Winter Is Past

“Only with the very proper hostesses.”

He looked at her more closely, noting the humor in her eyes. He’d never shared a moment of humor with her. “Since I am probably not acquainted with them, I suppose I shall survive.”

“And give many more dinner parties,” she quipped.

He gave her a crooked smile, running a hand through his hair. “If my first proves not to be an unmitigated disaster.”

“Oh, I’m certain it shan’t be.”

Her tone was oddly comforting. Simon stretched out his legs before the fire, thinking of his earlier meeting with the chief whip. “I don’t know,” he began. “If my standing with my colleagues is any indication, I’ll be lucky if anyone shows up.” After Simon’s speech on the Corn Laws, the chief whip had taken him aside and given him a thorough dressing down, with warnings that came down directly from Liverpool himself, he intimated. If Simon didn’t toe the party line, he might find himself back in the upper tier. He had succeeded in his party because of his gift for oratory, but if he used it against his own party, he could forget about a junior lordship.

Simon sat in silence, gazing at the fire, contemplating this dilemma.

As if reading his thoughts, Miss Breton’s soft voice penetrated his hearing at last. “How…how are things in the House?”

He sighed deeply, giving her his attention once again. “Much debate and little real action. The Tories don’t want things to change.”

“But you…are you not a member of the Tory party yourself?”

“Oh, yes. The party in power,” he added with irony. “It doesn’t mean I agree with everything they stand for. I’m beginning to think I disagree with more and more each day.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Words, words and more words. I used to enjoy them. Now it seems as if all we do is bicker and call each other names. We’re worse than a bunch of schoolboys at times. In the meantime, there are more men out of work each day, widows and children are going hungry, and those with work are rioting.”

“Yes, it does seem things have grown worse since the end of the war,” she agreed. “We all looked forward to peace with France, but since then, there are so many discharged soldiers and sailors. We see so many idle men around the mission, with nothing to do but drink.”

He looked at her in surprise, not having expected to be able to discuss these things with a woman, much less his daughter’s nurse. Yet, because of her work at the mission, he realized, she was probably the one who would best understand.

A whimper from the other room caused them both to turn. Miss Breton immediately arose, with Simon close behind her. She pushed aside the bed curtains and knelt by Rebecca’s pillow, feeling her forehead. It was hot.

“Althy…” moaned the girl, her head turning from side to side, her eyes still closed. “Oh, Althy, my head hurts so. My whole body hurts….”

“There, there,” she answered in soothing tones, smoothing the hair off her forehead. “Your papa’s here.”

Rebecca opened her eyes. “Abba, you came home.”

“Yes, dear.” Simon sat on the edge of the bed as Althea moved to the night table to measure out a dose of laudanum. Simon continued speaking in soft tones, stroking his daughter’s forehead as Althea had done, while she administered the medicine. The two of them stayed there until Rebecca finally fell asleep.

When they returned to the sitting room, too restless to sit again, Simon leaned against the back of his chair, his forearms against it, vaguely aware of Althea adding coal to the fire. The new chunks sizzled as they touched the red-hot ones beneath. He stood, staring at the glowing coals but not really seeing them.

Abruptly he looked at her as she brushed off her hands. “How often do you have to give her the laudanum?”

She met his dark gaze as she bit her underlip. At last she answered him softly, “Almost every night.”

At least she was honest with him. He grimaced. “It’s funny—since you came I’ve been sleeping through the nights, but it’s not because my daughter has been getting any better. She merely has a better nurse.”

Althea looked down at her hands.

“I would like to apologize for doubting your abilities, Miss Breton.”

She raised her head. “No apology is necessary. I only wish I could do more….” Her eyes had an appeal in them.

“You’ve made Rebecca happy. That’s all I can hope for.”

She continued looking at him, and he waited, wondering if there was something else she had to tell him about Rebecca. He was right.

“Your daughter needs something else to make her happy.”

“Name it, and I shall do all in my power to obtain it.”

“It doesn’t cost anything.” She smoothed her skirt. “Your daughter needs to know about God.” She clasped her small hands in front of her, her gaze resolute.

He just stared at her, not expecting that reply. A short, humorless laugh erupted from him as he rubbed his forehead with a hand. “Well, I have to admit, that is something I can’t give her.”

They fell silent. After a while, Althea said, “I would like your permission to read some Bible stories to Rebecca. I gather from my conversations with her that she receives no religious training, neither Jewish nor Christian. If you’d rather, I would just read to her from the Old Testament—”

He waved a hand, almost in relief at having this topic so easily solved. “Old, new, Tanakh, HaBrit Hachadashah—you have my permission to read her what you like. I was exposed to both as a lad, and you can see what little harm—or good—they did me.”

“Thank you” was all she answered.

She seemed satisfied and resumed her seat. Simon didn’t leave, but began to walk slowly about the room, one hand covering the other in a fist. He almost envied Miss Breton her faith. She had a cause she’d be willing to lose her job over, he’d wager. How clear and simple things must be for her.

He thought about her tenderness with his daughter just now in the other room. He wished he could do something for her to express his real gratitude. He finally stopped before her chair.

“I have been meaning to thank you for what you have done for Rebecca. She truly seems happier since you’ve been here.”

She looked up at him with a smile, and he suddenly saw the resemblance to her brother. They both had a sort of radiance.

“It is I who should be thanking you for giving me the opportunity to come here,” she said.

Simon didn’t reply right away but stood, considering her. On impulse he said, “I would like you to attend the dinner party next week.”

She opened her mouth in stupefaction. “Oh, no, sir! That is not at all necessary.”

“I know it isn’t. Still, I would like you in attendance.”

“Please, sir, I…I would rather not….”

He peered at her more closely, not understanding her reaction. Fool that he was, he had thought she’d be pleased, even flattered. Why hadn’t he recalled her own admission of her opinion of Jews? Annoyed at both himself and her, he said, “I don’t want to argue with you about this, but I really must insist that you attend. You are Lord Skylar’s sister, for goodness’ sake. Yes, I know, I know, his half sister.

“Furthermore, you are a lady in your own right, whether you choose to go by a title or not. I cannot have you not attend. I couldn’t face your brother ever again, for one thing, nor my own conscience, for that matter.”

Panic was visible in her eyes. “Mr. Aguilar, please don’t concern yourself with appearances. My brother will understand if I decline to attend a dinner party. He knows perfectly well why I am here in your employ. He would never expect you to—”

Simon waved his hand impatiently. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded! If I cared about appearances I would never have hired you in the first place.” His tone softened, sensing her aversion had nothing to do with him, but with some kind of fear on her part. “I merely thought perhaps you would enjoy an evening in polite society. You spend all your time in a little girl’s company. As much as I love my daughter, I know it must be draining to be in a sick child’s company twenty-four hours a day.”

Her voice was perfectly composed. “Thank you for your consideration, but believe me, it is completely unnecessary. I am perfectly content to sit here.”

He gave her an amused look, determined to get to the bottom of her refusal. “Do you always decline any and all overtures into society? Is that part of the reason you shut yourself away in the East End?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I know what you are—you are a reverse snob, are you not, running away from your own class?” He saw the dismay in her gray eyes and knew he had touched a nerve. “What are you afraid of? Possible contamination with sinners? You can’t expect me to believe you prefer to sit here alone night after night, hiding behind that gray governess garb. Is that the prescribed color of the Methodists, by the way? Is it the badge that proclaims them sin-free?”

She stared at him, her cheeks pink, her lips pressed together.