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?
Chapter Three
After 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 cou
ld 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 helpless 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…’”
She turned toward Rebecca with a smile. “Would you like to hear any more?”
“Oh, yes, please. Those are such cheerful songs.”
Althea played a few more hymns, then glanced at the girl. Her eyes were closed and her dark head leaned against the back of the chair. Althea rose from the instrument.
She stood gazing down at Rebecca. The child looked fragile and wan against the bright, brocaded pattern of the upholstery. Her burgundy hair ribbon sl
ipped across a pale cheek like a rivulet of blood. Her thin hands lay over the blanket, the veins blue bumps upon the snowy skin.
“I’m not asleep, Miss Althea.” Her lips curved in a smile and she opened her eyes. “I was just listening to the music.” After a pause, she continued, “It was all about God, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
Rebecca looked toward the garden. “Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, dear.”
The little girl gave Althea a straightforward look. “Abba doesn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve heard him say God is an outdated notion and no rational mind can accept Bible stories as anything but myths.”
Althea considered the parroted words, shocked despite herself. “Do you believe in God, Rebecca?”
Rebecca tilted her head back against the chair. “I don’t know.”
Hiding her concern, Althea eased herself onto the arm of the chair and touched the top of Rebecca’s head. “Why is that?”
Rebecca turned her eyes up to her. “I’ve never seen Him. I’ve never heard Him. Who is to say He is really there?”
Althea nodded. “You are absolutely right. If you have never felt His presence, you cannot say for certain He is.”
Rebecca studied her. “You have felt His presence, haven’t you?”
“Yes, dear,” she answered with a smile, her hand stroking Rebecca’s hair.
“What does that mean, ‘feel His presence’?”
Althea pursed her lips, considering how best to reply. “I’ll show you.” Gently, she placed both her hands against the sides of Rebecca’s head and turned it away from her, toward the garden. Then she removed her hands completely from Rebecca. “You can’t see me, can you?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“You can’t feel me touching you anywhere, can you?”
Again she shook her head.
“Now I shall stop speaking and you won’t be able to hear me. Let’s do that, shall we?”
Rebecca nodded her head.
Althea waited silently a little while, not moving. As the silence stretched out, she forgot Mrs. Coates’s earlier scorn, the impossible task Simon had assigned her, and the myriad distractions that had clouded her real purpose in this household. As God’s peace descended upon her, she gazed out the windows at the black outline of espaliered trees against the brick wall enclosing the garden. The ground was a patchwork of snow and brown grass between the gravel paths.
Winter Is Past Page 4
