Winter Is Past (24 page)

“It's for him,” she explained, placing the paper between the pages.

He looked at her with kindly eyes, and she couldn't help remembering how indifferently he had eyed her when she'd first arrived.

“Very good, miss.”

“Thank you, Giles.” Not knowing how else to express what she felt, she held out her hand. “Goodbye, then.”

He enveloped her hand in his large, gnarled one. “We'll miss you.”

“And I you.” She hesitated. “Take care of Mr. Aguilar.”

He nodded with understanding. “I shall do my best, miss.”

As she left Green Street for the last time, she turned back for a final look at the house. If she viewed it from the world's eyes, she would call her sojourn there a total loss. Her patient had not recovered, and her employer was as far away from his Savior as he'd ever been. The death of his daughter had undoubtedly sealed his heart against God.

In her mind and body, Althea felt like a complete and utter failure. All she could do was trust that her labor had not been in vain. She recalled the Scripture about a servant's acts of righteousness remaining forever. She had to believe that her obedience in fulfilling what the Lord had called her to do in Simon's household would remain forever. She knew it was so. Although her heart mourned Rebecca, it also knew there was great rejoicing in Heaven.

She went to her brother's town house and spent an evening with them, but would not let them persuade her to stay longer. She knew where her place was, and she had been away too long already. She returned to the mission early the next day, closing the preceding chapter of her life.

 

Simon wandered the dark halls of his house, listening to the silence. Even though the mourning period would go on for some time, with Kaddish prayers being said in the synagogue, the portion under his roof was over. After a week, his family had walked around the block, signaling the end of
shiv'ah.
Then they had departed, each to resume a normal life.

He had barely spoken to them while they had been at his house. He hadn't interfered with their rituals but neither had he permitted them to draw him in to their prescribed form of mourning.

He walked the hallway one more time in his dressing gown and slippers. He thought about Job. That poor fellow had lost everything because of some game God had been playing with Satan. Is that what had happened to him? First his wife and now Rebecca. Had they been the innocent pawns caught in the middle? Had they been the expendable elements in Simon's life when God had looked down on him and decided to allow Satan to amuse himself with his life?

Was Simon going to be allowed to succeed in the political arena but not in the domestic? Was God saying, in effect, “I shall let you rise in Parliament, but you shall never know happiness in hearth and home?” What if God changed His mind and said to Satan, “You can have it all. Take whatever Simon has—only keep him alive, we want him to feel his losses.”

Well, Simon wasn't going to be caught in the middle anymore. They'd taken the best from him; he wasn't going to participate in their game anymore. He'd fold his hand and withdraw from the play. It was too deep for him.

Simon ended his midnight perambulation in Rebecca's bedroom. The bed was made, everything put in order. It was almost as if his daughter were just away at her grandparents' for a few days. Tomorrow she would be returning, her eyes sparkling, her words tumbling out, wanting to tell him all at once about everything she'd done. Simon walked past her row of dolls—What had she called them? He couldn't for the life of him remember and he felt a stab of pain at the lapse. Sarah? Angel? Anna? Rebecca—yes, one was named after herself—and Althea. Althea. He picked up a porcelain one, remembering the countless tea parties he'd had with this one. Rebecca seated at her little table on her good days, propped up in bed on her bad ones, her dolls at her sides.

“
Abba,
Miss Althea wants to know how you like your tea? Miss Althea is going to the ball next week. There's a prince there she is going to be introduced to….”

Where was Althea, anyway? Simon half turned, his eyes going to the door to the sitting room. He hadn't seen her in how many
days? He tried to recollect. He'd lost track of the days since the funeral. It seemed as if he'd been walking around in a fog since that day he'd beheld Rebecca's warm features grow into a marble-like mask.

He'd left the remains of his little girl to his family and sought refuge in the library, no longer aware of days or nights as he sat huddled in his chair, staring at his papers. Ivan, his valet, had come to see that he was dressed and ready for the funeral. His father had tried to comfort him. Simon had sat mute, not hearing the words, seeing only the man who could buy and sell others, as the Mother Goose rhyme went through his head, “All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again.”

Simon stared at the chairs where he and Althea had shared so many evening conversations. What would she say about the situation now? She had been fond of Rebecca. Had she been able to accept her charge's death so gracefully?

All of a sudden Simon felt a desperate longing to talk to her as he used to, to unburden himself to someone who wouldn't be ruffled by anything he said or offer platitudes to his pain. Even when she'd angered him, there was a comfort in her certainty.

He tried to pinpoint when he'd seen her last. He was certain she had been at the funeral. With no clear idea of what he intended, nor of any thought to the time, he entered her sitting room. Here, too, all was neat and silent. The moonlight illuminated the outline of the furniture, touching her chair by the fireplace where she'd sat reading that Bible every night.

After some hesitation he knocked on her bedroom door, his need more pressing than any considerations of propriety. There was no answer. Of course not, he thought, thinking of the hour. He shouldn't wake her. But his yearning at that moment for the human contact he'd been shunning since Rebecca's death overwhelmed him.

He knocked harder this time, calling out, “Miss Breton!”

It was funny, she used to be up in seconds when Rebecca cried
out in the night. But now only silence greeted him. He knocked and called again. Finally, hesitantly, he turned the knob and entered. It took only a second to discern through the moonlight that the bed was vacant. He walked over and stood by it for a moment. Then he walked around the rest of the room and found it empty of all personal belongings. There was not a trace of Miss Breton to be found.

Had she, too, been a ripple in his existence? Gone now, every last trace? Like a dream, completely evanescing upon waking. Would the memory of her disappear as quickly? Had she even been real?

Then he understood. She was gone. Of course she was gone. He didn't need her anymore. Her patient had succumbed to her illness, so Miss Breton's services were no longer required. When had she left? Directly after the funeral? Again he struggled to remember when he had last seen her. But the preceding days were indistinct, like a heavy opiate veil. The only clear memory was of shutting himself in his library, away from prying, sympathetic eyes. He had either sat in his chair or slept fitfully on his couch, the only sounds intruding being the soft footfalls of his valet or butler entering to leave him a tray of food and tea, along with a strong libation in the evenings.

So, Miss Breton had vanished without a trace. Simon hadn't even paid her her last quarter wages.

He turned on his heel, leaving the empty room, ignoring the call of his heart.

T
he next morning Simon got up and shaved. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, feeling the smoothness of his jaw. Unwittingly, he had observed that part of the Jewish ritual, remaining unshaven during the period of
shiv'ah.
He descended to the library, where he was able to sit down at his desk and do some work for the first time. He had decided last night to draw a definite line between his present and his past.

In the early afternoon, Giles announced that Lady Stanton-Lewis had come to see him.

“Show her into the sitting room. And bring some tea.”

Giles bowed his head silently.

Eugenia sat in the settee, a perfect picture of health and beauty. She was a welcome sight to his weary eyes.

“I haven't seen you since the funeral, so I thought I'd better come and see what hole you were digging yourself into.”

“Good afternoon, Eugenia.” He bent over her hand, its skin white and soft. “How have you been? And Lord Stanton-Lewis?”

“I'm fine, he's fine. Sends you his condolences. You looked
awfully peaked at the funeral and you don't look much better now.”

“Thank you,” he answered wryly, seating himself on a chair beside her.

“Don't wallow in self-pity. We all know what you've been through. The thing is to get through it. That's what your friends are here for.”

Harry brought in the tea. After he'd left, Eugenia poured and handed Simon his cup.

“What are your plans, Simon?” she asked when they'd each taken a sip.

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Plans? I haven't the foggiest.”

“Why don't you get away for a while?”

The idea had an immediate appeal. If he spent another night wandering the empty corridors and rooms of his house, there was no telling what he would do next. “What did you have in mind?”

She gave a rich, throaty laugh. “Scotland.” At his look of interest, she continued. “Griff and I have a place on the moors. We always go there for the grouse shooting. The season is just commencing. Why don't you come along with us now? There will be only a small group on our estate, a very select few. You can see them or not, as you choose. It's quite isolated. You may mourn your daughter in peace. It's the ideal place for long walks and contemplation. It will do you a world of good.” Her eyes brightened. “You may also work on your book. You'll find yourself much more productive up there, I'll warrant.”

He pondered it, looking at the clear cinnamon hue of his tea. The more he thought about it, the better the prospect tempted him.

When he didn't speak right away, Eugenia put down her cup and saucer and leaned toward him. She laid a hand on his arm. “Simon, you and I are two lost souls.”

He met her clear-eyed gaze. God, but she was beautiful: wide, pale green eyes, flawless ivory complexion with just a hint of rose in each cheek, pale blond hair curled about her head. Her words drew him.

“Lost souls?”

“You know what I mean. We know the hopelessness of the situation. That's all the more reason to grasp all we can today.” Her eyes widened, imploring him. “Come away with me and let us be damned together.”

He would go. After all, wasn't he damned already?

 

The next day as he was leaving the house, he spotted Althea walking towards it. He stopped short, wondering for a moment if he had conjured her up from his thoughts the other night. He quickly recovered, however, when he noticed she didn't even see him, but turned toward the service entrance, her steps never hesitating.

Abruptly he hailed her. She started, and then stood as if unsure what to do.

He approached her, feeling annoyed with himself. He looked at her with no smile of greeting. She looked so dowdy, like someone's charwoman reporting for duty. “You disappeared,” he accused.

She reddened and looked down. She was wearing an ugly-looking bonnet and drab brown gown. He couldn't help contrasting her looks to Eugenia's fashion-plate appearance.

“I was no longer needed,” she answered simply.

It angered him even further that she didn't even apologize for not saying goodbye. “Where are you headed?”

“I—Just to see Mrs. Bentwood and Mrs. Coates. I had promised them to stop and visit them.”

To visit the servants, and not him? He felt as if she had slapped him in the face. And to think he'd been yearning for those evening conversations with her. What would he have done? Poured out his heart to her?

He only nodded. “Well, I still owe you your wages.” He felt contempt for his weakness even as he found himself saying the words. “Can you spare a few minutes and step into the library?”

“I—That's all right. You don't have to pay me.”

That angered him even further. Was she refusing his money?
“You disdain to accept your wages?” He kept his voice deliberately cool. “You mean you cannot even use them at the mission—or have your patrons grown so rich, you can refuse a small donation?”

She reddened even more. “Of course not. I thank you. Very well, I can accompany you to the library, unless you are on the point of going out?”

“It can wait. Come.”

He held the front door open for her. The two were silent until they reached the library, where he beckoned her to a seat. He shoved aside a stack of papers.

“How is—is your book coming?” came the timid question as she removed her bonnet and pushed aside her windblown hair. Her cheeks were flushed.

He swallowed, realizing how wrong he'd been. She was beautiful.

“I'm sorry,” she was saying, “I suppose you haven't been able to work on it lately.”

He looked at her from under his brows as he unlocked a side drawer of his desk. “You are correct. I haven't made much headway on it lately.”

“I'm sorry,” she repeated quietly, her hands holding her bonnet and reticule in her lap.

He counted out the coins, aware of her sitting there, as serene as always. It annoyed him. Didn't she care?

He pushed the coins to the edge of the desk and sat back, watching as she opened her brown reticule and dropped them in without counting them.

When he said nothing more, she hesitated, then stood. Suddenly Simon panicked. Was she leaving already? She'd walk out that door and he'd never see her again. How could she turn her back on him and his household so easily?

Pride kept him from saying anything as she thanked him for the money.

“Don't thank me. They're your wages,” he answered shortly.

She licked her lips. “Well, thank you…I'm much obliged to you. I…I can make my way downstairs,” she said quietly.

As she turned, remorse filled him. God, what had gotten into him? None of this was her fault. She was probably just as much a pawn as the rest of them. She'd only tried her best to help. And what a help she'd been to Rebecca all those months.

She was halfway out of the library when he called out, “Please, Miss Breton, can you stay a moment? I—I have something I'd like to say to you.”

She stopped and looked at him. He walked to her and motioned to the chairs in front of the fireplace. When they were both seated, he didn't know exactly where to begin. He sat with his hands on his knees and cleared his throat. “Miss Breton, I'd like to thank you for all you did for Rebecca. I don't know what we would have done without you.”

When she tried to interrupt, he stopped her. “Please, let me finish. You were always there for her. I didn't really appreciate it at the time. I'd like to apologize if I neglected you during the funeral and those days following—I wasn't quite myself.”

“Oh, Mr. Aguilar, please don't trouble yourself. I didn't expect you to act in any other way. I mean, I understood your grief—”

His lips twisted. “No, I don't think you quite did, but that is not the point. I merely wanted to apologize for any unkind words or treatment while you were in my employ.”

He stood, too restless to sit, wishing now, as the other night, that he could really say what was in his heart, but not knowing where to begin. She seemed to sense he hadn't finished, because she remained seated, for which he was grateful. He didn't know what he would do if she scurried off, as she had seemed to want to do earlier. He leaned his arm against the mantelpiece, staring down at the empty grate.

“I have grown so tired of being surrounded by death—it seems to have stalked me of late. I sometimes wonder whether I even hastened Rebecca's death with my attitude. I sometimes just wanted it to bring down its scaffold and be done—then I'd be hor
rified with myself. But it seems it's been there, looming over my entire adult life.”

When she didn't say anything, he turned to her testily. “Why don't you ever say anything? You just look at me with those soulful eyes as if you had the answers but are not sharing them.”

To his surprise, she answered right away, “I suppose it makes all the difference when you think in terms of eternity. Jesus said, ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.'”

Simon made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Words! All words! Eternity. What is that? Does it make up for the hell on earth we are required to partake of in our short sojourn here? Does it justify being cut down in one's infancy or youth in the here and now? Why are we given someone to love in the flesh if they are only to be torn from us and we are expected to be satisfied with the poor consolation of the promise of some hereafter in some shadowy spirit realm?”

“It is not like that—”

But he was too wound up to let her speak. He began to pace in front of her, the thoughts he'd agonized over finally spilling out. “Am I to be content watching first my wife, and now my daughter, being buried in some pit, to know the worms will be eating up their bodies, and that mine will end up the same? That they are waiting in some eternal ‘rest'? Or worse, but much more likely, that they have ceased to exist altogether?

“And that pit—What did Rebecca do to deserve that? Why couldn't she live a normal life span?” He continued railing at her God, her beliefs, his father's, the bitterness he'd kept in check finally pouring out.

Althea watched, knowing she could offer no solace but to listen.
Oh, Lord,
she prayed,
give him the answers he needs.
He finally came and sank down on one of the chairs, his head in his hands, his voice breaking.

“Oh, Simon, I'm so sorry,” she whispered, moving toward him immediately and crouching beside him. She reached out her hand and touched his head. He seemed completely unaware of her in
his grief. As his angry tears fell, his body shook. All she could do was offer him the comfort he had once given her when she had broken down. She patted his shaking back, wondering all the while whether this was the time to tell him about Rebecca's vision. Would it comfort him or would it be like pouring salt on his wounds?

Finally, as he calmed and silence once more reigned in the room, she began to speak. She spoke in a near whisper, her hand smoothing the unruly curls on his bent head. She spoke as she would to a child who had skinned its knee. She told him all that Rebecca had related to her, only refraining from mentioning the part about the Lord leaving someone to look after him. She wasn't even sure if he heard her. She kept up the steady motion of her hands as she spoke softly to him.

“Oh, Simon, if you had seen her joy, her radiance when she woke up, you wouldn't look at that pit as her resting place. You would understand the angel's words when he stood at the tomb of Jesus, telling Mary and the disciples, ‘He is not here…he is risen!'”

His hair was so soft and springy under her hand; it reminded her sharply of all the times she had brushed Rebecca's, and she wished she could tell him how much she missed his little girl, too. Finally, Althea stood. When he made no movement, she removed her hand. Slowly, hesitantly, she bent down and planted a kiss on the crown of his head.

She straightened before moving away, quietly letting herself out of the library, afraid that when he returned to himself, he would be ashamed of his display of grief to her. She feared it would be as the last time when he had expressed himself to her. She couldn't bear to experience his cold formality once again, especially as this time it would concern the Lord. He could reject her as a woman, but she didn't want to endure his rejection of the Lord.

A month later she heard from her brother that Simon had gone away to Scotland at the invitation of Lord and Lady Stanton-Lewis. Althea hid her grief from her brother, and threw herself more deeply into her work at the mission.

 

Simon tramped over the fields of autumn heather, too tired to keep up the pace, but knowing he must if he wanted to return. These daily walks over the moors were always a chore; he did them only to weary his body physically, but they did not offer solace to his mind.

Sleep eluded him. It seemed as if his thoughts, which were in a near-somnolent state throughout the day, chose the night hours to awaken. His mind became a busy beehive, then. During the daylight hours, he found it a difficult task to focus on what people were saying, much less form a coherent reply, but as soon as he got into bed, his mind became razor sharp.

He had tried to use those hours after midnight, when everyone else had finally gone to bed, to work on his book, but his body was too tired to allow him to concentrate on labor laws, tariffs and universal suffrage. As soon as he blew out his candle, however, and rested his head on the pillows, the thoughts would begin and he found himself wide-eyed in the darkness.

He tried to marshal the thoughts and use them constructively, thinking over all that had been said that day, going over the outline for his book, preparing for the next day's direction, but his thoughts refused to obey him, going off in too many directions, but always returning to Rebecca.

Where was she? Where was his darling baby? The tiny bundle he had held in his arms? The little toddler who had stumbled over to grasp his legs? The clever little girl who'd been so quick to learn her alphabet? The laughing girl who'd wanted to know everything he was doing, everywhere he was going, and had managed to guess even when he didn't tell her?