Winter Is Past

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Thank you for coming all the way across town at my summons.”

  “Just obeying the Master’s call.” He smiled at her. “He is no respecter of persons. I’ll check up on her in a few days if I don’t hear from you sooner.” He gave her one last look. “It won’t be easy.”

  After he’d gone, Althea climbed wearily up the stairs. Where, oh where, was Simon? Why wasn’t he there when she—when his daughter, she corrected herself—needed him?

  After checking on Rebecca, Althea went into her own room. She didn’t need the surgeon to tell her it was going to be a long, difficult battle. She took her Bible and went to the edge of her bed to kneel.

  When she arose some time later she felt refreshed and ready to face the enemy. She went back to Rebecca’s bedside. “‘You shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord,’” she said out loud to the sleeping form and to anyone else who might be within hearing range.

  Afterward she went downstairs and explained the situation to Mrs. Coates and Giles.

  “I’ll help you nurse her,” offered Mrs. Coates. “I can sit with her in the afternoons so you can get some sleep.”

  “We need to keep the other servants away from her as much as possible, since the fever might be contagious.”

  “Shall I send someone to inform Mr. Aguilar?”

  Althea turned to Giles gratefully. “Oh, yes, please, would you?”

  The next few days blurred one into another, as Althea sat her vigil by Rebecca’s bedside, administering the sleeping drafts, trying to get liquid down her throat, sponging her hot body down, changing her sheets and night things while trying to disturb her as little as possible. Through it all she did battle of another sort.

  “You shall not have her, Satan. You get your filthy hands off of her,” she would say out loud in the stillness of the night. “The Lord is your shepherd, Rebecca, you shall not want…though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will fear no evil, for He is with you; His rod and His staff they comfort you.”

  Lord, strengthen her, let Your life flow through her little body, she prayed, kneeling by Rebecca’s bed. Let Your healing virtue course through her veins. Oh, Lord, You healed my brother—You brought him back from the dead…. Let us see Your glory here!

  Althea started awake. Someone had touched her. She found herself kneeling on the floor at Rebecca’s bed. She must have fallen asleep there praying. “Who—wha—?”

  “Shh. It’s all right. It is just I, Simon.”

  Althea pushed her hair away from her forehead. “What time is it?” She still felt disoriented.

  “Just past two o’clock,” he whispered in the dark. “I have just returned. How is she?”

  Althea yawned and rubbed her stiff neck. She tried to rise, but too quickly. Her feet felt numb and she lost her balance. Simon grabbed her arms from behind to steady her.

  How tempting to lean against his frame. But, no! Althea jerked forward, remembering the past week. She approached the bed, looking down at Rebecca. Her breathing sounded good. She touched the girl’s forehead. “Oh!” She turned to Simon, forgetting all else. “God be praised! Her fever has broken. Feel! Feel how wet her forehead is!”

  Simon stretched his hand out obediently. “Yes, it feels normal to the touch. Has it just broken?”

  Althea nodded. Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you! Oh, thank you! Suddenly she could contain her joy no longer. She didn’t care who saw her. She knelt back down at the bed, buried her face in the covers and began to weep, praising God through her sobs.

  “Oh, Lord, I thank you…Oh, Lord, how merciful art thou…merciful indeed…Oh, my God, you heard my prayers….” Her praises were whispers between sobs.

  After a while she became aware of Simon beside her. He had knelt beside her and now put his hands on her two arms.

  “There, there, Miss Breton. It’s all right. She’s all right. Calm yourself.” Gently he turned her toward himself and embraced her, comforting her all the while with gentle murmurings.

  “I came as soon as I received the message. You should have called me sooner,” he whispered against her hair. “There, there, Miss Breton.” His hands stroked her back in long, steady motions.

  “Sh-she was so s-sick,” she sobbed against his coat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken her out those a-afternoons when you first went away. The weather was so warm, and Rebecca seemed so well. Sh-she’s been so well—”

  “I know, I know.” His long even strokes against her back matched the soft rhythm of his words. “Don’t reproach yourself.”

  She brought up her sleeve to wipe her nose and cheeks. “I called Dr. Roseberry immediately, but what he left her didn’t do any good; her fever continued unabated. I finally called for another one—a surgeon who helps us at the mission—”

  “That’s quite all right. You did the right thing.” When he noticed her sniffling and seeking to wipe her face, he removed one of his hands to extract his pocket-handkerchief. Gently he eased her face up to his and began wiping her cheeks and nose.

  She took it from him and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of your shirtfront.”

  He chuckled, a low sound vibrating deep in his chest. “That’s quite all right, Miss Breton. I’m quite travel-stained as it is. A few tears shall do my clothes no great harm.”

  She blew her nose one last time and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m not crying because I’m upset. It’s only I’m…I’m so thankful. You don’t know how sick she’s been.”

  He replaced his other arm about her back. “I only wish I could have been here. I shouldn’t have gone away. I traveled to Manchester.”

  Once again the soft rhythm of his voice against her hair, the safe embrace of his arms and the reassuring smell of him were soothing her. As her euphoria subsided, she gradually became aware of their position.

  On her knees on the floor, embraced by her employer. Too close, much too close to him. If she but lifted her head a fraction, she would be inches from his lips.

  Oh, God, help me, she cried inwardly. She knew in that moment she was powerless to move.

  She sensed the quiet inner voice of the Holy Spirit telling her that the comfort she derived from Simon’s embrace was illusory; this man was spiritually dead and rushing headlong to his doom if he wasn’t awakened in time. If Althea succumbed to a moment of stolen pleasure, she would seal his doom.

  She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a moan. It cost her everything she had, but gently she began to break away.

  As soon as Simon felt her pressure against him, he loosened his hold. He rubbed the back of his neck. God, what had he been doing? He’d gone away in an effort to regain a proper perspective—and what did he do the moment he stepped in the door, but rush to embrace his daughter’s nurse? Where would it have led if Miss Breton hadn’t displayed her customary restraint?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered with a sniff, making an effort to stand. “Here I am keeping you on the floor, and you’ve just arrived. Please forgive me.”

  He had to get his senses under control. The feel of her body under his hands was like a life-giving elixir to his yearning soul. Those few moments of holding her warm softness fractured all the foundations he’d built up since boyhood. Had he succeeded in doing nothing in all those years but deny the clamors of a soul that longed to be loved? The emotional weakness his rational mind despised so much had never been obliterated, he could see now, but merely covered over with layer upon layer of self-denial.

  This devastating discovery propelled him into immediate action. He took Miss Breton by the elbow and helped her up off the floor. “Here, sit down, Miss Breton. There is no need for you to keep apologizing. I should be at your knees thanking you for all you’ve done for Rebecca.” As he spoke, he gently pushed her into the chair.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked, raking a hand through his hair. “A cup of tea?”

  She shook her head violently, twisting the sodden handkerchief in her hands. “N
o, no, not a thing.”

  Simon moved to the other side of Rebecca’s bed, wanting to increase the distance between the two of them. He no longer trusted himself. He pushed aside the curtain and bent over his daughter’s sleeping form. Gently, he began to stroke her forehead. “She seems peaceful now. Her skin feels cool.”

  Althea sat mesmerized by the love and tenderness on his face as he looked down at Rebecca. He seemed to have forgotten her, and she was content to watch him unobserved. His face devoid of cynicism was beautiful, and she pictured one of God’s angels, standing just so, a dark-haired cherub or archangel. In the dim lamplight, she drank in the planes and curves of his profile, the smooth expanse of pale forehead against the tousled black curls, the thick dark brows and inky lashes. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles and his deep-set eyes glowed in the lamplight. The light outlined the high bridge of his nose and brought into relief the cushion of his crimson lips. The stubble of a beard shadowed his cheeks. Dark sideburns emerged from the unruly hair. How she wished she could take her fingers and bring some order to his curls.

  Instead she crossed her arms more tightly against her belly, like a person huddled against the cold.

  He looked across the bed at her. “Miss Breton, you must go to bed. You look exhausted and cold.”

  Suddenly aware of what she must look like, her plaited hair in disarray, her nightcap askew, her eyes red and swollen, she looked away from him. “I’ll be all right. I can doze here.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll sit the rest of the night with her.”

  She looked at him aghast. “You? You’ve just come from a journey. You’re the one exhausted.”

  He took her by the arm and began urging her toward the sitting room door. “We can argue tomorrow about which one of us is the more exhausted. In the meantime, you get into your bed and sleep. I can make up my sleep in the morning.” They had arrived at the door, and he took her chin in his fingertips and turned her toward him.

  For a moment Simon thought he would kiss her. His reason told him he stood at a precipice. One small step forward—the distance between those parted lips and his—and he would be over the edge.

  Behind him lay all he’d worked for and built since his boyhood: his family’s approbation, the respect and admiration he’d fought tooth and nail for in the House—including the prime minister’s, and now the acceptance of London’s ton.

  He released her chin and rubbed his face in an attempt to physically restrain himself. When he spoke, he was light and teasing. “Something tells me even if you sat up all night with my daughter, you would still rise in the early morning and put in a full day’s work, whereas I shall be perfectly easy sleeping until noon.” He looked at her a few more seconds, through half-closed eyes. “Good night, Miss Breton. Pleasant dreams.”

  She said nothing, merely bowed her head and scurried into the dark room.

  Rebecca remained very weak for several days, gradually regaining a little more consciousness each day. True to his word, Simon sat up with her every night. He also assigned the maids portions of each day to sit with her, so that “Miss Breton wouldn’t sicken on them,” for he found her far too pale—“even her freckles are disappearing,” he teased. Rebecca giggled weakly, while Althea reddened at the thought that her freckles had not passed unnoticed by him.

  One afternoon as she returned from a brisk walk, a habit she’d suspended during Rebecca’s fever, she heard muffled laughter through the library door. Just as she began to untie her bonnet ribbons, the door opened and Lady Stanton-Lewis appeared.

  “Now, Simon, I shall expect you there tomorrow evening. You can’t get out of it just because half the company present are dead bores.”

  Simon made a remark Althea didn’t catch. Feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable at the thought of meeting the two of them, Althea’s eyes darted about for escape. Lady Stanton-Lewis tapped Simon against the arm with her fan. “How naughty of you.” She gave a low, throaty laugh. “What would Griff say?”

  The two began to walk toward her. Althea stood still, not knowing where to go. Lady Stanton-Lewis in her elegant lavender afternoon dress and hat stood almost as tall as Simon. Althea could not help marveling at the lady’s ensemble; every accessory matched, from kid boots to ruffled parasol. Lady Stanton-Lewis pulled on a pair of lavender gloves.

  Simon caught sight of Althea. “Ah, there you are, Miss Breton. I must say, you look refreshed from your walk.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Aguilar.” She turned to Lady Stanton-Lewis, her lips feeling stiff. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  The lady ignored her greeting. She gave a final tug to her gloves and turned to Simon. “Be a darling and accompany Winnie tonight to White’s. I need you to keep an eye on him for me.” She lowered her voice. “I depend on you.”

  Whether Althea’s presence there inhibited him from saying something more tender or not, he only quipped, “Then, heaven help you.”

  Lady Stanton-Lewis laughed as he opened the door to escort her to her awaiting curricle.

  Althea began her slow ascent up the stairs, suddenly feeling as if she were a hundred years old.

  Late that evening Simon sat at cards with a group of men at White’s. It was the first time he’d been admitted into the men’s club.

  It was thanks to Lord Stanton-Lewis that he’d gained entry. The baron was nowhere to be seen at the moment. The last time Simon had caught a glimpse of him, he’d been deep into a game of hazard. Simon had tossed the dice for a few rounds, but had soon found the winning and losing of vast sums of money on the throw of a pair of dice an incredible stupidity.

  He’d finally settled on what he supposed was a rather tame hand of loo with a group of dandies of varying ages.

  “It’s been a frightful bore since Brummell fled for the Continent last year. London hasn’t been the same since,” commented one named Algernon with a yawn. He was a regular at Lady Stanton-Lewis’s, although Simon hadn’t quite figured out the attraction for her. To Simon’s eye, the aged dandy had nothing to offer but an exaggerated opinion of himself.

  “I suppose London became a bit unseasonable when his debts topped forty-thousand,” Simon replied dryly.

  “I heard he’s holding court in some rooming house in Calais.” Snickers of laughter greeted the remark of a Lord Islingworth, another perfumed and pomaded dandy, whose manicured fingers stretched lazily forward to take his cards.

  “Only the best ton is permitted entry, by all accounts. One can’t pass through Calais without presenting one’s card,” said a youngish fop going by the ridiculous name of Winnie. He was the one Lady Stanton-Lewis had asked Simon to look after. With good reason, he thought, seeing the pile of vouchers Winnie had already signed over to Islingworth. He turned his high, starched neck cloth toward Algernon. “Saw you at the Regent’s grand fête at Carlton House last week. Sad crush there.”

  “Frightfully.”

  Algernon took up his cards. “Since he and Brummell had their falling-out, London has been in a sad decline.”

  “I say it’s too many people being let into fashionable circles. These days you’re as liable to run into a factory owner at Lady Richardson’s as a peer of the realm,” drawled Islingworth.

  “You just have to know whose parties to attend. Some hostesses are still maintaining their ton.”

  “At least White’s hasn’t followed the general decline,” sniffed Winnie. “Here the little black ball still rolls.”

  All but Simon smiled slyly. He eyed his cards, wondering what they thought of his presence there tonight.

  “And there’s always Almack’s,” added Winnie. “The patronesses haven’t bowed to any outside pressures. They keep watch over the vouchers as assiduously as a reformed prostitute her virtue.”

  The others laughed. “Not even the Duke of Wellington was admitted when he arrived seven minutes too late for the dancing.”

  Algernon gave Simon a measured look from across the round table. “Heard you got a voucher.”

  Simon
nodded. “For next week.”

  Islingworth narrowed his eyes at him. “Lady Castlereagh must have approved you.”

  “I guess she didn’t blackball me,” he answered. They all laughed at that.

  “Mind you’re not late,” Winnie warned him with a chuckle, laying down his hand on the green baize cloth.

  “And wear the right attire. Knee breeches or black tights—no trousers or pantaloons or you’ll be turned away.”

  “Almack’s isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Islingworth remarked in a bored tone as he picked up the cards for the next trick. “Nothing but weak lemonade and lukewarm tea with a few dry biscuits to pass as refreshment, and strictly regulated dancing.”

  “At least they finally approved the waltz,” put in Winnie.

  “Long after the entire Continent was dancing it,” said Islingworth disparagingly.

  “But you must admit, the place does keep out the vulgar roturiers that seem to find their way into every other nook and cranny of society these days,” said Winnie in defense of the venerable establishment.

  “You won’t find any rich bankers at Almack’s,” Algernon agreed.

  The conversation turned to horses, then back to gaming. Finally it came to women. It seemed each one had either a ballet dancer or an opera girl tucked away somewhere. Simon thought about Althea’s parentage and wondered whether it ever occurred to these men the far-reaching consequences of their actions. At least Althea had a father who had given her his name, but how many gentlemen would acknowledge an illegitimate offspring?

  After another trick, Simon excused himself. He’d lost half the amount he’d allotted himself for playing and decided not to try to recoup his losses. He preferred losing twice the amount over enduring more of their conversation. He sauntered down to the billiard room and watched the play for a while, but soon found himself calling for his coach. There were several places he could stop in at the hour of ten. The opera and theater would just be over, with their crowds going out to supper or to various routs and balls.