Winter Is Past

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  She remembered Simon’s laughing countenance as he talked with Lady Stanton-Lewis. She had never seen him in company before and noted the different comportment from that of the man who sat and listened to his daughter or read children’s stories to her. Gone, too, was the man who spoke impatiently to those under him. Tonight she had glimpsed the society man, and perhaps the politician as well. The biting wit was still present, but tonight he was among his equals and betters, who laughed at his jests and gave as good as they got. Althea could now understand what her brother had told her of Simon’s rise in Parliament. According to Tertius, no one was ever asleep during Simon’s speeches. Though he’d started out as a young, obscure member on the backbench, he’d quickly caught the attention of the prime minister and other cabinet ministers through his brilliant, witty addresses. He’d even garnered the favor of the Prince Regent, who’d begun inviting him to Carlton House.

  Althea’s gaze swept around the room again. She felt drained and invigorated at the same time. For a few moments she had been privileged to understand what lay behind the mask each exquisitely dressed lady wore. She felt humbled, too, by God’s grace in giving her this understanding. Not one of these women was immune to pain or fear—or worse, she thought, her glance straying once again to Lady Stanton-Lewis.

  Worst of all was the fact that each lady was hopelessly lost. The fact came to Althea in blinding clarity. Each person under Simon’s roof that evening was fighting a losing battle against hell and not knowing it. The Lord was bidding her to pray in the silent watches of the night for their salvation.

  Althea looked toward the double doors, startled from her thoughts by the sound of their opening. A few of the men walked in, laughing and talking. The women gave their attention to them immediately, putting down their work. Althea glanced at the clock and saw with astonishment that a full hour had passed.

  Stifling a yawn, she rose as the rest of the gentlemen entered, deciding now was the best time to excuse herself. She would check on Rebecca, then retire for the evening.

  She exited without being noticed and entered the corridor. She leaned against the closed doors a moment, still in awe of the experience she had just been through. She had never felt such an acute perception of individuals as she was praying for them. Sometimes in the stillness of night, the Lord would lay someone on her heart to pray for, but it had never been as real and immediate as had happened this evening.

  Her senses were still reeling. It was as if the Lord had given her a deep and valuable lesson in forgetting herself and looking through His eyes. “To be about the Father’s business.”

  She took a deep breath and made her way to the staircase, leaving the muffled sounds of laughter and voices behind her. A deep weariness engulfed her as she grasped the handrail and began her ascent. It came to her how much she had lived since she had opened her eyes that morning before the first light of dawn.

  Suddenly Althea looked up at the sound of soft, rapid footsteps coming down from the landing. Simon hurried down, not seeing her, his eyes focused on the carpet. Althea watched him for a few seconds, as polished and debonair in his evening clothes as the most titled gentleman present.

  Simon glanced up and saw Althea and immediately broke into a smile, feeling a sudden desire to share his success with someone.

  “I just looked in on Rebecca,” he added a bit sheepishly, embarrassed at being caught.

  “Is she sleeping?” she asked softly.

  Her presence, like her voice, always had a calming effect on him.

  “Like an angel.” He stood on the step above her, trying to contain the feeling of suppressed energy inside him. He felt as if he were grinning like the village idiot.

  “That’s good,” she answered quietly. Simon kept looking at her, bringing his grin to a small smile he couldn’t quite suppress. As he continued regarding her he noticed his drab little nurse was positively radiant herself.

  “You are looking very pretty tonight,” he found himself saying.

  She flushed as if not expecting that. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not certain what it is.” He continued studying her, his eyes narrowed, a finger to his lips. “Yes…I see…you are no longer in gray.”

  He paused, his gaze traveling down her long, pale throat, pearls glistening against it like orbs on a snowy landscape, on down to her lower than normal décolletage. She had on a very elegant gown indeed, equal to those of the other ladies present that evening.

  “That is a very becoming shade,” he added. “It transforms you, somehow. You should wear it more often.”

  Her pale skin flushed up delicately, suffusing her throat and cheeks, hiding the pale scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He felt a spurt of pleasure, watching her feminine reaction, and realized she was not only a pious nurse, but a woman as well. Feeling magnanimous with his own victory, he decided to continue the compliments.

  “There is something else.”

  She looked up at him, her hand going to her throat. “Yes?”

  He eyed her hair. It was swept up but in a softer manner than the coronet she customarily wore. Curling tendrils escaped, forming a golden halo around her face. “Your hair. You’ve done something to it.”

  Her hand went to her hair. He smiled at the typically female response. “I—That is, is something amiss?”

  He shook his head. “No. It is quite becoming. Softer, somehow.”

  “Oh.” She looked away from him, settling her gaze somewhere around his cravat. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Simon found himself not wanting to move. He discovered he enjoyed paying Miss Breton compliments. “How is everything with the ladies?”

  Her eyes moved upward again and he realized how pretty they were. He had thought them gray, but now saw them a pale green with hints of blue. They were fringed by light brown lashes, which glowed golden in the candlelight.

  “Everything is going very well,” she answered.

  “You’re not going up already, are you? The entertainment is just beginning. Perhaps you could play a little for us.”

  He gave his most charming smile and he was surprised when he felt her sudden withdrawal.

  “I…I’m sorry.” She looked away from him. “I’m a little fatigued.”

  “Of course, how thoughtless of me.” He moved aside immediately, suddenly tiring of the game. “Rest well.”

  She stepped past him and walked up a few steps.

  Still he did not move. “Miss Breton?”

  She turned to look at him standing below her. “Yes, Mr. Aguilar?”

  “You were wrong about the size of this dinner party.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You said it was a good number, not too large and not too small, which would give me a chance to give my attention to each one of my guests.”

  “That is correct.”

  “I fear I didn’t have time to greet you all evening, and now you are running away.”

  She made a motion with her hand. “Do not trouble yourself. I wasn’t a guest. I was there to ‘make myself useful,’ don’t you remember?” she added with a smile.

  This time her smile was neither shy nor feminine, but one of comradeship. He found it oddly comforting, like a friendly hand held out over a dangerous course. He returned it. “As well you did.” He looked at her standing there, probably unaware of how regal she looked. “Thank you for all your help. Thank you for attending.”

  “It was nothing. I’m glad the evening was a success for you.” She bowed her head then turning, resumed her walk up the stairs.

  Still he stood, watching her, until she moved from his view.

  In the early morning hours Simon entered his daughter’s room once again. The house was silent, the last guest having departed. Simon began untying his cravat, tired but satisfied. He gazed down at his daughter’s sleeping form; a familiar feeling of helplessness engulfed him each time he looked at her like that. He strained his ears to hear her breath
ing, always afraid one of these nights it would stop altogether. But although he heard nothing, he finally distinguished the slight rise of her chest in the dim light.

  He glanced toward the door to the sitting room. All was dark. Many a night, a light still showed through the cracks—but not tonight. Miss Breton must indeed have been tired. Simon moved to the curtained window. He stood looking down, his hand pushing aside the velvet draperies a fraction. Lamplight lit the quiet streets at intervals, yellow aureoles in the dark and foggy night. Only one coach rolled past. Most of the residents of Mayfair were abed. Far off, the watch called out the hour.

  Simon replayed the evening in his mind. Everyone he had wanted had attended. It had been a good mix: lords and ladies, key political figures, and some literary types to round out the gathering.

  For his first foray into the fashionable world, it had gone well. To invite the upper echelons of society and have them accept his invitation—he’d waited a long time for that. Who would have dreamed such a thing possible when he’d been a lad at public school, at the mercy and scorn of these same people and their ilk? Some of the men who now sat in the House of Lords had been the ones who had most tormented him in school, calling him an Ephraimite and concocting the cruelest jests at his expense.

  But this evening had been the beginning of a new phase for Simon. After a decade of toiling, he was beginning to see the fruit of his labor. The fashionable world was beginning to hang on to his words and follow his lead. It was more than politics. It was being a leader in society, an originator of ideas.

  He relished those moments of witty sallies and repartee at the dinner table. His brow clouded an instant as he remembered the only awkward moment in the evening, that slight scene at the other end of the table between Miss Breton and the colonel’s wife. A stupid conversation about religion. Simon curled his lip in disgust. Wasn’t it always the way? He hoped his remark had put things in their proper perspective. It would not do to have it noised abroad that he had a Methodist under his roof. That was clearly not fashionable.

  He should have known when he’d insisted Miss Breton attend the dinner party that the topic of religion would come up. He’d thought her well-bred enough to avoid the topic. Perhaps it hadn’t been her fault, he conceded, thinking about how quiet and unassuming she normally was. He knew Mrs. Ballyworth could be an outspoken harridan.

  His thoughts turned to the shy, retiring Miss Breton. He thought of her reaction to his compliments that evening. So, the pious maiden had a feminine side, after all? He thought of the pleasure he’d taken in bringing it out. It had given him more pleasure than courting the greater ladies of society. He wondered why. Was it something of forbidden fruit?

  Simon rubbed his cheek thoughtfully as he thought about a remark Lady Stanton-Lewis had made when he’d rejoined the ladies after dinner. Simon tried to recall what it was; he hadn’t paid much attention at the time, his thoughts still on his encounter with Miss Breton on the stairway. Lady Stanton-Lewis had said something about the governess actually presuming to preside over the tea table and how she’d quickly put her in her place. He wondered now what had transpired. Had Lady Stanton-Lewis, too, noticed how attractive Miss Breton appeared and feared a rival? Lord knew, aside from Lady Eugenia—who was in a class by herself—none of the women this evening, with their overfed, bejeweled, pomaded appearances, could hold a candle to Miss Breton. There was a freshness, an understated elegance, in Rebecca’s nurse. Tonight her manner and her bearing epitomized the lady.

  For all her efforts to appear a woman of humble origins, she could not hide her aristocratic heritage. He shook his head, a smile playing about his lips. He was giving far too much thought and attention to a paid employee under his roof.

  With an effort he turned to Lady Stanton-Lewis. Now there was an intriguing situation. The woman had taken a definite interest in him at the last social events he’d attended. He thought back. It had begun at the Summerstons’ ball, where his hostess had introduced him to her. He remembered how entertaining she’d been, employing the kind of wit he appreciated—ridicule. She seemed to know something about everyone, most of it not complimentary. He had been quite amused by her conversation at the kind of gathering he usually found tiresome, though a necessary evil in his political rise.

  Lady Stanton-Lewis was quite knowledgeable about the inner workings of government, and seemed on a first-name basis with various members of the House present that evening. She’d amazed and flattered Simon with her awareness of his record on the backbench. He knew her salons were important events, and he coveted an invitation from her. Only the powerful elite were invited, both Tory and Whig.

  Ever since the ball she’d singled him out, and he knew it was only a matter of time, if he played his cards right, before he would be admitted to her salon. He noticed how his invitations had increased since meeting her and wondered idly whether she had anything to do with it. He wouldn’t be at all surprised. He knew how these things worked.

  He had no illusions about himself as attracting the eye of hostesses. He did not possess any vanity about his own personal assets. He was neither a dandy nor a person who had ever known how to woo the ladies. Married young in a union arranged by his parents, as was the custom for them, he was almost as quickly widowed, and had spent the intervening years struggling to learn the ins and outs of government. He’d had no time for the opposite sex, until now….

  Despite his family’s fortune and his own rising position in government, he knew the stigma of his name as well as the taint associated with his family’s fortune in trade and banking. But a connection with people like the Stanton-Lewises could prove a powerful asset indeed.

  Besides, he hadn’t been involved with a woman since Hannah passed away. Eight years. Eight long, lonely years. He usually didn’t let himself think about it, driving himself instead to succeed in his career. Work had engulfed him during those years, for if he did nothing else, he was determined to be acknowledged for his mind. They might despise his heritage, his looks, his family name, his fortune, but they would come to admire his mind.

  The only relief he’d permitted himself in those eight years was Rebecca. The only bright spot. The apple of his eye. And now she was being taken away from him. He glanced toward his daughter’s sleeping form, then turned his eyes toward the dark, overcast sky, his hand twisting the curtain in a sudden surge of helpless rage. If there was a God, as Miss Breton seemed convinced of, he was a mean-spirited, vengeful one whom Simon had no interest in knowing, but whom he would fight with everything that was in him.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Simon looked carefully at Althea over the edge of his newspaper when she entered the dining room promptly at half-past seven. Their glances met as soon as she stepped over the threshold. She smiled at him.

  “Good morning.”

  Her smile seemed bright and genuine. There were no discernible signs of fatigue from the previous night’s entertainment, or any shyness over his compliments.

  “Good morning.” He went back to the article he had been reading as she moved toward the sideboard. The words about the foreign secretary’s announcement concerning the Holy Alliance and its next congress were mere black ink marks on paper as his ears caught the sound of silver against china, and the soft murmurs between Miss Breton and Harry the footman.

  When she at last sat down, Simon looked over his newspaper again, and then stopped in annoyance at the bowed head saying grace over the bowl of porridge. Did she never eat anything but porridge? As she straightened and reached for the teapot, he cleared his throat. Again he was interrupted, this time by Harry, who sprang to take the teapot from her.

  Simon frowned, watching Harry’s attentiveness to his nurse. Miss Breton smiled up at the footman, again murmuring her thanks. Since when had Harry become so quick on his feet?

  Finally Miss Breton’s attention was free. He waited as she took a sip of tea. “How did you enjoy the dinner party?”

  She smiled, looking
beyond him. “Quite well, thank you.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, unable to detect any dissembling in her look. Her smile seemed fresh, almost dreamy, as if she too were savoring a success over the previous night. He thought once again about the remark made by Lady Stanton-Lewis, and it intrigued him enough to pursue it.

  “The ladies treated you well?” he asked, this time putting his newspaper down enough to take a sip of coffee.

  Her glance met his, but it was a straightforward look. “The ladies treated me as well as could be expected.” Then she took a generous spoonful of porridge.

  “Meaning?” His cup clinked against its saucer.

  She glanced at her spoon and laid it carefully at the edge of her bowl before replying. “As befitting ladies of their station, they cut me dead.”

  He took this in, realizing if he hadn’t before, the power Lady Stanton-Lewis wielded. “Every one?”

  She nodded. “Every one.”

  “Even Lizzy Appleby?” He mentioned the wife of a colleague who seemed mild-mannered and eager to please.

  “Even Lizzy Appleby.” Althea tilted her head to one side. “I fear they little understood how to treat me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked back down at her bowl, toying with her spoon. “I occupy that nebulous position of governess—neither quality nor servant. Hence, my presence must needs be ignored.” She glanced at him, a smile playing about her mouth. “In truth, I cannot say I blame them. A woman of dubious noble birth, a professed Methodist, employed as a governess in an unmarried gentleman’s establishment—” She coughed, her cheeks reddening. “A Jew at that.”

  They looked at each other for a few seconds, Althea’s eyes registering shock at her own remark, when suddenly Simon began to laugh. A second later, she joined him.