Winter Is Past

“Say yes, Miss Althea, please!”

Meeting Simon’s eye, Althea noted the ever-present trace of mockery, but this time it was laced with something else. Was it a challenge?

Sending a question and plea heavenward, Althea turned helpless eyes to her two dinner companions and swallowed. “Very well,” she said barely above a whisper, asking the Lord for a miracle in the coming fortnight.

The matter settled to their satisfaction, Rebecca and Simon turned to other topics. “Miss Althea has promised to bring me downstairs to the yellow salon tomorrow.”

Mr. Aguilar looked at Althea, one black eyebrow raised. “Indeed? What do the two of you have planned?”

“Miss Althea has promised to play the pianoforte for me. Then we shall look out at the garden. She has spotted a few snowdrops peeking out—isn’t that right, Miss Althea?”

As Rebecca chattered away to her father, Althea was too distracted to remind her to eat her food. Her own throat had tightened so that not even a swallow of water would go down.

A dinner party in Mayfair in a fortnight…the event had all the allure of a cholera epidemic in the East End.

Althea’s faint hope that Simon had forgotten his impulsive request of the previous evening proved in vain. The next afternoon she was summoned to the library.

Althea had not been in that room since the day she was interviewed there. Now, once again she stood before his desk, this time with a silent Mrs. Coates standing beside her.

“Here is a list of the guests I wish to be invited. Mrs. Coates, you will consult with Miss Breton and defer to her on all matters pertaining to this dinner party. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the stout, gray-haired housekeeper, her hands folded in front of her.

“Miss Breton has mentioned something about a thorough housecleaning. Isn’t that right?” He turned to Althea.

Althea cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the notion that she was the instigator of a major household upheaval. “That is correct, sir—at least of all the rooms that will entertain guests that evening.”

“You will see to that immediately, then, Mrs. Coates?”

The housekeeper gave a short sniff, accompanied by a nod. “Very well, sir.”

“That will be all. Keep me informed as things progress.”

Feeling dismissed, Althea followed Mrs. Coates out of the room. In the hallway, she turned to the housekeeper. “Would you like to go over the guest list now? I have a few moments before I have to be with Rebecca.”

Mrs. Coates, who had taken immediate possession of the scrawled sheet of paper, gave another sniff. “I can perfectly well see to it.” She turned and walked off toward her sitting room, muttering “…Methodite do-gooder….”

So, that was the cause of the servants’ unfriendliness, Althea thought. She stood for a few seconds before ascending the stairs to Rebecca’s room.

“May we go down now?” Rebecca sat in her chair, just the way Althea had left her when she’d been summoned into the library.

“Yes, we shall go down forthwith. Do you feel up to walking if you take my arm?”

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca stood promptly.

Althea offered her arm and the two walked toward the door. The girl managed the stairs slowly, but once in the yellow salon, she was chatting away happily. Althea pointed out the signs of spring in the otherwise drab garden.

“See there, those little green shoots pointing through the dirt?”

“Yes, yes, I see them. What are they going to be?”

“Crocus. There! There are some coming through that patch of grass where the snow has melted. Now, look over there. Do you see the white flowers?”

Rebecca pressed her face to the glass doors. “Yes. Ohh, what are those?”

“Snowdrops. The very first sign of spring.”

“They are so pretty. So tiny against the black dirt.”

Althea straightened. “Are you ready for some music now?”

“Yes.”

“Then, let us get you comfortably settled and tucked in.” Althea led her to a brocaded armchair and turned it so the girl could either watch her at the pianoforte or continue gazing out the window.

On her way to the instrument, Althea paused at the fireplace. Upon the mantel stood a brass candelabra. She ran her fingers over it curiously. “How unusual.” She counted the holders. “Nine,” she commented, turning to Rebecca.

“That’s for Hanukkah,” the girl said promptly.

“Hanukkah? What’s that?”

“A holiday in December. Each night for eight nights we light a new candle and wait until it burns down completely.” After a moment, she added, “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“I see. What is Hanukkah in celebration of?”

“It’s about the Jewish people winning a battle. Papa knows the story better. We didn’t light them this December. I was ill.”

Althea nodded, then walked over to the pianoforte. She sat down, wondering what to play. She played a few scales to get her fingers warmed up. The sheet music in front of her was a hymn of worship written by Charles Wesley. She played the first few bars, then continued, enjoying the uplifting sounds. The second time she played it through she began singing the words. She finished that one and began to play and sing another she had been practicing: “‘Come, my soul, thou must be waking/Now is breaking/O’er the earth another day: Come to Him who made this splendor…’”

She turned toward Rebecca with a smile. “Would you like to hear any more?”

“Oh, yes, please. Those are such cheerful songs.”

Althea played a few more hymns, then glanced at the girl. Her eyes were closed and her dark head leaned against the back of the chair. Althea rose from the instrument.

She stood gazing down at Rebecca. The child looked fragile and wan against the bright, brocaded pattern of the upholstery. Her burgundy hair ribbon slipped across a pale cheek like a rivulet of blood. Her thin hands lay over the blanket, the veins blue bumps upon the snowy skin.

“I’m not asleep, Miss Althea.” Her lips curved in a smile and she opened her eyes. “I was just listening to the music.” After a pause, she continued, “It was all about God, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

Rebecca looked toward the garden. “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, dear.”

The little girl gave Althea a straightforward look. “Abba doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”