Winter Is Past

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Miss Althea?”

  “How do you know I’m still here?”

  Rebecca turned toward her a face radiant with discovery. “I can feel your presence, can’t I?”

  Althea smiled at her.

  “Let’s do it again!” Rebecca cried happily, turning her gaze back toward the garden.

  “Very well. But this time, don’t turn around until I tell you to.”

  Rebecca nodded happily.

  They played the game several times, at Rebecca’s insistence. The final time Althea quietly slipped outside the room and stood just beyond the doorway. After a while, she heard Rebecca’s “Miss Althea? Miss Althea? Are you there? Where are you?”

  Althea immediately stepped over the threshold. “Here I am. What did you feel that time?” she asked as she walked back to Rebecca’s chair.

  “I felt alone.” The child’s deep-set eyes, so much like her father’s, stared up at her in wonder. “I started wondering whether you were still there. The room felt empty. I waited a little longer, but then I couldn’t help calling out.”

  Althea knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in her own. “Sometimes we can’t feel the Lord’s presence, just as you experienced now. But once you have felt His presence, you’ll know even then that He’s still with you. Just as I was right nearby, just outside the door, God is always with you, even when you can’t feel His presence. He promises us, ‘I shall never leave you nor forsake you.’”

  “How can I come to feel His presence the way I did yours?”

  Althea rubbed the back of the girl’s hands with her thumbs. “You invite Him into your heart. And you believe in your heart that He will come in.”

  “Can I do it right now?”

  Althea smiled. “Right now.”

  The little girl bowed her head and said a simple prayer beginning with “Dear God.” Althea was unsure whether to tell her about Jesus, not knowing how the girl’s father would feel about her evangelizing his daughter. Althea remained silent for the moment, knowing the Lord would guide her in that direction when the time was right.

  For the present, she knew God heard the girl’s prayer and would answer it.

  A few days later Althea entered the house, the heavy front door shutting behind her with a bang on a gust of wind. She had had to bend her face downward during her walk, but the air had invigorated her. Surely if March were coming in like a lion, there was a good possibility it would go out like a lamb, she consoled herself as she wiped her boots against the mat in the quiet hall. She looked up startled at the sound of a throat clearing.

  The housekeeper stood with her hands folded in front of her. She looked like a plump, curved urn, round on top and bottom, cinched in at the waist by her apron ties. Tight curls framed a face prematurely wrinkled, as if a sculpture’s knife had slipped, leaving deep lines along her cheeks.

  “Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Coates. I didn’t see you standing there. May I help you with anything?”

  “Yes, miss, if you please.”

  Althea wondered at the subdued tone. “Let me just hang up my damp things and I shall be right with you.”

  She joined the housekeeper in her sitting room.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” the housekeeper asked stiffly, gesturing toward the pot on the table before her.

  Amazed, Althea took a seat at the table. “That would be lovely. It’s quite cold outside.” She waited quietly as the housekeeper poured the steaming liquid into a cup and covered the pot with a cozy.

  Mrs. Coates sat down opposite her. A stack of correspondence lay on the small table between them. Noticing her glance, the housekeeper said, “Them’s the replies.”

  “The replies?”

  “For the dinner he’s giving.”

  Not liking the way she was referring to their employer, Althea said, “The dinner Mr. Aguilar is hosting?”

  “That’s right. The replies’ve been comin’ in. Most are acceptances.” Mrs. Coates sighed, her ample bosom rising. She pushed forward a sheet of paper. “I was working on seating arrangements when you walked in.”

  “I see. How are they coming?” she asked, looking at the blank sheet of paper.

  Mrs. Coates fingered the corner of the paper. “Not so well. You see, he—that is, Mr. Aguilar—hasn’t been too clear about how he wants it. Only thing he told me was to seat him by—” she shuffled among the correspondence until she came to the right one “—Lady Stanton-Lewis.” She pushed the reply toward Althea.

  Althea took the folded vellum. A hint of a floral fragrance drifted to her nostrils as she unfolded the creamy sheet. Lord Griffith and Lady Eugenia Stanton-Lewis accepted the invitation to dinner at the residence of the Honorable Simon Aguilar on the evening of the twelfth of March. Althea remembered the names Simon had mentioned the evening he was going to the opera.

  She made a greater effort to recall them from her days in London society. She remembered the name was a good one, but that was all that came to mind. “Very well,” she said, “let us put her on Mr. Aguilar’s right—unless, of course, we find someone who outranks her. We shall need to look at all the other replies to see where her husband ranks. Do you know if Mr. Aguilar has a copy of the Peerage in his library?”

  “I wouldn’t know. It’s been many years since there’s been any entertaining under this roof.” Mrs. Coates sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea. “Before the missus died, they did some entertaining, but it was mostly amongst their own kind. There’s never been what you’d call ‘society’ here. I don’t think they’d know much of such things.”

  Althea noted the disdain in her tone but said nothing. She took a swallow of tea, then pushed away from the table. “I think I shall just look in the library and see if he doesn’t have a copy. That will help us in these arrangements.”

  “Very well, miss.”

  Althea entered the quiet library. No one went in there on the days when Simon was at the House. She closed the door softly behind her, trying to decide where to begin. On the two occasions she had crossed this threshold, her mind had been too preoccupied with the coming interviews with her employer to take in her surroundings to any significant degree. Now she could enjoy the peace and comfort of this room. It reminded her of her father’s library on his country estate in Hertfordshire.

  She walked slowly into the long vast room, breathing in the scent of book leather and paper, over which lingered the acrid tinge of a spent fire in an unswept grate. Walls of bookshelves on two sides accentuated the length of the room. Stacks of books and paintings along the walls waited to be shelved or hung, as if in the years since the original order of the room had been established, more books, paintings and objets d’art had been accumulated but no time or interest found to place them properly.

  Rich carpets covered the floors, muffling her footsteps as she ventured farther into the room. Heavy velvet curtains framed the wall of casement windows at the far end of the room.

  Midway the length of the room stood a fireplace with a sculpted marble front. Gilt-framed oil paintings, one above another, hung around the fireplace from ceiling to wainscoting. The walls beneath were a rich red. A welcoming group of brass-studded leather chairs and a small, upholstered sofa faced the fireplace. Althea touched a leather armrest, remembering the hours she had spent as a girl curled up in just such a chair, safe from all eyes.

  She rubbed her fingers together, noticing how grimy they had become. She examined the rest of the furniture more closely, noticing the film of dust over every surface. Brushing the dust off her hands, she decided that was a problem to be tackled at another time.

  The rest of the room was given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of dark oak. She began examining the bookshelves, looking for a classification system. She found histories; biographies; works in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, which made her wish she could spend a few hours in that section; another section devoted to novels, including many of the newest; stacks and stacks of old issues of The Times and The Observer as well as
the newer more radical publications like Cobbett’s Political Register. There were countless political and philosophical tomes. Althea also came upon a stack of pamphlets containing Simon’s name. Curious, she riffled through these, reading the various titles he had authored: factory reform, parliamentary reform, arguments in favor of a minimum wage, abolition of the tithe. The topics sounded altogether radical for a member of the Tory party. She placed them back in a neat stack.

  Althea ran her fingers one last, lingering time over the spines of the books. The wisdom of humanity contained in a roomful of shelves, she mused, craning her neck upward. Solomon had written, “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom….” But he had also begun the book of Proverbs with the preface “…the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

  Althea considered all the knowledge Simon had extracted from these centuries of human understanding and knowledge. But one thing he lacked, she thought, paraphrasing Jesus’s words to the rich young man: the fear of the Lord, and without that, all the rest of the wisdom was in vain.

  She finally spied copies of both Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage. They were placed in an area with some copies of The Morning Post, The Court Guide and The Royalist, a periodical known for its scandals and on dits. Clearly, Mrs. Coates’s opinion that Simon knew nothing of society was ill-formed, Althea thought as she picked up one of the two volumes on family names and genealogies.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent with Mrs. Coates, pairing off ladies and gentlemen for the dinner party, deciding who would escort whom into the dining room and where they would be seated.

  “Oh, dear, Mrs. Coates, there is a surplus of gentlemen,” Althea said, looking at the invitations laid out in two groupings.

  “Don’t suppose he knows many society ladies. As I said, he’s lived a very quiet life ’til recently, mostly working in Parliament and visitin’ his family. He’s brought gentlemen ’round now and then for a bite to eat and game of whist.” She eyed the scented note. “Never known him to entertain a female, leastways not here in his home.”

  “Well, we shall just have to do the best we can with what we have. Perhaps some replies will still come in.”

  As she located the family names in the books, she remembered more and more of the details from her two London Seasons. In the end there were only a few she didn’t know what to do with. She supposed they might be colleagues of Simon’s.

  “I think we have done all we can this afternoon. You shall just have to consult Mr. Aguilar about these remaining names. You can show him our chart and he can pencil them in where he deems appropriate.” She considered. “Perhaps I shall mention to him the imbalance in the number of ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Oh, very good, miss.” Mrs. Coates stood as soon as Althea did, her face troubled. “You don’t think he’ll mind that we moved Lady Stanton-Lewis, do you?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself about it. I’m sure he’ll understand that we had no choice in the matter, with a duke outranking a baron. If he has any objections, tell him to see me about it. Now, have you had a chance to review the menu?”

  “No, miss. But, if you have a moment, perhaps we could go down now and consult with Cook?”

  “Let me see if Rebecca is awake. I shall join you in the kitchen momentarily.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  The two exited the sitting room together, with Althea heading up to see Rebecca. When she told her about the dinner party arrangements, Rebecca wanted to know the names of the guests who had accepted. Promising to tell her upon her return, as well as to describe the dishes to be served, Althea went back downstairs to review the menu.

  Mrs. Bentwood, the cook, was showing Mrs. Coates the menu when Althea joined them. Although she had been talking with the housekeeper, the moment Althea entered she fell silent. Mrs. Coates handed Althea the list. Althea took it from her without a word and began reading: Clear Consommé, Salmon with Shrimp Sauce, Dover Sole, Chicken Fricassee, Giblet Pie, Roast Pheasant with Egg Sauce, Haunch of Venison, Peas, Potatoes, Cauliflower, Kidney Pudding, Preserves, Tongue with Red Currant Sauce, Lobster Bisque with Champagne, Pastry Basket, Fresh Fruit, Syllabub.

  The menu sounded appropriate. Althea had watched her family’s cook prepare many such menus in the cavernous kitchen at the estate where she spent her childhood. She had probably spent more time in their cook’s company than with her own family. Althea knew well the army of kitchen maids needed to successfully prepare such an array of dishes. She looked up at the cook, thinking of the overcooked meats, cold potatoes and dry puddings that had been her fare since coming to this household.

  “This is quite an ambitious menu. Mrs. Coates tells me the master has not entertained in quite some years. Will you need any extra help—”

  Mrs. Bentwood pulled herself up to her full height, crossing her arms beneath her bosom. “I’ll ’ave you know I’ve worked in the finest ’ouses of London. Many’s the menu I’ve planned.”

  “Yes, of course. Has everything been ordered?”

  “Hit’s all being taken care of.”

  “Very well. The menu looks very good. I wish you the best success with it. Let me know if I may be of any help.” She turned toward Mrs. Coates. “I will go up to Rebecca, if you should need me.”

  Chapter Four

  “Miss Althea, what did you do before you came here?”

  Althea looked up from studying the puzzle pieces on the lap table between them. She had soon discovered that Rebecca quickly tired of whatever activity she found for them to do and preferred to spend her time chatting.

  “I worked with children, many your age.” She smiled across at the girl lying back against her voluminous pillows. “But none quite like you.”

  Rebecca smiled in return. “What did you do with them? The same as with me?”

  Althea straightened, easing the muscles in her shoulders. “Not quite the same thing. You see, these children don’t live as you do here. Many have no home.”

  Rebecca’s dark eyes widened into pools of wonder. “They don’t? Where do they live, then?”

  “Wherever they can. Some find shelter in a doorway at night, or inside a crate. Some band together and live in an abandoned building. Some find a sort of protection with an adult. Unfortunately that protection comes at a price.” She answered Rebecca’s look of bewilderment. “The adult obliges them to work for them. It usually involves dishonest work, such as stealing.”

  “Stealing?”

  Althea nodded. “Children are quicker than adults. They can be trained to steal someone’s pocketbook or watch.”

  “Doesn’t the person know it?”

  “No. The children are so quick and light-handed, the victim doesn’t feel a thing. ’Tis only later, when they reach for their purse to pay for something, or need to take a look at their watch to see the hour, that they realize these items are gone. By then the children are far away.”

  “What do the children do with the things they steal?”

  “They have to give everything to their protector. That person sells everything to another person. One who doesn’t care that the items are stolen.”

  Rebecca mulled over this information for a few minutes. “What do you do with the children, Miss Althea?”

  Althea laid down the piece she had been trying to fit in the puzzle. “I work with a small group of people who want to help these children. We have a place we call a mission. It’s a building where all people, not just children, can come if they need a home. We give food to those who haven’t enough to eat. We provide schooling for the children who haven’t any school to go to. We have a small infirmary for those who are sick and haven’t anyone to care for them.”

  “Did you do all those things?”

  Althea laughed. “No, not by myself. I do a little bit of everything. I work wherever I’m needed—sometimes in the school, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes tending the sick. That’s why your papa hired me to come here. He knew—or he was told—that I could nurse yo
u when you weren’t feeling well.”

  Rebecca digested this. “Why did you leave that place? Didn’t the people need you anymore?”

  Althea hesitated. “No. The people still need care. But there are others working there. I wasn’t the only one.” She picked up a puzzle piece and tried it with another. It didn’t fit. “I came to you because I felt this is where I should be.”

  Rebecca looked at her as if not completely satisfied. “How did you know about me?”

  “My brother told me. He and your father used to be very close friends when they were boys.”

  “Is that true? How did they meet?”

  “At school. They were a little older than you, but they were both far from home and a bit lonely, I suspect. Anyway, from what my brother, Tertius, has told me, they became very good friends.”

  “Why haven’t I ever met you, then?”

  “Well, my brother went away for many years, so he and your father didn’t see each other for a long, long time. It’s just recently that they met again.”

  “And that’s when Abba told you about me!”

  “In a way. Your papa and my brother started talking of all the things that had happened to them while they were apart. Your papa told my brother all about you—how smart you were, how lovely, how—” As Althea searched for another adjective, Rebecca finished for her.

  “How I had no mama?”

  Althea closed her mouth and nodded at Rebecca. The little girl’s tone did not sound sad, merely matter-of-fact. “He said he needed someone to look after you while he was at work.”

  Instead of pursuing the subject of her mother, Rebecca’s mind went back to the children. “Didn’t you mind leaving the children to come here?”