Winter Is Past

“Your father says he shall be up presently to dine with you, miss.”

Althea rose from the bed. “Why don’t you set the table up in the sitting room?” she suggested to Harry.

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca clapped her hands. “I’m tired of being in this old bedroom.”

“Very well, miss.”

Simon entered Rebecca’s room a short while later. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Oh, Abba, you look so handsome!”

Althea looked at her employer, realizing the little girl spoke the truth. Although he was only of medium height and slim build, he presented a dashing figure in evening clothes. For once, every curl on his head was in place; his cravat was starched and brilliantly white. The dark jacket and knee breeches were impeccably cut. His spectacles only added to his elegant appearance. In one hand he balanced a parcel.

“Where are you going, Abba?”

“To the opera, after I’ve supped with my darling.” He approached Rebecca, who sat in the armchair awaiting her papa’s visit. He held out the parcel with a flourish. “For you, specially ordered from Gunter’s…if you eat all your dinner.”

“Ohh! Let me see.” She quickly undid the string, and sucked in her breath at the sight of the luscious strawberry tart inside. “My favorite! May I have it now?”

He chuckled, taking the tart away from her. “After dinner.”

He looked around for the table, and Althea quickly explained, “We decided to set up the table in the sitting room. So it would seem more like a real dining room,” she added.

“Very good. Here, you take charge of dessert, while I bring Rebecca.”

“I can walk. I’m feeling much stronger.”

Althea watched Simon’s face as he observed his daughter stand and walk toward him, a smile lighting her whole face. He held out an arm for her and escorted her to her seat at the table next door.

“Is this what it’s like at a real dinner party, where the gentlemen escort the ladies into the dining room?” Rebecca asked as he pulled out her chair. She looked back at Althea, who stood in the doorway. “What about Miss Althea? Who is going to escort her?”

Simon made his way to the door. “I can do the job of two gentlemen this evening,” he answered, offering Althea his arm. She laid her hand gingerly on it, and let him lead her to her place. After he held the chair out for her, he took his own seat.

“Speaking of dinner parties, I am going to give one of my own.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “A real dinner party? Right here in our own house? Oh, when? May I come?”

Simon smiled at his daughter, not replying to any of her questions right away, seeming to prefer to let her anticipation build. Althea was always amazed at the transformation in her employer when he smiled at his daughter. Although he was civil to Althea, the underlying tone of mockery never quite disappeared. But with Rebecca, he was charming, patient and kind. Althea caught herself contrasting his manner to her own father’s, whose conduct had been characterized by a sort of offhand kindness, as if he had been afraid of demonstrating too much interest in his only daughter. Althea brought herself up short at the direction of her thoughts and quickly dismissed the mental comparisons.

The footman brought up their food, and they sat quietly as he served. Althea caught the slight grimace Simon made when he looked at his plate. After the footman exited, she asked, “What is it?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Cook should know by now I’d prefer not to be served pork,” he added in an undertone.

“You keep the dietary laws,” she commented in surprise, having found very few signs of Jewry in his household.

“Apparently not,” he answered dryly, taking up his fork, awaiting Althea to say the blessing, accustomed to it by now. “Old habits die hard. When you’ve had it instilled in you since birth that certain foods are unclean, it’s hard to overcome such prejudices, no matter what the rational mind says.”

She nodded in understanding, remembering how difficult it had been for her to break away from the rituals of the Church of England.

Rebecca knew by now that she would get no more information from her father until she had taken a few bites of food. As soon as she could, she swallowed down a mouthful and asked, “Are you going to Covent Garden tonight?”

“Yes, I have been invited to someone’s box,” he added with drama. “We are going to see The Marriage of Figaro. The Prince Regent will be present.”

Rebecca drew in her breath. “I wish I could be there. Is he as fat as his portraits? I don’t think princes should be fat, do you, Miss Althea?”

“I think princes have a lot of food to eat, and find it hard to refuse it all,” she replied with a look at Rebecca’s plate.

“Abba, whose box are you going to sit in?”

“That of Baron and Lady Stanton-Lewis.”

The names sounded familiar to Althea, echoes from a world she had briefly glimpsed though never felt a part of.

Rebecca repeated them. “They sound very grand. Do they live in a palace?”

“I daresay they have one or two in their possession.”

Rebecca suddenly remembered something more important. “Abba, you said you were giving a dinner party. When?”

“Next week or so. I don’t know precisely.” He turned to Althea. “How long does one need to prepare for these things?”

Althea put down her fork, surprised at the question. She dug back in her memory to the days when she still lived at home. Simon’s dark gaze was fixed on her, awaiting an answer. “I suppose it depends mainly on the number of guests invited.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, perhaps twelve…sixteen.”

She pursed her lips. “A week to a fortnight should suffice under normal circumstances.”

“And what precisely are ‘normal circumstances’?”

Again she hedged. “A normally running household—” How could she say a normally running household had a mistress? “You haven’t entertained in some time?” she asked instead.

“No, not since Hannah—Rebecca’s mother—died.”

“Of course not. What I mean is, in order to prepare for a dinner party, a house usually undergoes a thorough housecleaning. A menu must be drawn up as well as a guest list, which requires a proper seating arrangement. Foods and wine must be ordered, flowers—”

Simon held up a hand. “Enough, Miss Breton. If you meant to scare me, you have succeeded perfectly. You make hosting a dinner party sound more complicated than passing a law through Commons.” He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth, then just as suddenly stopped and focused his attention on her again. “I know what I shall do—I shall put you in charge.”

Althea’s fork dropped with a clatter this time. “I beg your pardon?”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “You can consult with Mrs. Coates, and together the two of you can oversee all the arrangements. You’ve had the experience growing up on a large estate. Mrs. Coates will be there to carry out your orders. There are enough servants, I trust, to do whatever housecleaning must be done in the interim. I shall fix the date for a fortnight from today, how is that? That should give you ample time to hire more servants if that is what is needed.”

Althea could only stare at her employer. How had she got into this situation? A moment ago she had been eating a dry pork chop, and now she was expected to sit down with the housekeeper and plan a full-scale dinner party? She had not been a part of the fashionable world in eight years; she no longer knew who was who. And to work with Mrs. Coates—give her orders? She pictured the iron-faced housekeeper, or dour Giles, the butler, for that matter, taking her suggestions, much less “carrying out her orders.” It was preposterous—no, downright impossible.

“Mr. Aguilar, I really couldn’t possibly—”

“Oh, Miss Althea, say yes,” begged Rebecca. “It will be so much fun.”

“If you need someone to help you with Rebecca, we can have one of the maidservants help out for a few days.”