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Winter Is Past

Winter Is Past
Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I wish to dedicate this story to:

Yeshua ha Mashiach,

who taught me that little becomes much

in the master’s hand;

To the Rebeccas I have known,

who went home early to be with Him;

And to Rick,

who has given me the opportunity to

study the male psyche up close over the years.

Contents

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

FOREWORD

When a cousin of mine began investigating the possibilities of Jewish ancestry in our family’s Colombian/Venezuelan roots, I suddenly became interested in the Sephardic branch of Judaism. Soon I was fascinated with the story of the expulsion of the Sephardic Jews from Spain in 1492.

In Spain, under the Inquisition, thousands of Jews were forced to convert to Catholicism. However, many of them continued to practice their religion clandestinely. When they were expelled from Spain and eventually migrated to Holland, the Middle East, England and the New World, they were more accustomed, perhaps, than Ashkenazi and other non-Sephardic Jews, to leading a “double life” between outward Christianity and inner Judaism.

During the early nineteenth century, when Winter Is Past takes place, Jews living in England were gaining greater acceptance in mainstream Christian society, though the old prejudices were still thriving. I’ve used this background in telling the story of Methodist nurse Althea Breton and her employer, Simon Aguilar, a Jew by birth who has for political reasons become a member of the Church of England. When Althea meets Simon for the first time, she faces her own ugly prejudices against Jews. At first afraid and unsure of what to expect from this “foreign man,” Althea realizes that she has believed half-truths, not God’s true word regarding the Jewish people. Soon, through her faith and newly gained knowledge of Simon and his family, Althea comes to see that Jews, much like Christians, are people of faith, family and love. Sadly, it took somewhat longer for England to officially acknowledge this.

The most famous story of an English converso is Benjamin Disraeli (1804–1881). He was a Sephardic Jew whose family migrated to England from Italy. Although his career in Parliament didn’t begin until about a decade after Simon’s, Disraeli, too, received baptism as an adolescent, attended a private school run by an independent minister and was elected to Parliament. Back then, only baptized members of Britain’s official state church could receive higher education, wed legally or hold public office. Luckily, in 1858, a law was passed making it legal for Jews to be admitted as members of Parliament, paving the way for Disraeli as England’s first and only Jewish prime minister.

For further reading on Sephardic Jewry, I highly recommend The Cross and the Pear Tree: A Sephardic Journey by Victor Perera.

Chapter One

London, 1817

“So you’re the miracle worker.”

Althea stared back at the man addressing her across the wide mahogany desk, his eyes deep and dark and mocking. They held mystery and an ancestry centuries old. The small, wire-rimmed oval spectacles did nothing to diminish the force of the hooded brown irises fringed by thick lashes and framed by heavy, black brows.

“Lady Althea Pembroke,” he stated when she remained silent, the mockery edging his tone soft as the feathery quill he brushed against his fingertips.

“I am Althea Breton,” she answered the dark-haired man. When he continued looking at her from behind his desk, the sound of the feather against his skin magnified in the still room, she added, “Lord Skylar requested me to come.”

“Yes, he spoke to me of you.” The tone revealed nothing beyond the words. “But I believe he spoke to me of Lady Althea Pembroke. You are his sister, are you not?”

She removed her gaze from his, realizing the answer was not a simple one. Why had Tertius compelled her into this interview, she asked herself for the hundredth time.

She took a deep breath, reining in her frustration like a woman gathering her skirts against the wind. “I am sorry for the confusion,” she managed to say at last. “I am Lord Skylar’s half sister. Perhaps my brother did not have a chance to explain to you.”

He made a gesture of impatience with ink-stained fingers. They were long and pale, illuminated in the circle of light cast by the Argand lamp. “Well, Lady Althea—Miss Breton—whatever name you choose to go by, the important thing is, do you know anything of nursing? Your brother seems to think so.”

Irritated by the insinuation she was operating under an alias, she compressed her lips to avoid any ill-advised reply. He didn’t bother to await her answer, but looked back down at the papers he’d been studying when she’d been bidden to come in. So now she must speak to the crown of dark, disheveled curls, she thought, annoyed at his obvious inattention. It hadn’t been her idea to come here, she wanted to tell him! She was here only as a favor to her brother, who’d practically begged her to hear his friend out. Now she was made to feel as if she were groveling for a position, when that was the last thing she was in need of. The last thing she desired. She was quite fine where she was, she wanted to clarify to those unruly locks.

As she looked at the bowed head and observed the rapid movements of the long, slim fingers, something inside her stirred, remembering her brother’s stories. Had this man truly been unmercifully tormented at Eton by his fellow students, all because he was a Jew?

The word still gave her a shudder of revulsion as she pictured the greasy, black-garbed moneylenders in the East End. She tried to stifle it as she cleared her throat, deciding her best course was to get this uncomfortable interview over with. She spoke to the dark head. “If I can be of any help to your daughter, I would appreciate the opportunity to try.” Her tone emerged sounding calm and collected.

When he did not answer immediately, she studied what she could see of his features. They certainly belied the image she had had. The Honorable Simon Aguilar looked younger than she’d pictured a man of thirty-two with four years in the House of Commons. He’d been the youngest member of Parliament elected since Pitt the Younger, which proved his brilliance and wit, according to Tertius, qualities which her brother had first witnessed in the schoolboy at Eton.

Her gaze traveled farther. He wasn’t handsome, more like arresting, she judged. His cheeks were clean-shaven, with only a shadow of beard against the pale skin; the nose not the hooked beak she expected, but high-bridged and chiseled; the lips a cushion of crimson accentuating the pallor of his skin. His physiognomy denoted a man of study, not a rapacious swindler of the poor. If the dim, book-lined shelves on either side of the room were any indication, he rarely saw the light of day.

He looked up, catching her observation. He waved a hand to a seat in front of the desk, as if just then noticing that she still stood in front of it like a servant awaiting orders. “Please, my lady, have a seat.”

“Miss Breton,” she corrected quietly but firmly, determined to get that established from the outset, as she took the chair indicated.

“Very well, Miss Breton. Could you be so kind as to explain to me why someone of your rank should want to lower herself to a position of nurse?”

Althea looked at him, aware it would not be easy to explain. He had removed his spectacles. The dark, hooded eyes stared back at her, their skepticism telling her beforehand that he would not easily accept whatever she told him. “Nursing ought to be seen as the honorable and noble profession it is.”

His lips curved in a humorless smile. “Please spare me a eulogy on the glories of bathing a sick body and emptying its slop basin.”

She colored and bit back a retort. Leaning forward and placing both her hands against the massive desk, her eyes sought an entry through the curtain of contempt and disbelief confronting her. “Mr. Aguilar, if you will permit me.”

He raised a black eyebrow, looking like a falcon deciding the fate of its prey. She glanced down at her hands splayed against the polished wood, like a tiny sparrow’s feet gripping the safety of a tree limb. She removed them and balled them in her lap, clearing her throat to give it more authority.

“My brother told me you were in need of a nurse for your child—a young girl, I believe.” The words sounded clipped to her ears—she spoke in what the street urchins recognized as her “brooking no nonsense” tone.

At his curt nod, she continued. “I have some years’ experience nursing the sick. I can assure you I am well able to care for your little girl.”

“You hardly look old enough to have spent several years in the sickroom.” He fingered his pen impatiently as he spoke, and she had the impression of hands never still.

“I am older than I look. My brother must have explained to you—”

He let the pen go and waved the same hand in the air. “Yes, yes, Sky filled me in on your impeccable qualifications. Lady of rank, renouncing all her worldly position and goods—including the honorific, I come to see—to become a Dissenter, live among the poor and tend to the sick. I hope they are grateful.”

“I am not a Dissenter!” Realizing how sharp her voice sounded, she took a deep breath and began afresh. “Methodist is the correct term, if you must label me.”

She felt her cheeks burn and was annoyed with Tertius for having divulged her personal history, then quickly understood her brother must have been trying to convince his friend of her qualities for the position—a position she was by no means convinced she should accept. She sat back and silently asked for grace to maintain her temper. Where was the fruit of patience she had cultivated for the past eight years?

“I only wish to help in any way I can,” she added more gently.

It was Simon Aguilar’s turn to take his gaze away first, using the moment to remove a handkerchief from his pocket to polish his spectacles. “Yes, well, there’s not much anyone can do but make Rebecca as comfortable as possible and keep her entertained. Her original nurse left us last year when she chose the life of a baker’s wife over that of nursemaid. I replaced her with a governess, who was with us up until about a month ago, when it grew too taxing for Rebecca to continue her lessons on a regular basis. That is not to say you can’t teach her things or read to her when she wishes.” He replaced his spectacles as he ended the summation.

Althea nodded, digesting the information, determined to keep her mind on the reason she was there. “What exactly is wrong with…Rebecca?”

He shrugged, toying instead with a brass seal on his desk. “The physicians each have a different opinion. But the truth is, none of them know.” He scowled. “Some say a brain fever, others a blood poisoning or liver ailment. She gets sick very often and tires easily.” Once again he fixed dark, brooding eyes on her. “The truth is, she is dying.”

In the stillness Althea heard only the faint sound of a late-winter rain outside the windows behind the desk, the steady drone impervious to the plight of the individual lives being played out within. She watched her future employer’s long, pale fingers realign the papers before him into a stack. She realized with a start that she was already calling him her employer.

No, Lord! she cried silently; she’d by no means accepted this as His path for her. Just as quickly, shame swept over her at her pettiness when a little girl’s life was at stake.

“There’s not a thing I or the best physicians in London—or you—can do about my daughter’s condition, but make Rebecca as happy and comfortable as possible until then. Do you understand? Do you think you can manage that? You won’t have an attack of the vapors the first time you face a crisis with her?”

Althea drew in a breath, her pity evaporating. If he’d seen half of what she’d seen in her six years in the East End, he would know it took more than an ailing child to overset her nerves. After a few seconds she answered dryly, “No, sir.”

He dipped his pen into its inkstand. “I will pay you twelve pounds, fifteen shillings per quarter.” His attention switched back to the stack before him. He made a notation on the margin of the topmost sheet. “Does that suffice?”

He looked up and she nodded, caught unawares. She hadn’t even considered remuneration when her brother had asked—pleaded with—her to come here.

“I feel strange offering such pitiable wages to a peeress.”

“I am not a peeress,” she stated, exasperation edging her tone. “I have no hereditary title.”

He looked back down, ignoring her comment. “One more thing. I am hiring you officially as ‘governess’ to Rebecca, although unofficially you will be her nurse. I suspended her lessons, as I said.”

“But why the title of governess if I am to be her nurse?”

He replaced the pen in its stand. The long, almost bony, fingers pushed through the dark, thick curls, leaving them in more disarray than before. “Because, Miss Breton, as should be obvious to you, I would prefer my daughter not realize she is so sick as to need a nurse.”

Althea bit her lip at her obtuseness.

He continued in a slightly more civil tone. “Besides, it is not the norm to have a young lady of noble birth working in one’s household as a nurse. Governess would seem to excite less curiosity. It has a certain veneer of respectability to it. A nurse usually hails from the lowest dregs of society…at least, that has been my experience up until recently,” he muttered, looking down at his papers once more.

He took up his pen, as something caught his eye on the page before him. He made another notation. Althea continued observing him, trying to reconcile his appearance and manner with the preconceptions she had of his people.

“What is it?”

She felt the blood rise in her cheeks, wishing for the first time in her life that she had more freckles to hide her heightened color. “N-nothing.”

“You find me interesting to look at?”

“No…not at all.”

“Does my Jewish heritage intrigue you?”

She started at his perception. After a few seconds she nodded.

“I expect your brother informed you of my conversion to the Church.” His lips curled sardonically. “But I imagine you, as most, assume it was only skin deep—”

He rolled the pen between his fingers.

Her eyes were fixed on the motion.

“You are correct in your supposition that it was a conversion in name only. Indispensable, you understand, for my entry into Parliament.”

He plucked at the dark sleeve of his jacket. “The marks of generations of Jewry cannot be so easily effaced, can they? Once a Jew, always a Jew—isn’t that what you think?” She stared at him, disconcerted by the frank admission of the purely materialistic rationale for his conversion.

“Tell me, my curiosity is piqued, did I meet all of your expectations? What did you come here expecting to see? An old man hunched over in a moldering coat, counting out his coin? Fangs, perhaps? A gross deformity? After all, we are the Jesus killers, are we not?”

He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer. “Well, Miss Breton, I can assure you, you shall be perfectly safe under my roof. I have managed to control the baser instincts of my race under this semblance of the gentleman you see before you.” He leaned back in his chair, his dark gaze assessing her, making her feel as if she were the one at fault.

She found herself struggling to meet that gaze, which seemed to see beyond her pious garb and acts of mercy, to something deep within her of which even she was unaware. This was ridiculous, she told herself. She had nothing to reproach herself for; she had seen firsthand what those moneylenders had accomplished with their extortionary techniques.

Deciding she would merely ignore his words, just as he had so many of her own, she asked, “What precisely are you looking for in a nurse?”

He looked at her as if trying to explain something to an imbecile. “Miss Breton, I am frequently not at home. I need someone I can trust with my child. I need someone to take care of her as if she were her own. I realize that may be difficult for a childless woman, much less a hired one, to comprehend, but nevertheless that is what I require. That is what Rebecca needs.” He sighed, raking a hand through his hair, a gesture Althea was coming to recognize as expressing his impatience with having to explain things to people of less astuteness or intelligence.

He gave her another assessing look. “I don’t expect you to understand this. I only agreed to this interview because your brother spoke so glowingly of your abilities. Quite frankly, I must admit my doubt.”

“I see,” she said, bowing her head and looking down at her tightly clasped hands, their firmness belying her inner trembling. She did not know what she had expected from this interview, but certainly not the doubt, much less the downright hostility, in the man before her. All at once it occurred to her that she had come harboring those very same sentiments, yet had felt perfectly justified in holding them. The realization piqued her conscience. For a split second she experienced the clarity of God’s spirit touching something within her. It was like a door opening upon an unused room, letting in a shaft of light. One could choose to shut the door, or allow it to open farther and flood the area. The latter way held an element of risk.

What had she expected from Mr. Aguilar? the still, small voice of the Spirit asked her. Gratitude for her condescending to leave her present position and come to his aid?

Her life was not her own. It hadn’t been for the past eight years. Whether she came into this household as a nurse was not up to her, nor even up to Simon Aguilar, she thought, looking up at the man seated behind the desk.

All she needed to know was whether her Lord and Savior Jesus was directing her to this household. Whether He was making her give up everything familiar, everything fulfilling—her very life’s work—for a season—a season of unknown duration—to come and serve in this household was not the issue.

She met Simon Aguilar’s gaze full on. “I can only say, give me a trial—whatever length you deem sufficient—a week, a fortnight—to satisfy yourself. I can only promise to do my best, by God’s grace, to help your daughter Rebecca in any way I can.”

Althea left, exhausted from the ordeal. She felt confused, deflated…downright terrified. How could the Lord possibly want her in the employ of one so irreverent and antagonistic of everything she believed in? She looked around at the neighborhood as she left the pale-blue stucco mansion on Green Street. Even the neighborhood contradicted all she’d given her life to in the past six years. Mayfair was as far from her present residence in Whitechapel as London from Bombay. She gave one last look down the street, taking in the black-painted, wrought-iron fences and neat tree-lined sidewalks as she mounted the coach. Before her ride was over, they would give way to the dirty, dilapidated buildings and muddy streets of the East End.

It took Simon a good quarter of an hour after Miss Breton’s departure to return to editing his speech on the repeal of the Corn Laws. It wasn’t every day the rank and file got the opportunity to address the ministers on the treasury bench, that coveted first row in the House of Commons. Backbenchers must stand awkwardly wedged between the tiered rows, clutching their notes but forbidden to read from them. Simon, gifted with oratory skills, relished the moment. After seven years in the House, he’d advanced from the top tier to the bench just behind the treasury bench, where Liverpool and all his cabinet lounged. He promised silently that he would make them sit up and pay attention.

But now the speech he had written in the wee hours of the previous night lay before him untouched as he thought about the woman he’d just interviewed. Simon twirled his quill between his fingertips more than once, his thoughts straying from the quotas and price fluctuations in imported and domestic wheat to the young lady who claimed to be a nurse.

Something more important than his career or the affordability of grain was at stake at the moment: his daughter’s well-being.

Very few things took precedence over his political career and the affairs of state. In fact, they were the only things he was passionate about. Simon had come to the conclusion long ago that he was in essence a cold-hearted, calculating man. Although he would defend his family’s honor to the grave, very few in that enormous tribe of Sephardic Jews known as the Aguilars truly engaged his heart.

He sometimes wondered if he even had a heart. The only proof to the contrary was his daughter. If anything showed he could still bleed it was Rebecca.

His fingers gripped the quill tightly until it broke. He would give anything to make her well.

He set down the mutilated pen and observed its ninety-degree bend. The question was, had he done right in agreeing to hire Miss Breton for a trial period? His glance strayed to the chair recently vacated by the lady in question. For indeed she was a lady, for all her Quakerish gown and renouncement of the honorific. Every well-modulated word, her very demeanor and bearing, spoke of good breeding. The kind of breeding his family had paid dearly for him to obtain.

Simon sighed, shoving aside the pen. He’d already been through three nurses—a fact he’d deliberately kept from Miss Breton.

At least she presented a more pleasing countenance than the other three, he admitted, recalling the slack-jawed, blank-eyed first nurse; the puckered mouth evidencing a lack of teeth and the greasy gray hair of the second; and the shifty-eyed, lipless third. Miss Breton, by contrast, struck him as neat and self-possessed, in her gray woolen frock with its starched white collar.

Simon picked up a new pen from the inkstand and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer. He dipped the pen in ink and wrote Assets on one side and Liabilities on the other, then drew a neat line between the two.

Underneath the column Assets, he wrote in lowercase the word attractive. He’d definitely list that as an asset, thinking it would be beneficial to Rebecca’s well-being that she have a nice-looking nurse instead of an ill-looking one.

Simon went over Miss Breton’s features in his mind’s eye, from the head of frizzy, honey-hued curls that peeked through her plain gray bonnet to her small hands with their tapering fingertips, which she gripped whenever she seemed to refrain from speaking out.

He’d liked her eyes. They were that indeterminate shade between gray, pale blue and sea green. But there was something very forthright in her gaze, giving him a sense that her yea would be yea and her nay, nay.

Not like the last nurse, who’d tried to make him feel better by lying about Rebecca’s condition. Simon rubbed the back of his neck, still feeling the fury of discovering Rebecca with a fever he had not been told about.

He jotted down honesty under the Assets column, then blotted it carefully. After a few seconds, he added a question mark. He must still verify this quality. He would not be fooled a second time.

Yes, Miss Breton’s countenance had been fair—good patrician features, which he’d expected of the sister of Tertius Pembroke, the fourth Earl of Skylar. His mind cataloged them: a straight, well-shaped nose, nice rosy lips, a firm chin and a high, pale forehead. She didn’t look anything like Sky, however. She reminded him more of a country lass, the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the clear gaze evidence of sunshine and fresh air. It was ironic considering she lived in one of the dirtiest parts of London.

He frowned again over the irregularity of her name. Breton? She had explained she was Sky’s half sister. What did she mean by that? The old marquess had remarried? Simon wrote Breton? under Liabilities. He would question Sky about it the next time his friend was in town.

The main drawback to Miss Breton, he concluded, was her religion. A Methodist, she had called herself. He was familiar with the origins of Methodism in the last century under the Wesleys and Whitefield at Oxford. His lip curled in disdain; such a phenomenon would not have occurred at the Newtonian Cambridge, his own alma mater, the home of rationalism and mathematics.

The only trouble with religion, as Simon saw it, was that it was a way for the State to get its hands on hardworking people’s money and place it in the hands of a few of its own class. One of the greatest fights he anticipated taking on someday in Parliament was attacking the entire body of law giving the Church the right to confiscate a tenth of every landowner’s crop and cattle, in an ancient system of tithing.

The far more insidious evil of religion was the havoc it wreaked by the few who actually took it seriously. With them it was all or nothing, the result of which could be seen in the bloody wars and massacres over the continent in the last millennium, the brunt of which so often was felt by his own people.

Miss Breton, Simon could see clearly, fell into this latter category. He added to the Liabilities column: religious fervor. He underscored the word.

Lastly was the question of her nursing skills. They remained to be seen. He had only the word of Skylar—one of the few men he trusted—but still, Simon remained skeptical. He wrote nursing skills at the end of the columns, between the two, and added a question mark.

Althea awoke. She had been dreaming. She had been in the presence of Jesus! She knew it, recalled it vividly, still felt His presence all about her. She had no idea what time it was. Glancing toward the dormer window of her attic room, she saw no sign of light, but sensed it was earlier than her usual predawn time of rising.

She lay back against her pillow, trying to recapture the dream. Jesus had been talking to her; she remembered she’d been un-burdening her heart to Him. He’d been revealing Scriptures to her. Her eyes had been opened, just as had those of the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. The Scriptures became so clear and simple when Jesus showed her. What else had He said? She closed her eyes, burying herself deeper in the pillow, not wanting to leave that place where she’d been, wanting to hear more from her Lord.

He’d told her to go to Mayfair, not to be afraid to leave her present life and enter the Aguilar household. He’d said very clearly that it would be her wilderness, but that in obedience she would yield much fruit, for that family belonged to Him.

The last thing she remembered was awaking with a Scripture verse impressed upon her mind. She felt wrapped in the Lord’s love, confident that she could do all things in His strength.

Althea reached toward her bedside table and turned up the lamp. She saw it was just half-past three. In another hour, she would arise at her normal time. There was no sense in trying to get back to sleep. She had been waiting to hear from the Lord ever since she’d left Mr. Aguilar’s residence. She’d spent the intervening days in fasting and prayer, seeking the Lord’s direction. And now He had answered her. She had a keen sense of anticipation as she reached for her Bible. She wrapped herself in her shawl and sat against the pillow and bolster, the Bible against her knees.

She opened to the Book of Ephesians and rustled the pages to get to the second chapter. Her finger traveled down the page until it reached the fourteenth verse. That was the verse the Lord had given her.

“…who hath made us both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us.”

Althea continued reading until she completed the chapter, then went back to the beginning and read the entire chapter through. Finally she sat back, her head lying against the pillow. There could be no doubt. The Lord was showing her that Jew and Gentile were considered one in His eyes, and that by His death and resurrection, He had created one new man out of both. She looked back down at the Scriptures, tracing the words with her fingertip as she reread them, feeling as if she were discovering them for the first time—and in a sense, she was:

“…to make in himself of twain one new man…that he might reconcile both unto God in one body by the cross, having slain the enmity thereby…through him we both have access by one Spirit unto the Father…ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints…built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief cornerstone…unto an holy temple in the Lord….”

Paul was describing Jew and Gentile as a building fitly framed together as a temple of the Lord, as a habitation of His spirit. Althea sat still, stunned by the revelation. Her thoughts went to Simon Aguilar, a man cynical, impatient, arrogant, who clearly didn’t listen to anyone he considered inferior, and whom, quite frankly, she didn’t like.

Jesus loved this man and had died for him.

Chapter Two

“Miss Althea, look at this!”

Althea laid aside her needlework and moved to the side of Rebecca’s bed. The dark-haired, eight-year-old girl proudly held up a fan-like row of paper dolls she had cut out. “That’s perfect, sweetie. Now you can draw their faces.”

Rebecca got back to work happily, laying the dolls on the drawing board at her lap and taking up her pencil. Althea picked up the scraps of paper from the bed, thinking over the past fortnight. Simon Aguilar had agreed to hire her on the trial basis she had proposed. As soon as she had arranged her absence from the East End mission, she’d begun her residence in the four-story Mayfair mansion.

On the day she had arrived at the Green Street address, she had spoken only briefly to Mr. Aguilar. She had been too overwhelmed by her recent revelation to do more than nod at his brief instructions. She had had to fight the urge to look at him too closely. All she could think of were the verses she had read in the intervening days and the things the Lord had shown her. Had Joseph, Jacob’s son, perhaps looked like this man? Or David, the young shepherd boy chosen by God to build a kingdom?

He no longer had a mocking air, but one of hurry and distraction. He was on the verge of departure for a few days, he had told her. Anything she might need she could consult with Mrs. Coates, the housekeeper.

The only personal words they’d exchanged were at parting. Mr. Aguilar had given her his full attention then, restating his agreement to hire her for a trial period. He’d added, “I am only agreeing to entrust my daughter’s care to you on the recommendation of your brother. He and I have known each other a long time.” A slight smile played around his lips, the first evidence of humor he’d displayed that morning. Then he’d sobered once again. “I know I can trust his word. If he says you are fit to take care of Rebecca, I must believe him.”

Before Althea had a chance to take encouragement or offense at the statement, he bowed over her gloved hand, then let it go and turned to Mrs. Coates. He gave her some last-minute instructions and told her that Althea was to be treated with the respect due to a member of the family. His mocking tone had returned for an instant as he quipped that the servants must henceforth watch their behavior as they had an “evangelical” in their midst.

That was the last Althea had seen of Mr. Aguilar.

“What do you think of this one?” Rebecca pushed her lap desk toward Althea. The first three dolls had smiling mouths and dots for eyes. Some had curls scrawled around their faces, others had what Althea took to be bonnets with ribbons tied beneath their chins. Rebecca’s pencil pointed to the third one.

“She’s very pretty. What’s her name?”

“Althea,” she answered promptly.

Althea smiled. “And which one is Rebecca?”

“I shall make her separately. I have to make her lying down.”

Althea nodded, not knowing what to say.

They both turned at a knock on the door. A second later, Simon poked his head in.

“Abba! You’re home!” Paper dolls forgotten, Rebecca held out her arms to her father. He entered with a smile and was at her bedside in a few strides. Father and daughter embraced.

Althea stood, feeling her heart beginning to pound as she wondered what life would be like now that Rebecca’s father was back in residence. She had no immediate need for concern, as the master of the house had eyes for no one but his daughter. Althea took advantage of his distraction, taking the paper scraps off the bed but leaving the girl’s handiwork for her father to see.

As she picked up her needlework and looked about the room, Mr. Aguilar still had not turned towards her. She heard Rebecca’s happy chatter. “Did you just get back? Was it a long trip? What did you do?”

“Yes, I just arrived, and came immediately up to see my favorite girl in all the world.”

“What did you bring me?” she asked, feeling in his coat pockets.

He sat back, playing along with the game. When Rebecca pounced on the paper-wrapped parcel, Althea smiled at the scene before exiting through the door to the connecting sitting room.

She set down her things and looked at the watch pinned to her breast. Deciding it was nearing time to prepare Rebecca’s supper tray, she headed down the stairs.

She would know soon enough whether she had passed the trial period or not.

Althea braced herself as she entered the servants’ basement domain. She had noticed in the week she had been in residence that the servants did very little in their master’s absence. As usual at this time, a half dozen were seated around the dining table, sipping ale and chatting. The butler was hidden behind the racing news. No one bothered to acknowledge Althea’s presence. By now she knew better than to make overtures. She knew from the experience of living in one of the meanest neighborhoods of London that eventually she would make headway with them. But her priority at the present was her new patient.

She went into the pantry and took the tray set out for Rebecca. “Good afternoon,” she said brightly to the young woman counting out cutlery. When the woman mumbled a reply, Althea turned to the other kitchen maid.

“Hello,” she said with a smile at the young girl slicing bread for the servants’ tea.

The girl looked down. “Hullo, miss.”

Althea heaved up the tray. She pushed open the door with her back and made her slow way up the two flights of stairs, careful not to spill the hot stew or the cup of milk.

She set the tray on the floor before giving a light tap on the door. At Rebecca’s high “Come in” and her father’s deeper one, Althea opened the door, then stooped to retrieve the tray.

“Are you ready for some supper, Rebecca?” she asked with a smile, nodding a brief greeting to Simon. “Cook has made some hot stew for you, and there’s a compote for afterwards.”

Simon came immediately towards her to relieve her of the tray. “Where’s Harry?” he asked in annoyance. “You shouldn’t be carrying this up yourself.”

“It’s quite all right, I can manage,” she replied, surprised at his attentiveness now that he had noticed her. Seeing that he did not let the tray go, she relinquished it and made her way toward Rebecca.

She helped the girl sit up against her pillows and smoothed the coverlet over her legs. “You may set it on her lap,” she said as she tied a napkin around Rebecca’s neck. She waited silently while the child said grace, then stepped back.

“Look what my abba brought me.” She held up a little carved wooden pony, which Althea admired.

“Now, make sure you finish everything up. Show your papa what a good girl you are.”

She turned to face Simon, who was looking at his daughter in bemusement. Was it the fact that he had heard her say the grace Althea had taught her? Then he turned his attention to her.

“Good evening, Miss Breton. You disappeared before I could say a proper hello to you.”

His gentle tone surprised her, so different from his previous manner.

He looked weary. Althea realized he hadn’t exaggerated when he told his daughter he had come straight home to her. His cravat looked wilted, his dark coat rumpled, and his hair in disarray, though she was beginning to believe that was its usual arrangement.

“Good evening, Mr. Aguilar,” she replied. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you. Have you found everything to your satisfaction?”

Finding she could not answer truthfully, she turned toward Rebecca. “Don’t let your stew get cold.”

Rebecca had been watching the two adults, obviously finding anything her father engaged in more fascinating than the bowl set before her. “It’s too hot. See the steam.”

“I see,” replied Althea. “Well, don’t let it sit too long.”

“Abba, did you know when Miss Althea was little, she used to go down to the kitchen and help the cook with the pastry?”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, she’d make little tarts out of dough, then have a tea party with her dolls afterwards. Can you imagine that?”

“No, I cannot,” he replied, bringing a chair to her bedside as Althea moved away.

Rebecca sighed. “I’d love to sit with Cook and steal little scraps of pastry to make tarts for my dolls.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged. What do you say?”

Althea turned to him, realizing he was addressing her. She smiled at Rebecca. “Yes, I believe we could arrange something,” she said as she tried to imagine the slovenly, barely civil cook taking such a request from her.

“Look what Miss Althea showed me how to do today.” Rebecca spread open the row of paper dolls.

“How pretty.”

“Thank you. This one’s Althea, and this one is Bertha—that’s my blue-eyed doll, you know—and this one’s Emily—that’s the rag doll I sleep with—and this one’s….”

Althea shelved some of the picture books they had looked at that day, not wanting to interrupt the child but concerned she should eat her food. Althea had made it a point to sit with her and try all kinds of things to get her to clean her plate.

“What did you do on your trip? Did you get the bad people who tried to kill the prince?”

Simon chuckled. “No. I didn’t catch them.” He tweaked his daughter’s nose. “Remember, it’s not my job to catch the criminals, but to make laws that perhaps will help all people live more peaceably. Now, I see a young lady who is doing everything but eating.”

She smiled, arching her neck back against her pillows. “I can’t eat. I always eat with Miss Althea.”

Simon glanced at Althea’s kneeling figure. “Is that so? Well, I have an idea. Have you dined yet, Miss Breton?”

She shook her head, taken unawares. “No, sir.”

“Well, then, that’s it. We shall dine here with Rebecca and I shall tell you all about my trip—if you promise to finish up everything on your tray.”

Before Althea could voice any objections, he rose and grabbed the bellpull.

When the maid appeared, Simon asked for a card table set up with two more supper trays. As these preparations were taking place, he excused himself to freshen up from his trip.

He removed his coat and handed it to his valet, who had been unpacking Simon’s portmanteau.

“Feels good to be home, doesn’t it?”

“That it does, sir,” answered the manservant, holding out his arm for Simon’s shirt and cravat.

“Thank you.” Simon bent over the washstand and soaked a washcloth. He realized he was humming. What he’d told Ivan was true. For the first time in a long time it felt good to be home. His house had known nothing but illness and death for what seemed forever. As he scrubbed his torso and neck he analyzed what was different.

He pictured his daughter’s cheerful demeanor, her enthusiastic chatter. She certainly was looking good. Simon had felt a welcoming warmth as soon as he’d entered her bedroom.

Perhaps Sky had been right in recommending his sister as Rebecca’s nurse. Simon remembered how it had come about. He hadn’t seen Sky in several years. They’d lost touch after university. As the second son, Sky hadn’t had many prospects, and he’d been wild in those days. His father, the Marquess of Caulfield, had finally said he’d pay no more of the young man’s gambling debts. Sky would have to make it on his own out in the Indies, managing one of the family’s lesser estates.

Simon had run into Sky only a few weeks ago and found a wholly different man. Gone was the arrogant wastrel. In his place was a married man who radiated happiness and well-being. When he’d heard about Rebecca, he’d immediately launched into accolades of his younger sister, Althea. Told Simon she’d nursed him through a deadly tropical fever. Simon hadn’t even known Sky possessed a sister, and thought once again they didn’t look anything alike.

Taking a towel and rubbing his face, he contrasted the two—Skylar with his tall, lithe body, and lean, dark good looks, and Althea Breton, of middlish height and golden-haired. She gave the impression, he considered a moment, of a quiet, composed creature but with an inner fire. He’d lay odds that she’d bitten her tongue more than once during their interview at his deliberately provoking statements.

He still couldn’t figure out why she should wish to be a lowly nurse when she was a daughter of Caulfield. As long as she made Rebecca happy, it really didn’t matter, he supposed.

He took the clean shirt Ivan handed him and pulled it over his head, then turned to his man to deal with the complications of a cravat. He himself had no patience with their intricacies. Finally he shrugged into the coat held out for him.

“Take the evening off when you’ve finished here,” he told the valet as he exited the room. “You deserve it after the journey we’ve had.”

He returned just as a footman and maid were finishing laying the table. Althea prepared a chair for Rebecca, and Simon carried her over to it.

When the three sat down, Althea bowed her head. She heard Rebecca say, “Stop, we’re going to say grace.”

Miss Breton said a short grace, as Simon sat with his spoon lifted in midair in one hand, the other tapping a rhythm on the cloth. She flushed when she noticed his position, and lifted her own spoon.

“Isn’t it funny how Miss Althea blesses the food before the meal, and Grandpapa blesses it before and after the meal, and we don’t bless it at all?”

There was a silence as Miss Breton glanced toward him. He shrugged over his daughter’s remark, saying, “We Jews are always looking for ways to ingratiate ourselves with God, I suppose.”

Althea ignored the remark and turned to Rebecca. “You must eat some of your food. Your stew will be cold by now.”

After taking a spoonful, Rebecca reminded her father, “Tell us about your trip.”

He buttered a slice of bread before proceeding. “I went to some mills to see what I could discover about the people working there.”

“What do they make in the mills?”

“Cloth.” He fingered his napkin. “Something like this, although not quite. This is linen, but what comes out of the mills is mainly cotton. It comes from a plant. It has to be spun to make thread and the thread is then woven into pieces of cloth. People used to do this in their homes, but now they can do it much faster and make more in these large mills.”

Althea made a silent motion to Rebecca to take another spoonful of stew. Instead the girl imitated her father and buttered some bread.

“Why can they make more in the mills?” she asked.

“Because they figured out how to use a thing called steam to make the weaving go much faster.”

“But, Abba, why did you have to go to the mills, if the prince is here in London?”

Simon swallowed a spoonful of stew. “Because some people who were not very happy working in these mills tried to kill Prince George.”

“Because he made them work in the mills?”

He considered her question seriously. “No. They worked in the mills in order to earn money to feed their families. But they have to work a long time and they receive only a little money afterwards. Sometimes it is not enough to feed their families. That’s where we, the lawmakers, come in. Some of these workers expect the laws to be changed quickly so they can earn more money and be treated better at the mills.” He fingered his napkin, trying to put things in the simplest terms. “Sometimes the laws don’t change quickly enough to suit them, and some of the men become angry, but they don’t know exactly who is to blame. They look to the Prince Regent as the head of their country. They don’t understand why he can live in big palaces while their own children suffer cold and hunger.”

“Will they do what they did to the king of France?” she asked in a whisper.

“No, no, it won’t come to that here.” His gaze strayed to Althea, noticing her attentiveness to the conversation. “England is a civilized nation.” He turned back to his daughter. “And your father is working to change the laws, so the people won’t become as angry as they did in France.”

The next day, Althea entered the morning room promptly at half-past seven. Simon had requested her presence at breakfast. She had not yet entered this room since arriving, having taken her breakfast in the servants’ dining room early each morning before Rebecca was up. A pale February sunshine filtered through the long windows at one side of the room.

“Good morning, Miss Breton.”

Her employer was already seated at the breakfast table, The Times in front of him.

“Good morning, Mr. Aguilar.” He stood as she entered the room. “Please don’t disturb yourself. I didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

“You’ll usually find me here at this hour.” He motioned to the footman. “What would you like—toast, eggs, tea, coffee? Harry will see to it.”

“That’s quite all right. I—I’ve been waiting on myself.” She moved to the sideboard, asking the footman for the porridge. He indicated the silver dish, removing its cover. “Thank you, Harry,” she said with a smile, comparing his prompt actions to how he had ignored her below stairs.

When she sat down, she bowed her head and said a silent blessing. Then she reached for the creamer. She noticed Simon watching her. He went back to his paper with no comment. She took a spoonful of the tepid porridge.

“Rebecca has given you her stamp of approval, by the way,” Simon told her from behind his paper.

She smiled, remembering the little girl’s mature way of talking. “I’m glad.”

“You’re not offended?”

She looked at him in surprise as he laid the paper aside to take a sip of coffee. “Why should I be?”

“That a little child should have the yea or nay of your employment?”

“It must be trying to have a stranger come in to make one ‘more comfortable.’”

“What do you think of my daughter?”

Althea smiled. “Rebecca is a beautiful child.”

“What do you think of her condition?”

Althea looked down at her bowl. “She is weak, as you said. She seems very thin and has little appetite.”

He nodded. “She has lost weight in the past two months. Has her condition remained the same during my absence?”

“Yes. She wakes up frequently in the night, but then goes back to sleep. She sometimes complains of pain. It doesn’t seem to be in one particular area, but throughout her body. I have given her the laudanum you left with me. She usually naps in the afternoons, and I try to keep her entertained in the intervening hours. I think it’s good that she keep her mind on other things.”

“I agree.”

“She is very imaginative. I find her precocious for her age, and I think she needs to keep her mind busy with wholesome thoughts.” Althea swallowed before venturing, “She enjoyed your explanation last night. I think it gave her lots to ponder.”

“You didn’t find it too frightening for a child?”

“It’s difficult to say. She seems so old for her years, sometimes. But I think it helps her bear your absences better if she understands they are for the good of the country.”

“I don’t know how much good they will do. People seem more polarized than ever at this point. I have seen more riots and acts of arson in the past year than you’d care to imagine. With each one, Parliament merely takes away individual liberties and orders more executions and deportations. Hundreds are languishing in prison while the gentry is terrified of a revolution.”

Althea understood what he was talking about since she herself had lived among the laboring class and was witness to their growing discontent and misery. Many of the people they received at the mission exhibited the effects of the drudgery and dangers of factory life: drunkenness, thievery, maimed and orphaned children.

Simon soon returned to his paper. Althea took the time to study him as she hadn’t had the leisure to do since that first interview with him. How her outlook had altered since that day. Gone was the fear and revulsion, replaced almost with awe as she observed one of God’s chosen.

At that moment he looked up at her. She flushed, once again subject to that ironic gaze.

“Yes? Was there something you wished to ask me?” he said.

She took a deep breath, knowing that since she’d entered his employ there was indeed something she must ask him. “Yes.” She cleared her throat, realizing it wouldn’t be easy. “I wanted to beg your pardon.”

She had his full attention now. “Beg my pardon? Whatever for?”

She was loath to destroy the new, and she sensed fragile, relationship with her employer since their supper the night before, but knew she couldn’t continue without setting things straight. “At our first interview you said some things concerning your…your race, implying I harbored certain notions about it.” She was no longer looking at him, but at the linen cloth under her hand. She moved her cup and saucer slightly over its starched surface. “You said—accused me—of expecting to meet someone deformed, avaricious…” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment as she remembered how true his suppositions had been.

His voice cut into her thoughts. “Didn’t you?”

She glanced up at his face. He hadn’t moved. His paper lay on the table before him, his slim fingers holding each edge, his face expressionless, giving her no hint to what he was thinking.

She felt the color creeping up her cheeks. “At one time, yes, I harbored certain misconceptions of your race.” Her voice came out barely above a whisper, ashamed of what it confessed.

“Well?” The ironic tone was back. “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Does residing in my household confirm your opinions?”

“I wanted to apologize.” When he said nothing but continued to look at her, his eyes narrowed through his spectacles, she swallowed and continued. “It is true, I had no good conception of your people. But I can assure you, I no longer harbor any such prejudices.”

“To what do I owe this turnabout? Must I feel a paternal pride that my daughter in a mere week has managed to shatter the assumptions of a lifetime?”

For the first time, she glimpsed the pain behind the mockery and realized it was just as much self-directed. She hesitated only briefly before replying. “I have been recently reminded most strenuously that my Lord and Savior Jesus was a Jew.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed? And who brought that startling fact to your attention?”

“He Himself.”

He made no reply, but spent a few moments folding the newspaper. When it was back to its original shape, he addressed her. “I found Rebecca in such cheerful spirits yesterday evening, and looking remarkably well, I might add, that I was prepared to thank you and tell you to dispense with any further trial period. I do thank you.” He held a hand up when she made to speak. “I will be honest with you, Miss Breton. I have already gone through three nurses. It is not my intention to scare you off before you’ve scarcely begun, but I must tell you I had little faith in finding the type of woman to fill my requirements—and those of my daughter. I have seen nothing but slovenliness, incompetence and the worst ignorance thus far. I do not wish to add unbalanced to the list.”

The two sat looking at each other for a few seconds as the implications of what he was saying sank in. Althea let out a slow breath, not having expected to be seen as mentally unfit to take care of a child. “I understand.” When he said nothing, she added softly, “Perhaps you should continue with the probationary period until you are satisfied with my sanity.”

He rose. “We shall see. As I said, I was very pleased with Rebecca’s condition upon my return.” At the doorway, he turned. “I shall be in the library all morning. I will stop by Rebecca’s room around one and spend some time with her before I go to the House. I normally don’t return to dine, but if I manage to escape early, I come up to see Rebecca in the evenings.”

She nodded, trying to take in what he was telling her.

“She enjoyed our dining arrangement last night. I shall talk to Cook about providing the same whenever I am home early. I wish you good day, Miss Breton.”

Before she could reply, he was gone. She looked at his retreating figure with her mouth open. First he accused her of mental incompetence, then he made no commitment to her suggestion of continuing the trial period, and now he was suggesting they continue dining together!

Simon walked briskly down the hall to the library. He had much to do this morning before going to the afternoon session of the House. Parliament had recently reconvened and there were hours of debate to look forward to.

He entered his sanctum of books and papers and closed the heavy door behind him. Quiet. He looked down the length of the room with its large desk at one end and long windows overlooking the garden behind it. His refuge, the only place he felt truly safe.

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?