Winter Is Past (3 page)

“What do they make in the mills?”

“Cloth.” He fingered his napkin. “Something like this, although not quite. This is linen, but what comes out of the mills is mainly cotton. It comes from a plant. It has to be spun to make thread and the thread is then woven into pieces of cloth. People used to do this in their homes, but now they can do it much faster and make more in these large mills.”

Althea made a silent motion to Rebecca to take another spoonful of stew. Instead the girl imitated her father and buttered some bread.

“Why can they make more in the mills?” she asked.

“Because they figured out how to use a thing called steam to make the weaving go much faster.”

“But,
Abba,
why did you have to go to the mills, if the prince is here in London?”

Simon swallowed a spoonful of stew. “Because some people who were not very happy working in these mills tried to kill Prince George.”

“Because he made them work in the mills?”

He considered her question seriously. “No. They worked in the mills in order to earn money to feed their families. But they have to work a long time and they receive only a little money afterwards. Sometimes it is not enough to feed their families. That's where we, the lawmakers, come in. Some of these workers expect the laws to be changed quickly so they can earn more money and be treated better at the mills.” He fingered his napkin, trying to put things in the simplest terms. “Sometimes the laws don't change quickly enough to suit them, and some of the men become angry, but they don't know exactly who is to blame. They look to the Prince Regent as the head of their country. They don't understand why he can live in big palaces while their own children suffer cold and hunger.”

“Will they do what they did to the king of France?” she asked in a whisper.

“No, no, it won't come to that here.” His gaze strayed to Althea, noticing her attentiveness to the conversation. “England is a civilized nation.” He turned back to his daughter. “And your father is working to change the laws, so the people won't become as angry as they did in France.”

 

The next day, Althea entered the morning room promptly at half-past seven. Simon had requested her presence at breakfast. She had not yet entered this room since arriving, having taken her breakfast in the servants' dining room early each morning before Rebecca was up. A pale February sunshine filtered through the long windows at one side of the room.

“Good morning, Miss Breton.”

Her employer was already seated at the breakfast table,
The Times
in front of him.

“Good morning, Mr. Aguilar.” He stood as she entered the
room. “Please don't disturb yourself. I didn't expect to see you here so early.”

“You'll usually find me here at this hour.” He motioned to the footman. “What would you like—toast, eggs, tea, coffee? Harry will see to it.”

“That's quite all right. I—I've been waiting on myself.” She moved to the sideboard, asking the footman for the porridge. He indicated the silver dish, removing its cover. “Thank you, Harry,” she said with a smile, comparing his prompt actions to how he had ignored her below stairs.

When she sat down, she bowed her head and said a silent blessing. Then she reached for the creamer. She noticed Simon watching her. He went back to his paper with no comment. She took a spoonful of the tepid porridge.

“Rebecca has given you her stamp of approval, by the way,” Simon told her from behind his paper.

She smiled, remembering the little girl's mature way of talking. “I'm glad.”

“You're not offended?”

She looked at him in surprise as he laid the paper aside to take a sip of coffee. “Why should I be?”

“That a little child should have the yea or nay of your employment?”

“It must be trying to have a stranger come in to make one ‘more comfortable.'”

“What do you think of my daughter?”

Althea smiled. “Rebecca is a beautiful child.”

“What do you think of her condition?”

Althea looked down at her bowl. “She is weak, as you said. She seems very thin and has little appetite.”

He nodded. “She has lost weight in the past two months. Has her condition remained the same during my absence?”

“Yes. She wakes up frequently in the night, but then goes back to sleep. She sometimes complains of pain. It doesn't seem to be in one particular area, but throughout her body. I have given her
the laudanum you left with me. She usually naps in the afternoons, and I try to keep her entertained in the intervening hours. I think it's good that she keep her mind on other things.”

“I agree.”

“She is very imaginative. I find her precocious for her age, and I think she needs to keep her mind busy with wholesome thoughts.” Althea swallowed before venturing, “She enjoyed your explanation last night. I think it gave her lots to ponder.”

“You didn't find it too frightening for a child?”

“It's difficult to say. She seems so old for her years, sometimes. But I think it helps her bear your absences better if she understands they are for the good of the country.”

“I don't know how much good they will do. People seem more polarized than ever at this point. I have seen more riots and acts of arson in the past year than you'd care to imagine. With each one, Parliament merely takes away individual liberties and orders more executions and deportations. Hundreds are languishing in prison while the gentry is terrified of a revolution.”

Althea understood what he was talking about since she herself had lived among the laboring class and was witness to their growing discontent and misery. Many of the people they received at the mission exhibited the effects of the drudgery and dangers of factory life: drunkenness, thievery, maimed and orphaned children.

Simon soon returned to his paper. Althea took the time to study him as she hadn't had the leisure to do since that first interview with him. How her outlook had altered since that day. Gone was the fear and revulsion, replaced almost with awe as she observed one of God's chosen.

At that moment he looked up at her. She flushed, once again subject to that ironic gaze.

“Yes? Was there something you wished to ask me?” he said.

She took a deep breath, knowing that since she'd entered his employ there was indeed something she must ask him. “Yes.” She cleared her throat, realizing it wouldn't be easy. “I wanted to beg your pardon.”

She had his full attention now. “Beg my pardon? Whatever for?”

She was loath to destroy the new, and she sensed fragile, relationship with her employer since their supper the night before, but knew she couldn't continue without setting things straight. “At our first interview you said some things concerning your…your race, implying I harbored certain notions about it.” She was no longer looking at him, but at the linen cloth under her hand. She moved her cup and saucer slightly over its starched surface. “You said—accused me—of expecting to meet someone deformed, avaricious…” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment as she remembered how true his suppositions had been.

His voice cut into her thoughts. “Didn't you?”

She glanced up at his face. He hadn't moved. His paper lay on the table before him, his slim fingers holding each edge, his face expressionless, giving her no hint to what he was thinking.

She felt the color creeping up her cheeks. “At one time, yes, I harbored certain misconceptions of your race.” Her voice came out barely above a whisper, ashamed of what it confessed.

“Well?” The ironic tone was back. “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Does residing in my household confirm your opinions?”

“I wanted to apologize.” When he said nothing but continued to look at her, his eyes narrowed through his spectacles, she swallowed and continued. “It is true, I had no good conception of your people. But I can assure you, I no longer harbor any such prejudices.”

“To what do I owe this turnabout? Must I feel a paternal pride that my daughter in a mere week has managed to shatter the assumptions of a lifetime?”

For the first time, she glimpsed the pain behind the mockery and realized it was just as much self-directed. She hesitated only briefly before replying. “I have been recently reminded most strenuously that my Lord and Savior Jesus was a Jew.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed? And who brought that startling fact to your attention?”

“He Himself.”

He made no reply, but spent a few moments folding the newspaper. When it was back to its original shape, he addressed her. “I found Rebecca in such cheerful spirits yesterday evening, and looking remarkably well, I might add, that I was prepared to thank you and tell you to dispense with any further trial period. I do thank you.” He held a hand up when she made to speak. “I will be honest with you, Miss Breton. I have already gone through three nurses. It is not my intention to scare you off before you've scarcely begun, but I must tell you I had little faith in finding the type of woman to fill my requirements—and those of my daughter. I have seen nothing but slovenliness, incompetence and the worst ignorance thus far. I do not wish to add
unbalanced
to the list.”

The two sat looking at each other for a few seconds as the implications of what he was saying sank in. Althea let out a slow breath, not having expected to be seen as mentally unfit to take care of a child. “I understand.” When he said nothing, she added softly, “Perhaps you should continue with the probationary period until you are satisfied with my sanity.”

He rose. “We shall see. As I said, I was very pleased with Rebecca's condition upon my return.” At the doorway, he turned. “I shall be in the library all morning. I will stop by Rebecca's room around one and spend some time with her before I go to the House. I normally don't return to dine, but if I manage to escape early, I come up to see Rebecca in the evenings.”

She nodded, trying to take in what he was telling her.

“She enjoyed our dining arrangement last night. I shall talk to Cook about providing the same whenever I am home early. I wish you good day, Miss Breton.”

Before she could reply, he was gone. She looked at his retreating figure with her mouth open. First he accused her of mental
incompetence, then he made no commitment to her suggestion of continuing the trial period, and now he was suggesting they continue dining together!

 

Simon walked briskly down the hall to the library. He had much to do this morning before going to the afternoon session of the House. Parliament had recently reconvened and there were hours of debate to look forward to.

He entered his sanctum of books and papers and closed the heavy door behind him. Quiet. He looked down the length of the room with its large desk at one end and long windows overlooking the garden behind it. His refuge, the only place he felt truly safe.

All his security was held in this room. He glanced along the shelves stocked with calf-bound, gold-embossed books as someone else might look upon a cavern filled with gold. Tomes and tomes, representing years of study, had made him what he was today. He sat down at the mahogany desk and contemplated the papers in front of him.

As much as he wanted to focus on them, his thoughts refused to be harnessed so easily. A woman's admission kept intruding. Of all the unheard-of absurdities, this had to beat them all.

Someone apologizing to him for the attitudes she held of his race—former attitudes, by her reckoning. He himself doubted anyone could let go of a lifetime of prejudices overnight.

Simon toyed with his quill pen, fingering its tip, which he noticed would need to be mended. He opened a desk drawer and removed a penknife. He busied himself with small tasks of this sort, all the while remembering Miss Breton's words. He could see it had cost her; she had not been comfortable uttering the words. He would almost hazard to say she had exhibited shame. But that was absurd. No one had ever been ashamed of hating a Jew.

What had brought this “apology” about, he wondered? He dismissed that ridiculous assertion of Jesus Christ. That would be
the biggest irony of all: an apology in the name of the One who had been the greatest instigator of all the persecution his race had endured in the ensuing centuries? Simon's lips curled in disbelief.

Perhaps Rebecca had been responsible. Perhaps her childish innocence had won over Miss Breton to such a degree that she was forced to admit that Jews were human beings—of a sort?

A
fter their last meeting, Althea hardly expected to see Simon again in the evenings for an early supper. In those days of upheaval around the country, parliamentary sessions often went on until midnight. She knew from Tertius, who was a member of the House of Lords, that members would leave the chambers to take their supper at a local restaurant or tavern, then return while speeches were still going on.

So she was surprised one evening when the footman came up and began setting up the card table in Rebecca's room.

“Your father says he shall be up presently to dine with you, miss.”

Althea rose from the bed. “Why don't you set the table up in the sitting room?” she suggested to Harry.

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca clapped her hands. “I'm tired of being in this old bedroom.”

“Very well, miss.”

Simon entered Rebecca's room a short while later. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Oh,
Abba,
you look so handsome!”

Althea looked at her employer, realizing the little girl spoke the truth. Although he was only of medium height and slim build, he presented a dashing figure in evening clothes. For once, every curl on his head was in place; his cravat was starched and brilliantly white. The dark jacket and knee breeches were impeccably cut. His spectacles only added to his elegant appearance. In one hand he balanced a parcel.

“Where are you going,
Abba?
”

“To the opera, after I've supped with my darling.” He approached Rebecca, who sat in the armchair awaiting her papa's visit. He held out the parcel with a flourish. “For you, specially ordered from Gunter's…if you eat all your dinner.”

“Ohh! Let me see.” She quickly undid the string, and sucked in her breath at the sight of the luscious strawberry tart inside. “My favorite! May I have it now?”

He chuckled, taking the tart away from her. “After dinner.”

He looked around for the table, and Althea quickly explained, “We decided to set up the table in the sitting room. So it would seem more like a real dining room,” she added.

“Very good. Here, you take charge of dessert, while I bring Rebecca.”

“I can walk. I'm feeling much stronger.”

Althea watched Simon's face as he observed his daughter stand and walk toward him, a smile lighting her whole face. He held out an arm for her and escorted her to her seat at the table next door.

“Is this what it's like at a real dinner party, where the gentlemen escort the ladies into the dining room?” Rebecca asked as he pulled out her chair. She looked back at Althea, who stood in the doorway. “What about Miss Althea? Who is going to escort her?”

Simon made his way to the door. “I can do the job of two gentlemen this evening,” he answered, offering Althea his arm. She laid her hand gingerly on it, and let him lead her to her place. After he held the chair out for her, he took his own seat.

“Speaking of dinner parties, I am going to give one of my own.”

Rebecca's eyes widened. “A real dinner party? Right here in our own house? Oh, when? May I come?”

Simon smiled at his daughter, not replying to any of her questions right away, seeming to prefer to let her anticipation build. Althea was always amazed at the transformation in her employer when he smiled at his daughter. Although he was civil to Althea, the underlying tone of mockery never quite disappeared. But with Rebecca, he was charming, patient and kind. Althea caught herself contrasting his manner to her own father's, whose conduct had been characterized by a sort of offhand kindness, as if he had been afraid of demonstrating too much interest in his only daughter. Althea brought herself up short at the direction of her thoughts and quickly dismissed the mental comparisons.

The footman brought up their food, and they sat quietly as he served. Althea caught the slight grimace Simon made when he looked at his plate. After the footman exited, she asked, “What is it?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Cook should know by now I'd prefer not to be served pork,” he added in an undertone.

“You keep the dietary laws,” she commented in surprise, having found very few signs of Jewry in his household.

“Apparently not,” he answered dryly, taking up his fork, awaiting Althea to say the blessing, accustomed to it by now. “Old habits die hard. When you've had it instilled in you since birth that certain foods are unclean, it's hard to overcome such prejudices, no matter what the rational mind says.”

She nodded in understanding, remembering how difficult it had been for her to break away from the rituals of the Church of England.

Rebecca knew by now that she would get no more information from her father until she had taken a few bites of food. As soon as she could, she swallowed down a mouthful and asked, “Are you going to Covent Garden tonight?”

“Yes, I have been invited to someone's box,” he added with
drama. “We are going to see
The Marriage of Figaro.
The Prince Regent will be present.”

Rebecca drew in her breath. “I wish I could be there. Is he as fat as his portraits? I don't think princes should be fat, do you, Miss Althea?”

“I think princes have a lot of food to eat, and find it hard to refuse it all,” she replied with a look at Rebecca's plate.

“
Abba,
whose box are you going to sit in?”

“That of Baron and Lady Stanton-Lewis.”

The names sounded familiar to Althea, echoes from a world she had briefly glimpsed though never felt a part of.

Rebecca repeated them. “They sound very grand. Do they live in a palace?”

“I daresay they have one or two in their possession.”

Rebecca suddenly remembered something more important. “
Abba,
you said you were giving a dinner party. When?”

“Next week or so. I don't know precisely.” He turned to Althea. “How long does one need to prepare for these things?”

Althea put down her fork, surprised at the question. She dug back in her memory to the days when she still lived at home. Simon's dark gaze was fixed on her, awaiting an answer. “I suppose it depends mainly on the number of guests invited.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don't know, perhaps twelve…sixteen.”

She pursed her lips. “A week to a fortnight should suffice under normal circumstances.”

“And what precisely are ‘normal circumstances'?”

Again she hedged. “A normally running household—” How could she say a normally running household had a mistress? “You haven't entertained in some time?” she asked instead.

“No, not since Hannah—Rebecca's mother—died.”

“Of course not. What I mean is, in order to prepare for a dinner party, a house usually undergoes a thorough housecleaning. A menu must be drawn up as well as a guest list, which requires a proper seating arrangement. Foods and wine must be ordered, flowers—”

Simon held up a hand. “Enough, Miss Breton. If you meant to scare me, you have succeeded perfectly. You make hosting a dinner party sound more complicated than passing a law through Commons.” He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth, then just as suddenly stopped and focused his attention on her again. “I know what I shall do—I shall put you in charge.”

Althea's fork dropped with a clatter this time. “I beg your pardon?”

He continued as if he hadn't heard her. “You can consult with Mrs. Coates, and together the two of you can oversee all the arrangements. You've had the experience growing up on a large estate. Mrs. Coates will be there to carry out your orders. There are enough servants, I trust, to do whatever housecleaning must be done in the interim. I shall fix the date for a fortnight from today, how is that? That should give you ample time to hire more servants if that is what is needed.”

Althea could only stare at her employer. How had she got into this situation? A moment ago she had been eating a dry pork chop, and now she was expected to sit down with the housekeeper and plan a full-scale dinner party? She had not been a part of the fashionable world in eight years; she no longer knew who was who. And to work with Mrs. Coates—give her orders? She pictured the iron-faced housekeeper, or dour Giles, the butler, for that matter, taking her suggestions, much less “carrying out her orders.” It was preposterous—no, downright impossible.

“Mr. Aguilar, I really couldn't possibly—”

“Oh, Miss Althea, say yes,” begged Rebecca. “It will be so much fun.”

“If you need someone to help you with Rebecca, we can have one of the maidservants help out for a few days.”

“Say yes, Miss Althea,
please!
”

Meeting Simon's eye, Althea noted the ever-present trace of mockery, but this time it was laced with something else. Was it a challenge?

Sending a question and plea heavenward, Althea turned help
less eyes to her two dinner companions and swallowed. “Very well,” she said barely above a whisper, asking the Lord for a miracle in the coming fortnight.

The matter settled to their satisfaction, Rebecca and Simon turned to other topics. “Miss Althea has promised to bring me downstairs to the yellow salon tomorrow.”

Mr. Aguilar looked at Althea, one black eyebrow raised. “Indeed? What do the two of you have planned?”

“Miss Althea has promised to play the pianoforte for me. Then we shall look out at the garden. She has spotted a few snowdrops peeking out—isn't that right, Miss Althea?”

As Rebecca chattered away to her father, Althea was too distracted to remind her to eat her food. Her own throat had tightened so that not even a swallow of water would go down.

A dinner party in Mayfair in a fortnight…
the event had all the allure of a cholera epidemic in the East End.

 

Althea's faint hope that Simon had forgotten his impulsive request of the previous evening proved in vain. The next afternoon she was summoned to the library.

Althea had not been in that room since the day she was interviewed there. Now, once again she stood before his desk, this time with a silent Mrs. Coates standing beside her.

“Here is a list of the guests I wish to be invited. Mrs. Coates, you will consult with Miss Breton and defer to her on all matters pertaining to this dinner party. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the stout, gray-haired housekeeper, her hands folded in front of her.

“Miss Breton has mentioned something about a thorough housecleaning. Isn't that right?” He turned to Althea.

Althea cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the notion that she was the instigator of a major household upheaval. “That is correct, sir—at least of all the rooms that will entertain guests that evening.”

“You will see to that immediately, then, Mrs. Coates?”

The housekeeper gave a short sniff, accompanied by a nod. “Very well, sir.”

“That will be all. Keep me informed as things progress.”

Feeling dismissed, Althea followed Mrs. Coates out of the room. In the hallway, she turned to the housekeeper. “Would you like to go over the guest list now? I have a few moments before I have to be with Rebecca.”

Mrs. Coates, who had taken immediate possession of the scrawled sheet of paper, gave another sniff. “I can perfectly well see to it.” She turned and walked off toward her sitting room, muttering “…Methodite do-gooder….”

So, that was the cause of the servants' unfriendliness, Althea thought. She stood for a few seconds before ascending the stairs to Rebecca's room.

“May we go down now?” Rebecca sat in her chair, just the way Althea had left her when she'd been summoned into the library.

“Yes, we shall go down forthwith. Do you feel up to walking if you take my arm?”

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca stood promptly.

Althea offered her arm and the two walked toward the door. The girl managed the stairs slowly, but once in the yellow salon, she was chatting away happily. Althea pointed out the signs of spring in the otherwise drab garden.

“See there, those little green shoots pointing through the dirt?”

“Yes, yes, I see them. What are they going to be?”

“Crocus. There! There are some coming through that patch of grass where the snow has melted. Now, look over there. Do you see the white flowers?”

Rebecca pressed her face to the glass doors. “Yes. Ohh, what are those?”

“Snowdrops. The very first sign of spring.”

“They are so pretty. So tiny against the black dirt.”

Althea straightened. “Are you ready for some music now?”

“Yes.”

“Then, let us get you comfortably settled and tucked in.”
Althea led her to a brocaded armchair and turned it so the girl could either watch her at the pianoforte or continue gazing out the window.

On her way to the instrument, Althea paused at the fireplace. Upon the mantel stood a brass candelabra. She ran her fingers over it curiously. “How unusual.” She counted the holders. “Nine,” she commented, turning to Rebecca.

“That's for Hanukkah,” the girl said promptly.

“Hanukkah? What's that?”

“A holiday in December. Each night for eight nights we light a new candle and wait until it burns down completely.” After a moment, she added, “We don't celebrate Christmas.”

“I see. What is Hanukkah in celebration of?”

“It's about the Jewish people winning a battle. Papa knows the story better. We didn't light them this December. I was ill.”

Althea nodded, then walked over to the pianoforte. She sat down, wondering what to play. She played a few scales to get her fingers warmed up. The sheet music in front of her was a hymn of worship written by Charles Wesley. She played the first few bars, then continued, enjoying the uplifting sounds. The second time she played it through she began singing the words. She finished that one and began to play and sing another she had been practicing:
“‘Come, my soul, thou must be waking/Now is breaking/O'er the earth another day: Come to Him who made this splendor…'”