebecca had thrived despite her mother's absence. He'd been sure she'd live to be a hundred. Now her pallor and thinness reminded him again of Hannah in those last few days of her life.

He looked toward Althea, relieved she hadn't left yet. Suddenly he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts.

“Were you ever at Almack's during your London Seasons?” he asked abruptly.

She fingered the lace at her collar. “Yes, once or twice, with my father—my guardian then,” she amended.

He quirked an eyebrow upward. “I thought it was extremely
difficult to get entry. Your father obtained a voucher for you despite your obscure origins?”

She smiled faintly in the lamplight. “Yes, it surprises me, too, now that I think of it. Back then, I accepted it since I knew my father—my guardian—was admired and respected by the patronesses. I'm sure it was only as a special favor to him that I was admitted.”

He found himself vaguely irritated that she had with such apparent ease already gone and done at the tender age of seventeen what he'd had to wait until thirty-two to achieve. He loosened his starched neck cloth, marveling at the irony of it. It was laughable, actually: she'd been there and could barely remember the experience, and he'd wanted to gloat over his triumph.

“Why do you ask about Almack's?” Her soft voice intruded into his thoughts.

“I have a voucher for next Wednesday's dance.”

“I see. Congratulations.”

He rested his head against the back of his chair and stretched his legs out before him. “Do you know the significance of this?” He gave a dry bark of laughter. “A Jew in the hallowed halls of Almack's?” When she made no reply, he said, “Tonight I sat in White's for the first time.”

She set her Bible on the bedside table and smoothed her skirts over her knees. “Are you happy with your achievements?”

“Do you know for how long I have had to watch my reputation most assiduously? Every word spoken, every place I went, every engagement I accepted, my mode of dress, everything down to the last detail—all carefully calculated to advance my career?” When she shook her head, he continued. “Now, for perhaps the first time in my life, I have a modicum of liberty to choose my friends and engagements. It's quite a heady feeling.”