Winter Is Past Page 3

  “Now, make sure you finish everything up. Show your papa what a good girl you are.”

  She turned to face Simon, who was looking at his daughter in bemusement. Was it the fact that he had heard her say the grace Althea had taught her? Then he turned his attention to her.

  “Good evening, Miss Breton. You disappeared before I could say a proper hello to you.”

  His gentle tone surprised her, so different from his previous manner.

  He looked weary. Althea realized he hadn’t exaggerated when he told his daughter he had come straight home to her. His cravat looked wilted, his dark coat rumpled, and his hair in disarray, though she was beginning to believe that was its usual arrangement.

  “Good evening, Mr. Aguilar,” she replied. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you. Have you found everything to your satisfaction?”

  Finding she could not answer truthfully, she turned toward Rebecca. “Don’t let your stew get cold.”

  Rebecca had been watching the two adults, obviously finding anything her father engaged in more fascinating than the bowl set before her. “It’s too hot. See the steam.”

  “I see,” replied Althea. “Well, don’t let it sit too long.”

  “Abba, did you know when Miss Althea was little, she used to go down to the kitchen and help the cook with the pastry?”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, she’d make little tarts out of dough, then have a tea party with her dolls afterwards. Can you imagine that?”

  “No, I cannot,” he replied, bringing a chair to her bedside as Althea moved away.

  Rebecca sighed. “I’d love to sit with Cook and steal little scraps of pastry to make tarts for my dolls.”

  “Perhaps that can be arranged. What do you say?”

  Althea turned to him, realizing he was addressing her. She smiled at Rebecca. “Yes, I believe we could arrange something,” she said as she tried to imagine the slovenly, barely civil cook taking such a request from her.

  “Look what Miss Althea showed me how to do today.” Rebecca spread open the row of paper dolls.

  “How pretty.”

  “Thank you. This one’s Althea, and this one is Bertha—that’s my blue-eyed doll, you know—and this one’s Emily—that’s the rag doll I sleep with—and this one’s….”

  Althea shelved some of the picture books they had looked at that day, not wanting to interrupt the child but concerned she should eat her food. Althea had made it a point to sit with her and try all kinds of things to get her to clean her plate.

  “What did you do on your trip? Did you get the bad people who tried to kill the prince?”

  Simon chuckled. “No. I didn’t catch them.” He tweaked his daughter’s nose. “Remember, it’s not my job to catch the criminals, but to make laws that perhaps will help all people live more peaceably. Now, I see a young lady who is doing everything but eating.”

  She smiled, arching her neck back against her pillows. “I can’t eat. I always eat with Miss Althea.”

  Simon glanced at Althea’s kneeling figure. “Is that so? Well, I have an idea. Have you dined yet, Miss Breton?”

  She shook her head, taken unawares. “No, sir.”

  “Well, then, that’s it. We shall dine here with Rebecca and I shall tell you all about my trip—if you promise to finish up everything on your tray.”

  Before Althea could voice any objections, he rose and grabbed the bellpull.

  When the maid appeared, Simon asked for a card table set up with two more supper trays. As these preparations were taking place, he excused himself to freshen up from his trip.

  He removed his coat and handed it to his valet, who had been unpacking Simon’s portmanteau.

  “Feels good to be home, doesn’t it?”

  “That it does, sir,” answered the manservant, holding out his arm for Simon’s shirt and cravat.

  “Thank you.” Simon bent over the washstand and soaked a washcloth. He realized he was humming. What he’d told Ivan was true. For the first time in a long time it felt good to be home. His house had known nothing but illness and death for what seemed forever. As he scrubbed his torso and neck he analyzed what was different.

  He pictured his daughter’s cheerful demeanor, her enthusiastic chatter. She certainly was looking good. Simon had felt a welcoming warmth as soon as he’d entered her bedroom.

  Perhaps Sky had been right in recommending his sister as Rebecca’s nurse. Simon remembered how it had come about. He hadn’t seen Sky in several years. They’d lost touch after university. As the second son, Sky hadn’t had many prospects, and he’d been wild in those days. His father, the Marquess of Caulfield, had finally said he’d pay no more of the young man’s gambling debts. Sky would have to make it on his own out in the Indies, managing one of the family’s lesser estates.

  Simon had run into Sky only a few weeks ago and found a wholly different man. Gone was the arrogant wastrel. In his place was a married man who radiated happiness and well-being. When he’d heard about Rebecca, he’d immediately launched into accolades of his younger sister, Althea. Told Simon she’d nursed him through a deadly tropical fever. Simon hadn’t even known Sky possessed a sister, and thought once again they didn’t look anything alike.

  Taking a towel and rubbing his face, he contrasted the two—Skylar with his tall, lithe body, and lean, dark good looks, and Althea Breton, of middlish height and golden-haired. She gave the impression, he considered a moment, of a quiet, composed creature but with an inner fire. He’d lay odds that she’d bitten her tongue more than once during their interview at his deliberately provoking statements.

  He still couldn’t figure out why she should wish to be a lowly nurse when she was a daughter of Caulfield. As long as she made Rebecca happy, it really didn’t matter, he supposed.

  He took the clean shirt Ivan handed him and pulled it over his head, then turned to his man to deal with the complications of a cravat. He himself had no patience with their intricacies. Finally he shrugged into the coat held out for him.

  “Take the evening off when you’ve finished here,” he told the valet as he exited the room. “You deserve it after the journey we’ve had.”

  He returned just as a footman and maid were finishing laying the table. Althea prepared a chair for Rebecca, and Simon carried her over to it.

  When the three sat down, Althea bowed her head. She heard Rebecca say, “Stop, we’re going to say grace.”

  Miss Breton said a short grace, as Simon sat with his spoon lifted in midair in one hand, the other tapping a rhythm on the cloth. She flushed when she noticed his position, and lifted her own spoon.

  “Isn’t it funny how Miss Althea blesses the food before the meal, and Grandpapa blesses it before and after the meal, and we don’t bless it at all?”

  There was a silence as Miss Breton glanced toward him. He shrugged over his daughter’s remark, saying, “We Jews are always looking for ways to ingratiate ourselves with God, I suppose.”

  Althea ignored the remark and turned to Rebecca. “You must eat some of your food. Your stew will be cold by now.”

  After taking a spoonful, Rebecca reminded her father, “Tell us about your trip.”

  He buttered a slice of bread before proceeding. “I went to some mills to see what I could discover about the people working there.”

  “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.