Winter Is Past

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  When their laughter subsided, he remembered something else she had said in describing herself. “What did you mean by ‘dubious noble birth’?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Didn’t my brother tell you?”

  He shook his head. “Tell me what?”

  She smiled. “I was under the impression he had to tell you everything about me in order for you to agree to hire me.”

  He smiled at the recollection. “Was I so very difficult about it?”

  She shook her head. “You had good reason.”

  “So what was Sky supposed to tell me? Is there some blemish in your family’s history that no one is supposed to know about and yet somehow everyone does?”

  She looked at him steadily. “Not in my family’s history. In mine. I am Lord Caulfield’s illegitimate daughter.”

  Simon didn’t know what to say. He looked at Harry, who was standing like a stick but had no doubt heard every word. He wanted to laugh at the irony; here, he’d been likening Miss Breton to his ideal of a lady and she was no more than Caulfield’s by-blow.

  He met Althea’s direct gaze once again. “I believe we could debate whose situation is the more tawdry—a nobleman’s illegitimate daughter or a moneylender Jew’s son.”

  She put her chin in her hand and considered. “It does present an interesting question.”

  Once again Simon felt curiously warmed by that comradely remark. He sat back and looked at her in sympathy. “We’re even, then, for the present. I’m terribly sorry about the evening. It must have been dreadful for you. And here I was congratulating myself earlier for insisting you attend. I thought you were having a grand time.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Oh, come now, Miss Breton. Earlier in the evening you were holding court at the far end of the table. You had Colonel Ballyworth and young Covington positively rapt. At one point I thought the whole table would erupt in controversy.”

  She had the grace to blush at that and look down. “That wasn’t about me. The Lord merely gave me an opening to talk about the mission, and I used it. Believe me—”

  He waved away her excuses. “Yes, yes, I know. You did nothing. Their attention had nothing to do with a charming young lady telling them some heartrending stories about the plight of the poor in our city.”

  She frowned at him, her color high. “Are you saying I attempted to prey upon their sympathy? If you think I was exaggerating in any way, I challenge you to go down there and see for yourself—”

  “Miss Breton, calm yourself. I meant no such thing. I trust your word implicitly. I applaud you wholeheartedly if you manage to get some of them to loosen their purse strings. Anyway, that’s not what we were talking about. I truly apologize for any discomfort I caused you in obliging you to attend the dinner. The fault is mine.” He regarded her silently for a moment, realizing how flattered old Ballyworth must have felt, having this young lady’s attention through dinner. With her color high and those wisps of curls framing her face and those ingenuous eyes looking at a man with disconcerting directness, there was more to Miss Breton than he had first supposed. He noticed he was staring when she broke the connection and looked back down at her bowl.

  He tried to get back to his paper, but found it difficult to let go of the previous night’s event. Finally he put down the paper and pushed aside the remains of his toast. “How did you cope, by the way, with the ladies’ insufferable behavior?”

  She glanced up in surprise as if she had already put the whole thing behind her. For some reason, that annoyed Simon. Once again, a dreamy smile appeared on her face, which only increased Simon’s irritation.

  “Don’t be sorry—the evening wasn’t wasted.”

  “You’re being too generous, Miss Breton. Lady Stanton-Lewis mentioned something in passing that set me to wondering. But what you’ve told me sounds much worse than she implied.”

  Althea raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised Lady Stanton-Lewis noticed my situation. She gave no indication of it.”

  Simon smiled in understanding. “I am not surprised. I find Lady Eugenia Stanton-Lewis a typical specimen of polite society—a product of her environment, if you would.” He considered a moment, hesitating before continuing. “Now you, on the other hand, are not typical at all. That is why I’m curious how you managed.”

  “It wasn’t so bad. Well, at first, a little, I must confess.” She smiled. “More than a little…more than I care to admit.”

  He looked at her keenly, knowing exactly what it meant to be ignored in a roomful of people. He didn’t know which was worse—to be ignored or ridiculed.

  She was toying once again with her spoon. The two were silent a moment, each focused on personal thoughts. Simon finally spoke, “What did you mean—the evening wasn’t ‘wasted’?”

  Althea smiled again, her gaze wandering back to the window. “I was feeling quite uncomfortable, when the Lord led me to pray for each of those ladies.” She cleared her throat as if hesitating. “He…enabled me to really look at each one as I prayed, and suddenly I began to see things I normally would not have.” She looked at Simon, as if wanting him to understand something inexplicable. “It was the most extraordinary thing. It was as if I knew each one—truly knew them, had experienced their tears, their sorrows, when they’re all alone and no one is watching. Suddenly I could see past the fancy evening gowns and jewels.” Her gaze reached out to Simon. “I could feel the Savior’s love for them, how much He wants to embrace them if…if they would only permit Him.”

  Her heartfelt words ended in a whisper. The room was silent.

  Simon glanced at Harry, whose attention was fixed on Althea. Finally she gave a deep sigh, as if coming back to the present, and smiled.

  “Before I knew it, an hour had elapsed, the gentlemen were coming in, and I could gracefully retire.”

  Simon shoved himself to his feet. “Very touching.” He managed to keep his tone dry, but his heart was pounding. “I must be off. I thank you for the interesting narrative.” Before she could reply, he was walking to the door.

  And he didn’t know the half of it, thought Althea as she watched him depart the dining room. She tried not to feel hurt at his abrupt departure. For a few moments it had seemed that she’d broken past his usual irreverent view of the world. They had shared a moment of understanding and then, at her mention of the Lord, it was as if she had dashed a bucket of cold water on him and he’d remembered himself. As Althea finished her bowl of porridge, she tried to tell herself that he wasn’t rejecting her, but her Savior. Her Savior had endured much more rejection than that when they’d spit in His face and nailed the stakes through His hands. Althea rose, dismissing the moment of self-pity.

  Yes, there was much more to the story than she’d told Simon, she reminded herself, remembering all the moments leading up to the dinner party. He didn’t realize how close he had come to having no dinner to serve. Althea straightened her shoulders, knowing she must face the kitchen staff—and principally the cook—that morning.

  Harry sprang to open the door for her. “Thank you, Harry.” His attentiveness hadn’t gone unnoticed by her. “How are things downstairs this morning?”

  “Fine, thank you, miss.” He cleared his throat. “All ’cept Cook, that is.”

  She nodded. “That is to be expected. I shall be down presently, as soon as I finish with Rebecca’s toilette.”

  An hour later, Althea stood before the kitchen door, wondering what she would find that day.

  It was not what she had expected. She stopped short at the crowd that awaited her. All the servants were present, some sitting, some standing. All stood when she entered.

  Giles stepped forward and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Breton.”

  She started at his polite tone, then looked around at each one in surprise.

  “Miss Breton,” Giles continued, “on behalf of all the staff, I would like to express our appreciation of your efforts yesterday afternoon. We don’t know how we would have
managed without you. We are all deeply grateful.” Again he bowed. Before she could reply, all the servants had swarmed around her, each one expressing his or her thanks.

  “Oh, miss, we didn’t think ’twas possible—”

  “If you ’adn’t a come in just then—”

  “’Ow did you hever learn to cook like that—we wouldn’ta believed hit if we ’adn’t seen hit with our own eyes!”

  “All the guests sent compliments down to the kitchen—”

  Althea just stood there, too stunned to do anything else. She felt her eyes fill up as she glanced into each excited face and thanked the Lord for what He had done. In one evening He had accomplished what she hadn’t been able to in a month. They shall all come to know You, she vowed, as she nodded into their smiling faces.

  “Mr. Aguilar sent ’is compliments to Cook for such han excellent meal! ’Is very words! Han excellent meal!”

  At the mention of Cook, all eyes turned to the woman in question. Up to then Althea had wondered where she was. Now she saw her, slumped at the dining room table, her head cradled in her arms. The room fell silent.

  “May I speak to her?” she asked Giles.

  “Mrs. Coates and I have reprimanded her severely this morning. She knows if she ever so much as takes a drop again, she will be dismissed on the spot, without references. You have leave to speak to her if you think it will do any good.” His tone suggested Cook was beyond redemption.

  The cook meanwhile had lifted her head enough to glare at them. Althea sucked in her breath at the sight of her red, puffy face and the resentment in her eyes.

  Althea approached her. “Why don’t you come up to my sitting room, Mrs. Bentwood, so we can talk privately?”

  The cook continued glaring at her. Althea just waited calmly, meeting her gaze. Finally Mrs. Bentwood looked down and began to heave herself out of her chair. Knowing how awful she must be feeling, Althea gave her a hand. When they reached the upper floor, Althea changed her mind and led Mrs. Bentwood directly into her bedroom and bid her lie on her bed.

  She could sense the tension in Cook’s body, but gently and firmly, as she had had to do many times at the mission, Althea got her to lie on the bed, then took a coverlet and spread it across her legs.

  She turned to her dressing table and soaked a handkerchief in vinegar water. As she laid it on Mrs. Bentwood’s forehead, the cook tried to protest, bringing an arm up to remove it.

  “There, Mrs. Bentwood, don’t fret,” she said in a soft tone, all the while keeping the cool handkerchief against the other woman’s skin. “You just lie still a while. Rebecca’s occupied right now and I have a few moments.”

  When the handkerchief was warm, Althea replaced it with a fresh, cool one and brought a chair up to sit near the bed. “It must be difficult for you. I got an inkling of it last night,” Althea said with a soft chuckle. “I thought I would expire over that hot stove.”

  “Oh, miss, they don’t know wot hit’s like.” Mrs. Bentwood turned her head to look at Althea, her hand grabbing at Althea’s wrist. Her red-rimmed eyes were filled with tears. “Day in, day out, bent over that stove. Hit’s enough to suffocate a body.”

  “Yes, I can imagine. In the summer it must be an inferno.”

  “Oh, awful, miss. Not a bit o’ air. There are days I think I’ll pass out.”

  Althea flipped over the handkerchief. “What happened yesterday?”

  The cook started to cry. Althea sat quietly as Mrs. Bentwood tried to talk through the sobs. When they subsided, Althea asked, “So you hadn’t cooked a dinner party menu in some time?”

  Cook sniffled, and Althea pressed a clean handkerchief into her hand. “No, miss. Hit’d bin ages, ’fore I ever come ’ere, even. Oh, I used to be a fine cook.” She sniffled again. “A fine cook. I worked at some o’ the best addresses in Mayfair. You ask them.” She gave a firm nod. “Started out as scullery maid at No. 7 Grosvenor Square, then moved up to kitchen maid, then an assistant cook. Then when the opportunity come to be full cook a few blocks away, I jumped at the chance. We ’ad dinner parties every week there. The best families, they didn’t stint on those menus. But then the master died and the missus stopped entertainin’. When she decided to move to the country, I couldn’t habide the thought o’ leavin’ London. When they advertised for a cook ’ere, I come on.

  “This place ’as been me doom.” Her voice dropped and her sniffles resumed. “I shouldna’ never come ’ere. Lost hall me skills.”

  “What was so wrong about coming here?” Althea asked curiously.

  Cook sniffed in disdain. “Oh, hit just weren’t quality, not wot I were used ta. They didn’t know the first thing about hentertainin’, for one thing, and even if they ’ad, oo’d a come? They weren’t nobody.”

  “But Mr. Aguilar is a gentleman, and I’m sure his wife must have been a lady,” Althea persisted.

  “Gentleman! ’Is manners might seem so, but heveryone knows ’e’s nothin’ but a Jew! Don’t tell me they change just a ’cause they change their clothes and shave off their beards.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Bentwood, shame on you! Mr. Aguilar has been nothing but a gentleman since I’ve been under this roof.”

  Mrs. Bentwood turned her head away. “Has I said, ’is manners might seem it, but ’is kind are foreigners, no matter wot they do to ’ide it.”

  “So, you weren’t happy since you came here?”

  “Oh, I could manage, I suppose, but hit weren’t the same as I was used to. No parties, no society. They were just a young couple, newly wed. The wife was barely eighteen.”

  “What was she like?” Althea couldn’t help asking.

  Mrs. Bentwood’s voice softened. “Oh, she was all right, I suppose. Pretty little thing. Let me do pretty much wot I pleased in the kitchen. She spent most o’ ’er time visitin’ with ’er family. So, I got used to preparing simple meals. She died so soon after they was married. Felt kinda sorry for ’im.” She gave a sigh. “Since then, the master’s lived a bachelor’s life, dines out more’n ’e does in, I ’ardly ’ave to do hany fancy cooking for upstairs. Mainly hit’s cookin’ for us below stairs, and Rebecca, o’ course, but she ’ardly eats, poor mite. And now looks like she’ll share ’er poor mama’s fate. Cursed lot, those people ’ave.”

  “Hush, Mrs. Bentwood. Rebecca will not die.”

  The cook looked at her, removing the handkerchief from her forehead. “’Ow do you know she won’t die?”

  “Because Jesus came to ‘heal the sick and set the captives free.’”

  Mrs. Bentwood’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “’Eard you were one o’ those Methodites. Don’t you be tryin’ nothin’ with me.”

  “Do you go to church, Mrs. Bentwood?”

  The cook turned away. “’Aven’t been in years.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “Why should I? Thar sits all the quality, Sunday hafter Sunday, in their fine coats and furs, an’ we servants huddled in the back, slavin’ for ’em. There was nothin’ in church for us. I got more comfort from the bottle.”

  She stopped talking. Althea waited quietly a moment before resuming the conversation. “When did you start drinking?”

  “When me Charlie died. Oh, not a lot, not right away. But I found hif I ’ad a nip hor two when I went to bed at night, it ’elped me to sleep. Then on my day off I stopped goin’ to church and ’ad no family to visit, so I started drinkin’ a little then. I don’t do it very often, I swear!” Again she took Althea’s wrist in her hand, her eyes imploring her. “You can ask Giles, or Mrs. Coates. Yesterday was the first time. I suddenly realized wot I was expected to do! I couldn’t cook that kind o’ meal! I ’adn’t done that in so long. So I thought I’d take me a glass just to settle me nerves, and then I ’ad another. I don’t remember anything more after that.”

  The two women looked at one another a long time. Finally Althea said, “Mrs. Bentwood, do you want to be free, really free of all the loneliness and fear?”

  A few days later,
Althea and Rebecca were writing out invitations to their puppet show, when Simon stopped in.

  “Oh, Abba, you are right in time to receive your invitation.”

  Simon approached his daughter, who was sitting in a chair by the window of her bedroom. “Let me see.”

  He opened the card she handed him.

  You are formally invited to a special presentation of Esther, Queen of Persia and Medea to be presented on 25 March, at 4 o’clock at No. 10 Green Street by the Upper Room Puppeteers. Rain or shine. R.S.V.P.

  “Don’t you like it, Abba?” Rebecca smiled up at him. “Grandpapa and Grandmama and all the aunts and uncles and cousins shall hear the story of Esther.”

  “So you shall be telling a heroic tale?”

  She nodded. “How Queen Esther saved her people from death.” She picked up the other invitations. “I have invited Grandmama and Grandpapa and Aunt Tirzah and Aunt Simcha and all the uncles and cousins. Do you think they will come?”

  Simon rubbed her head. “I’m sure they shall. Who are the Upper Room Puppeteers?”

  Rebecca gave a smile of satisfaction. “Oh, that is Althea and me. We call them the Upper Room Players, because I’m up here in the upper room! What do you think about that?”

  “Very reasonable.”

  “We want to hold the show downstairs in the sitting room, however. You must see the costumes Althea is making for the puppets. She cut up some old dresses of mine….”

  At the mention of her name, Simon turned to look for Althea. He found her stripping Rebecca’s bed. “We have housemaids to do that.”

  Althea didn’t pause in her movements. “Oh, that’s quite all right. I consider this right in the line of a nurse’s duties.”

  He observed her for a moment, then said, “I can’t figure you out—why someone with your upbringing would lower herself to do menial work.”

  Althea smiled. “I would reply but for fear my words would only sound trite in your ears.”