Winter Is Past (21 page)

“God's Son came down upon this earth and put on one of these suits of clothing so He could feel our pain and our weakness and our fear. He came among us so that He could tell us about our Heavenly Father's love for us. He knew we could never enter His Father's world on our own, because of our sin.”

The girl was listening raptly.

“You see, every time we do something bad, we draw apart from God. He is holy, and I'm afraid these old, sinful garments of ours cannot stand to be in His presence. His presence is glorious.

“But, you know, God had a plan to overcome this situation. He sent His special emissary, His Son, Jesus, to make a way for us to Heaven. He asked His Son if He would come and take all our sin on Himself. He paid the price, so that we could come into the Father's presence, clean and whole. Jesus said if we would receive Him, He would make us a part of Himself, so that He could take us with Him into Heaven when our turn came to leave this earth.”

“Am I a part of Jesus?”

“You can be if you receive Him as your Lord and Savior. Do you know what His name, Jesus, means?”

“No.”

“It means ‘God will save' in the language of your ancestors. They were awaiting this Savior for many, many generations before He appeared on earth. When Jesus came, He told the Jewish people, ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' “The world—that means you and me, Rebecca. He loved us so much that He sent His Son to die in our place so we might have everlasting life with Him. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

Althea waited for a few moments before speaking again. “Do you want to receive Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

“All right. Just pray after me. Dear Lord, I know I've sinned….”

Rebecca repeated the words of the short prayer after Althea. Afterwards she fell into a peaceful sleep. Althea stayed kneeling, praying and thanking God.

In the days following this prayer, Rebecca was eager to hear more about Jesus. Althea began reading to her directly from
the gospels concerning the life and ministry of Jesus. Rebecca listened attentively, and would protest when Althea put the Bible down.

 

The next night, as if to steal her joy at Rebecca's conversion, Simon entered the room in a particularly belligerent mood. He reminded Althea of a little boy determined to get his way by sheer argument.

He began with the latest report of his social exploits. When she made no reply, but continued knitting a muffler, he said, “You of all people should applaud me if I am at last breaking free of the shackles of tradition and the hypocritical standards imposed by society. You're always preaching the ‘freedom' to be had in true religion. Well, now I begin to go where I please, see whom I please, say what I please.”

She said nothing but gave him that gentle look that seemed to irk him further.

“If Lady Stanton-Lewis amuses me, and I her, why shouldn't I spend time in her company?” he finally blurted out in irritation. “That's what all this is about, isn't it?”

When she still said nothing, he said, “Miss Breton has that disapproving look on her face. Go ahead, tell me what you are thinking.”

“I'm thinking,” she said over the clicking of her needles, “King Solomon wrote in one of the Proverbs that ‘there is a way that seemeth right to a man, but the end thereof is death.'”

“So, I'm playing with fire, is that it? My father echoes those sentiments.”

“Your father is perhaps wise in this area.”

After a few moments, Althea continued. “Jesus talks about corruptible and incorruptible seed, the one leading to death, the other to eternal life.”

“That sounds like something the good curate tried to drill into me in catechism classes. ‘The wages of sin are death,' or some such nonsense to prepare me for water baptism.” Simon paced
the room. “You Christians are happiest when you're harping on sin.” He stopped right in front of her chair and pointed a finger at her. “My theory is that it's all just an excuse for not living life—and for being bigoted and narrow-minded about others who might be taking advantage of the life God gave us!”

“That's what the world generally accuses us of,” she countered quietly, “when they can't even begin to understand what living is really about. Jesus promised us life ‘more abundantly' and believe me, He knew what that meant! He also warned us the world would not be able to understand.”

“Life more abundantly!” he answered scornfully. He gestured impatiently toward Rebecca. “Is that what you call what my daughter is doing? Living!” He glared at her. “Oh, I know what you're going to say, I know I'm supposed to be some kind of prodigal. I deserve what I'm getting, but what about her? Does she deserve this?”

She didn't say anything, but there was anguish in her eyes as she longed to tell him that his daughter now had eternal life.

“Why doesn't your Jesus heal her for your sake? Don't think I don't know how much you pray for her! I've seen you kneeling nights in your little sitting room. I've heard your weeping. Why doesn't your precious Savior hear you? What more does He want of you? A pound of flesh?”

Althea's eyes were brimming with tears. He needed answers she couldn't give. Her silent tears angered him all the more.

“Go on, go to bed.” When she didn't move, he said it more roughly. “Go! I need to be alone.”

Hurriedly she gathered her things and left.

 

A few nights later Simon came home feeling inordinately weary of fighting. As he entered Rebecca's room, he felt an immediate peace. Althea was sitting in her usual place by the bed, knitting again.

“Good evening. How is she?” he asked, looking toward his daughter's ghostly form.

“Fine.” Althea smiled. “She was quite lively this evening. We played a few games before she fell asleep.”

He removed his spectacles, rubbing his eyes, too tired for the moment to move away from the door. Finally he walked toward his daughter, stepping in front of Althea. He stooped over Rebecca, touching her soft cheek. One dark braid lay across it. He pushed it gently out of the way.

Then he turned to Althea, who had risen, the ball of yarn in her hand. He found himself near enough to touch her. She stood, probably waiting for him to step back. He didn't oblige her. He just stood there, looking at her, caught by a sudden, overwhelming desire to hold her and be held by her. He needed something she had—wanted something… Unable to articulate even to himself what it was, he stood mute.

He had seen her as the comforter of his child. And lately he had come to see her also as perhaps the only thing that stood between himself and insanity, like a steady rock in the maelstrom of his life. He had fought with everything in him to avoid seeing her as a woman.

But he couldn't anymore.

His eyes traveled the length of her, comparing her freshness and honesty with the artifices of the society women he'd just come from; he observed the rise and fall of her breast, the heightened color of her cheeks, and with a certainty, he knew that she was just as aware as he of their position as man and woman.

He tugged at the knot of his cravat to keep himself from reaching for her and kissing her until he forgot everything else. The very thought filled his senses. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that if he took such a step, he would never recover. Every instinct, every fiber of his being, told him this woman was like no other he'd known.

He felt immobilized, his mind battling these thoughts, powerless to move either forward or back—all he could do was continue to study her in the low lamplight. Within the space of a few seconds he watched the questioning look in her gray eyes turn
to worry and worry turn to acknowledgment. Time drew out, but still he didn't move. Without a conscious thought, he brought his hand up to her face and ran his fingers over the contours of it, like a person who knows he cannot have something and yet must nevertheless linger over it, even if it means enduring the agony of denial. He held his breath at the downy softness of her cheek.

“Do you know I once thought you weren't beautiful?” His voice emerged a ragged whisper.

At her imperceptible nod, he half smiled. “You did? What gave you that idea?”

“You.” Her own voice was low, husky.

“Me? How?”

“The way you spoke of Rebecca's mother—how beautiful she was.”

“Ah.” He recollected the remark. “I'm sorry to have given you that impression. Hannah was a beautiful woman, it is true, but in saying that, I didn't mean to imply that you were any less so.”

She looked down then at her yarn and knitting needles. “It doesn't matter. I don't expect you to find me beautiful.”

He lifted her chin with a fingertip and touched her lips with his thumb, silencing her. “I only meant that the two of you were very different. She was dark, you are fair. She was a child, you are a woman.” He continued looking at her, fascinated by her features. “You are beautiful,
Miss
Althea.” He imitated his daughter's name for her, lingering over each syllable of her name, capturing its essence on his tongue and against his teeth.

“I've realized it for some time.” As he spoke, his voice a low rumble in his throat, his finger moved as if of its own volition over her features. “Such a clear countenance. ‘There is no guile' in Althea,” he said, quoting Scriptures back to her. His forefinger caressed her cheek and temple and came to rest on her forehead. “She harbors only thoughts that are pure and true, nothing self-serving.” He traced her cheek once again, his tone becoming rhythmic. “So rosy and soft, with those delightful freckles scattered about—” he touched the bridge of her nose “—giving her
no end of vexation if her heightened color is any indication. But I wouldn't have even one removed…not a one.” The pad of his thumb moved over her cheek, his fingers cupping her face. “Such soft skin, it gives no evidence of the tears spilled over it.” His fingertip traced the imaginary path of a tear and continued down the curve of her cheek, feather light until it lay once again gently over the rise of her lips where it had begun its journey.

“Such wisdom from these lips, as her God gives her, to comfort a man's soul—if he would but let it.” He continued stroking their crimson softness, expressing thoughts he hadn't until that moment even dared formulate to himself. “Do you know how often I have found myself of late with the desire to kiss them? I've found myself wondering whether you have hidden all your womanly feelings so deep beneath that prim exterior that you are no longer aware you even possess them.”

He felt her breath against his finger, but she didn't move or speak, captivated as much by his words and touch, apparently, as he was by her nearness.

“But I've stopped myself from discovering the answer to those questions. Do you know why?”

He watched her shake her head slowly from side to side. “Because, my dear Miss Althea, I'm afraid the answers would be my undoing.”

As her eyes widened, he smiled again. “Yes, indeed. You terrify me. I begin to have my answer to one question, at any rate,” he continued. “I don't believe, my dear, sweet Althea, that you are immune to my touch.”

He took her chin in his forefinger and thumb and watched her gaze drop to his lips. His tongue clicked against his teeth. “What am I going to do about you? I can't seem to get you out of my thoughts. You've insinuated yourself into my gut like some stubborn malady, giving me no peace.”

Her gaze returned to his in alarm at those words and he curled his lip upward. “Those eyes, which look at me so sadly sometimes, and at others, flash anger at me, sometimes gray, sometimes
green, at times even blue, but always true and honest in what they believe.”

His smile disappeared as he acknowledged the longing in his being to hold this woman and feel her nearness. “Do you know why I cannot satisfy my hunger to kiss you?”

Again she shook her head mutely, as if incapable of speaking.

They stood for a moment longer, gazing into each other's eyes. For Simon it was a desire in him that he knew he would no longer be capable of containing if he didn't remove himself from the room very soon.

His legs could no longer obey even if his mind were capable of sending the command. Reason evaporated as Simon drew his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her gently forward, at the same time leaning downward, knowing nothing but that in another instant he would be able to discover firsthand the answer to the question that had been burning for so long in his mind.

His lips hovered over hers an instant as he whispered, “This is why.” The next second, their lips were touching, the sensation sending a thrilling shock down through his limbs. The softness of her barely parted lips was all that he had imagined and more.

One touch and he wanted to bury himself in her. But he held back, whispering her name, drawing her close with his two arms. “Don't be afraid, my dear Althea,” he whispered as he nuzzled her lips and cheeks, then traveled down her neck, breathing in the scent of her. He wrapped his two hands around her head and brought her head upward. He opened his eyes, his lips playing over the surface of hers. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed.

Was she recalling her terrifying experience? Was she comparing his touch to that other man's? Dreading that, Simon hesitated. His thumbs massaged her temples lightly. Feeling no resistance in her, he drew his face down to hers again, taking her lips once more in his. This time he deepened the kiss, nudging her lips apart.

His arms drew downwards, his hands caressing her back, pushing her towards him, needing to feel her against the length of him.

His body throbbed with pent-up need. He needed to stop—He mustn't—his brain told him, as his lips kept exploring the sweet depths of her mouth.