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?

Chapter Three

After their last meeting, Althea hardly expected to see Simon again in the evenings for an early supper. In those days of upheaval around the country, parliamentary sessions often went on until midnight. She knew from Tertius, who was a member of the House of Lords, that members would leave the chambers to take their supper at a local restaurant or tavern, then return while speeches were still going on.

So she was surprised one evening when the footman came up and began setting up the card table in Rebecca’s room.

“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.”

“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?”

“I’ve heard him say God is an outdated notion and no rational mind can accept Bible stories as anything but myths.”

Althea considered the parroted words, shocked despite herself. “Do you believe in God, Rebecca?”

Rebecca tilted her head back against the chair. “I don’t know.”

Hiding her concern, Althea eased herself onto the arm of the chair and touched the top of Rebecca’s head. “Why is that?”

Rebecca turned her eyes up to her. “I’ve never seen Him. I’ve never heard Him. Who is to say He is really there?”

Althea nodded. “You are absolutely right. If you have never felt His presence, you cannot say for certain He is.”

Rebecca studied her. “You have felt His presence, haven’t you?”

“Yes, dear,” she answered with a smile, her hand stroking Rebecca’s hair.

“What does that mean, ‘feel His presence’?”

Althea pursed her lips, considering how best to reply. “I’ll show you.” Gently, she placed both her hands against the sides of Rebecca’s head and turned it away from her, toward the garden. Then she removed her hands completely from Rebecca. “You can’t see me, can you?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“You can’t feel me touching you anywhere, can you?”

Again she shook her head.

“Now I shall stop speaking and you won’t be able to hear me. Let’s do that, shall we?”

Rebecca nodded her head.

Althea waited silently a little while, not moving. As the silence stretched out, she forgot Mrs. Coates’s earlier scorn, the impossible task Simon had assigned her, and the myriad distractions that had clouded her real purpose in this household. As God’s peace descended upon her, she gazed out the windows at the black outline of espaliered trees against the brick wall enclosing the garden. The ground was a patchwork of snow and brown grass between the gravel paths.

“Miss Althea?”

“How do you know I’m still here?”

Rebecca turned toward her a face radiant with discovery. “I can feel your presence, can’t I?”

Althea smiled at her.

“Let’s do it again!” Rebecca cried happily, turning her gaze back toward the garden.

“Very well. But this time, don’t turn around until I tell you to.”

Rebecca nodded happily.

They played the game several times, at Rebecca’s insistence. The final time Althea quietly slipped outside the room and stood just beyond the doorway. After a while, she heard Rebecca’s “Miss Althea? Miss Althea? Are you there? Where are you?”

Althea immediately stepped over the threshold. “Here I am. What did you feel that time?” she asked as she walked back to Rebecca’s chair.

“I felt alone.” The child’s deep-set eyes, so much like her father’s, stared up at her in wonder. “I started wondering whether you were still there. The room felt empty. I waited a little longer, but then I couldn’t help calling out.”

Althea knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in her own. “Sometimes we can’t feel the Lord’s presence, just as you experienced now. But once you have felt His presence, you’ll know even then that He’s still with you. Just as I was right nearby, just outside the door, God is always with you, even when you can’t feel His presence. He promises us, ‘I shall never leave you nor forsake you.’”

“How can I come to feel His presence the way I did yours?”

Althea rubbed the back of the girl’s hands with her thumbs. “You invite Him into your heart. And you believe in your heart that He will come in.”

“Can I do it right now?”

Althea smiled. “Right now.”

The little girl bowed her head and said a simple prayer beginning with “Dear God.” Althea was unsure whether to tell her about Jesus, not knowing how the girl’s father would feel about her evangelizing his daughter. Althea remained silent for the moment, knowing the Lord would guide her in that direction when the time was right.

For the present, she knew God heard the girl’s prayer and would answer it.

A few days later Althea entered the house, the heavy front door shutting behind her with a bang on a gust of wind. She had had to bend her face downward during her walk, but the air had invigorated her. Surely if March were coming in like a lion, there was a good possibility it would go out like a lamb, she consoled herself as she wiped her boots against the mat in the quiet hall. She looked up startled at the sound of a throat clearing.

The housekeeper stood with her hands folded in front of her. She looked like a plump, curved urn, round on top and bottom, cinched in at the waist by her apron ties. Tight curls framed a face prematurely wrinkled, as if a sculpture’s knife had slipped, leaving deep lines along her cheeks.

“Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Coates. I didn’t see you standing there. May I help you with anything?”

“Yes, miss, if you please.”

Althea wondered at the subdued tone. “Let me just hang up my damp things and I shall be right with you.”

She joined the housekeeper in her sitting room.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” the housekeeper asked stiffly, gesturing toward the pot on the table before her.

Amazed, Althea took a seat at the table. “That would be lovely. It’s quite cold outside.” She waited quietly as the housekeeper poured the steaming liquid into a cup and covered the pot with a cozy.

Mrs. Coates sat down opposite her. A stack of correspondence lay on the small table between them. Noticing her glance, the housekeeper said, “Them’s the replies.”

“The replies?”

“For the dinner he’s giving.”

Not liking the way she was referring to their employer, Althea said, “The dinner Mr. Aguilar is hosting?”

“That’s right. The replies’ve been comin’ in. Most are acceptances.” Mrs. Coates sighed, her ample bosom rising. She pushed forward a sheet of paper. “I was working on seating arrangements when you walked in.”

“I see. How are they coming?” she asked, looking at the blank sheet of paper.

Mrs. Coates fingered the corner of the paper. “Not so well. You see, he—that is, Mr. Aguilar—hasn’t been too clear about how he wants it. Only thing he told me was to seat him by—” she shuffled among the correspondence until she came to the right one “—Lady Stanton-Lewis.” She pushed the reply toward Althea.

Althea took the folded vellum. A hint of a floral fragrance drifted to her nostrils as she unfolded the creamy sheet. Lord Griffith and Lady Eugenia Stanton-Lewis accepted the invitation to dinner at the residence of the Honorable Simon Aguilar on the evening of the twelfth of March. Althea remembered the names Simon had mentioned the evening he was going to the opera.

She made a greater effort to recall them from her days in London society. She remembered the name was a good one, but that was all that came to mind. “Very well,” she said, “let us put her on Mr. Aguilar’s right—unless, of course, we find someone who outranks her. We shall need to look at all the other replies to see where her husband ranks. Do you know if Mr. Aguilar has a copy of the Peerage in his library?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been many years since there’s been any entertaining under this roof.” Mrs. Coates sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea. “Before the missus died, they did some entertaining, but it was mostly amongst their own kind. There’s never been what you’d call ‘society’ here. I don’t think they’d know much of such things.”

Althea noted the disdain in her tone but said nothing. She took a swallow of tea, then pushed away from the table. “I think I shall just look in the library and see if he doesn’t have a copy. That will help us in these arrangements.”

“Very well, miss.”

Althea entered the quiet library. No one went in there on the days when Simon was at the House. She closed the door softly behind her, trying to decide where to begin. On the two occasions she had crossed this threshold, her mind had been too preoccupied with the coming interviews with her employer to take in her surroundings to any significant degree. Now she could enjoy the peace and comfort of this room. It reminded her of her father’s library on his country estate in Hertfordshire.

She walked slowly into the long vast room, breathing in the scent of book leather and paper, over which lingered the acrid tinge of a spent fire in an unswept grate. Walls of bookshelves on two sides accentuated the length of the room. Stacks of books and paintings along the walls waited to be shelved or hung, as if in the years since the original order of the room had been established, more books, paintings and objets d’art had been accumulated but no time or interest found to place them properly.

Rich carpets covered the floors, muffling her footsteps as she ventured farther into the room. Heavy velvet curtains framed the wall of casement windows at the far end of the room.

Midway the length of the room stood a fireplace with a sculpted marble front. Gilt-framed oil paintings, one above another, hung around the fireplace from ceiling to wainscoting. The walls beneath were a rich red. A welcoming group of brass-studded leather chairs and a small, upholstered sofa faced the fireplace. Althea touched a leather armrest, remembering the hours she had spent as a girl curled up in just such a chair, safe from all eyes.

She rubbed her fingers together, noticing how grimy they had become. She examined the rest of the furniture more closely, noticing the film of dust over every surface. Brushing the dust off her hands, she decided that was a problem to be tackled at another time.

The rest of the room was given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of dark oak. She began examining the bookshelves, looking for a classification system. She found histories; biographies; works in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, which made her wish she could spend a few hours in that section; another section devoted to novels, including many of the newest; stacks and stacks of old issues of The Times and The Observer as well as the newer more radical publications like Cobbett’s Political Register. There were countless political and philosophical tomes. Althea also came upon a stack of pamphlets containing Simon’s name. Curious, she riffled through these, reading the various titles he had authored: factory reform, parliamentary reform, arguments in favor of a minimum wage, abolition of the tithe. The topics sounded altogether radical for a member of the Tory party. She placed them back in a neat stack.

Althea ran her fingers one last, lingering time over the spines of the books. The wisdom of humanity contained in a roomful of shelves, she mused, craning her neck upward. Solomon had written, “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom….” But he had also begun the book of Proverbs with the preface “…the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

Althea considered all the knowledge Simon had extracted from these centuries of human understanding and knowledge. But one thing he lacked, she thought, paraphrasing Jesus’s words to the rich young man: the fear of the Lord, and without that, all the rest of the wisdom was in vain.

She finally spied copies of both Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage. They were placed in an area with some copies of The Morning Post, The Court Guide and The Royalist, a periodical known for its scandals and on dits. Clearly, Mrs. Coates’s opinion that Simon knew nothing of society was ill-formed, Althea thought as she picked up one of the two volumes on family names and genealogies.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with Mrs. Coates, pairing off ladies and gentlemen for the dinner party, deciding who would escort whom into the dining room and where they would be seated.

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Coates, there is a surplus of gentlemen,” Althea said, looking at the invitations laid out in two groupings.

“Don’t suppose he knows many society ladies. As I said, he’s lived a very quiet life ’til recently, mostly working in Parliament and visitin’ his family. He’s brought gentlemen ’round now and then for a bite to eat and game of whist.” She eyed the scented note. “Never known him to entertain a female, leastways not here in his home.”

“Well, we shall just have to do the best we can with what we have. Perhaps some replies will still come in.”

As she located the family names in the books, she remembered more and more of the details from her two London Seasons. In the end there were only a few she didn’t know what to do with. She supposed they might be colleagues of Simon’s.

“I think we have done all we can this afternoon. You shall just have to consult Mr. Aguilar about these remaining names. You can show him our chart and he can pencil them in where he deems appropriate.” She considered. “Perhaps I shall mention to him the imbalance in the number of ladies and gentlemen.”

“Oh, very good, miss.” Mrs. Coates stood as soon as Althea did, her face troubled. “You don’t think he’ll mind that we moved Lady Stanton-Lewis, do you?”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it. I’m sure he’ll understand that we had no choice in the matter, with a duke outranking a baron. If he has any objections, tell him to see me about it. Now, have you had a chance to review the menu?”

“No, miss. But, if you have a moment, perhaps we could go down now and consult with Cook?”

“Let me see if Rebecca is awake. I shall join you in the kitchen momentarily.”

“Yes, miss.”

The two exited the sitting room together, with Althea heading up to see Rebecca. When she told her about the dinner party arrangements, Rebecca wanted to know the names of the guests who had accepted. Promising to tell her upon her return, as well as to describe the dishes to be served, Althea went back downstairs to review the menu.

Mrs. Bentwood, the cook, was showing Mrs. Coates the menu when Althea joined them. Although she had been talking with the housekeeper, the moment Althea entered she fell silent. Mrs. Coates handed Althea the list. Althea took it from her without a word and began reading: Clear Consommé, Salmon with Shrimp Sauce, Dover Sole, Chicken Fricassee, Giblet Pie, Roast Pheasant with Egg Sauce, Haunch of Venison, Peas, Potatoes, Cauliflower, Kidney Pudding, Preserves, Tongue with Red Currant Sauce, Lobster Bisque with Champagne, Pastry Basket, Fresh Fruit, Syllabub.

The menu sounded appropriate. Althea had watched her family’s cook prepare many such menus in the cavernous kitchen at the estate where she spent her childhood. She had probably spent more time in their cook’s company than with her own family. Althea knew well the army of kitchen maids needed to successfully prepare such an array of dishes. She looked up at the cook, thinking of the overcooked meats, cold potatoes and dry puddings that had been her fare since coming to this household.

“This is quite an ambitious menu. Mrs. Coates tells me the master has not entertained in quite some years. Will you need any extra help—”

Mrs. Bentwood pulled herself up to her full height, crossing her arms beneath her bosom. “I’ll ’ave you know I’ve worked in the finest ’ouses of London. Many’s the menu I’ve planned.”

“Yes, of course. Has everything been ordered?”

“Hit’s all being taken care of.”

“Very well. The menu looks very good. I wish you the best success with it. Let me know if I may be of any help.” She turned toward Mrs. Coates. “I will go up to Rebecca, if you should need me.”

Chapter Four

“Miss Althea, what did you do before you came here?”

Althea looked up from studying the puzzle pieces on the lap table between them. She had soon discovered that Rebecca quickly tired of whatever activity she found for them to do and preferred to spend her time chatting.

“I worked with children, many your age.” She smiled across at the girl lying back against her voluminous pillows. “But none quite like you.”

Rebecca smiled in return. “What did you do with them? The same as with me?”

Althea straightened, easing the muscles in her shoulders. “Not quite the same thing. You see, these children don’t live as you do here. Many have no home.”

Rebecca’s dark eyes widened into pools of wonder. “They don’t? Where do they live, then?”

“Wherever they can. Some find shelter in a doorway at night, or inside a crate. Some band together and live in an abandoned building. Some find a sort of protection with an adult. Unfortunately that protection comes at a price.” She answered Rebecca’s look of bewilderment. “The adult obliges them to work for them. It usually involves dishonest work, such as stealing.”

“Stealing?”

Althea nodded. “Children are quicker than adults. They can be trained to steal someone’s pocketbook or watch.”

“Doesn’t the person know it?”

“No. The children are so quick and light-handed, the victim doesn’t feel a thing. ’Tis only later, when they reach for their purse to pay for something, or need to take a look at their watch to see the hour, that they realize these items are gone. By then the children are far away.”

“What do the children do with the things they steal?”

“They have to give everything to their protector. That person sells everything to another person. One who doesn’t care that the items are stolen.”

Rebecca mulled over this information for a few minutes. “What do you do with the children, Miss Althea?”

Althea laid down the piece she had been trying to fit in the puzzle. “I work with a small group of people who want to help these children. We have a place we call a mission. It’s a building where all people, not just children, can come if they need a home. We give food to those who haven’t enough to eat. We provide schooling for the children who haven’t any school to go to. We have a small infirmary for those who are sick and haven’t anyone to care for them.”

“Did you do all those things?”

Althea laughed. “No, not by myself. I do a little bit of everything. I work wherever I’m needed—sometimes in the school, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes tending the sick. That’s why your papa hired me to come here. He knew—or he was told—that I could nurse you when you weren’t feeling well.”

Rebecca digested this. “Why did you leave that place? Didn’t the people need you anymore?”

Althea hesitated. “No. The people still need care. But there are others working there. I wasn’t the only one.” She picked up a puzzle piece and tried it with another. It didn’t fit. “I came to you because I felt this is where I should be.”

Rebecca looked at her as if not completely satisfied. “How did you know about me?”

“My brother told me. He and your father used to be very close friends when they were boys.”

“Is that true? How did they meet?”

“At school. They were a little older than you, but they were both far from home and a bit lonely, I suspect. Anyway, from what my brother, Tertius, has told me, they became very good friends.”

“Why haven’t I ever met you, then?”

“Well, my brother went away for many years, so he and your father didn’t see each other for a long, long time. It’s just recently that they met again.”

“And that’s when Abba told you about me!”

“In a way. Your papa and my brother started talking of all the things that had happened to them while they were apart. Your papa told my brother all about you—how smart you were, how lovely, how—” As Althea searched for another adjective, Rebecca finished for her.

“How I had no mama?”

Althea closed her mouth and nodded at Rebecca. The little girl’s tone did not sound sad, merely matter-of-fact. “He said he needed someone to look after you while he was at work.”

Instead of pursuing the subject of her mother, Rebecca’s mind went back to the children. “Didn’t you mind leaving the children to come here?”

“It was difficult for me to leave the children.” She smoothed the coverlet under her hand. “I love them and I know they still need me.” She smiled at Rebecca’s serious expression. “I could never have left them if I didn’t know so certainly that the Lord wanted me to come here for a while, to be with you as long as you need me.”

After a little consideration, Rebecca replied, “I’m sorry you had to leave the children, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here, too. Why don’t you help me find another piece in this puzzle? Look, I think this piece goes here.” Althea handed the girl a piece and indicated the area where she’d been working. Rebecca tried the piece and after a few attempts, got it in.

“It’s part of the lion’s head!” The emerging scene showed a train of jungle animals marching through a forest of palm trees and other foreign-looking vegetation. After her initial excitement, Rebecca lost interest in the puzzle again.

“Have you always lived at this mission?”

Althea glanced at Rebecca, unsurprised at her continued questioning. She’d become accustomed to it in the time she’d spent with the girl and was beginning to understand that her active mind more than made up for the inactivity of her body.

“No, I’ve only lived there, let’s see, almost six years.”

“Where did you live before?”

“I grew up in a big house surrounded by lots of parks and forests,” she said with a smile, picturing the estate in Hertfordshire.

“Is that where you helped Cook with the tarts?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile deepening. “I think I spent more time in the kitchen than with the family. Except in summer, when I was outside every chance I got.”

“Didn’t you have a mama, either?”

Althea glanced at Rebecca, surprised by her perception. “No, my mama died, too, when I was very young. I was probably about the same age as you,” she added, “just a babe, when I lost her. So, I don’t remember her at all.”

“I don’t remember my mama, either. Who took care of you if you had no mama?”

“A nice lady and gentleman. They became my guardians. They were very good to me.”

Rebecca considered for a moment. “Did they become your brother’s guardians, too?”

Althea looked down at her hands, considering how to reply. “No. They were his real parents. I—I just came to consider him as my brother, since we grew up together.” Better that than get into the complicated truth of the actual relationship. “I had another brother, too, but he just recently passed away.”

“That’s too bad,” the girl said softly. “It must be nice to have brothers. I have lots of cousins but no brothers. Mama died too soon.”

Althea was silent.

Rebecca soon brightened again as a new thought occurred to her. “Did this brother know my abba, too?”

Althea smiled. “I daresay not. I believe your papa and Tertius—that is, the younger of my brothers—were only together in school. I don’t remember your papa ever visiting us over holiday.” Now she wondered whether that had had anything to do with Simon’s being Jewish.

Tertius had never spoken of Simon. Althea had not realized what close friends they were until Tertius had pleaded on his friend’s behalf for his daughter.

She gave Rebecca’s hand a squeeze, acknowledging how close she had come to turning down his appeal. “The important thing is that the Lord had us meet now.”

That evening Simon glanced from his sleeping daughter’s bed to the sitting room door. Seeing the light shining through the door Miss Breton always left ajar, he approached it and tapped softly.

Hearing her bid him enter, Simon pushed open the door. He found her sitting by the fire, reading by lamplight. “Good evening, Miss Breton. I don’t wish to disturb you. I just wanted to ask you how Rebecca was today. I didn’t have a chance to see her before I went to the House.”

She marked her place in the black, leather-bound Bible. “Rebecca was fine.” She smiled, adding, “She became quite animated when she found out about the dinner party. I had to describe all the dishes to be served and go over the guest list with her.”

Simon smiled, feeling refreshed by her smile. “May I come in?”

“Certainly.” She stood, but he waved her back. “Please, stay put. I shall only linger a moment.” He sat in a chair before the fire and sighed, feeling ragged after hours of debate. “How are things coming with the arrangements?” he asked perfunctorily, not really interested at that moment in preparations for a dinner party. He wondered if he’d been mad to even contemplate such a thing. “Have you and Mrs. Coates had a chance to sit down together?”

She fingered the edges of the book in her lap. “Yes, we did. I think Mrs. Coates and Cook have things well under control. I believe all the replies have been received. There should be thirteen in attendance aside from yourself.”

He was thankful he’d put her in charge; maybe it wouldn’t be a complete fiasco. Why was it, when he could wield power from his bench in the House, he felt absolute terror at the thought of hosting those same men and their wives in his home for an evening?

Althea spoke again. “That is a good number for a dinner party, particularly if one hasn’t entertained in a while. It is better to start small.”

“Is that a small number?” he asked, doubts assailing him.

“No, not all. It is a good number, as I said, neither too small nor too large a party, so that you will be able to give your attention to each one of your guests.” She added, “Mrs. Coates has drawn up the seating arrangements. She will be seeing you about one or two names that remain in question as to rank.” She hesitated. “There is only one problem, as I see it.”

He looked inquiringly at her, wondering what else he must worry about.

“The gentlemen outnumber the women. We are lacking two females to make the numbers even.”

“Is that an unforgivable social blunder? I confess to having more male acquaintances than female. It comes from working in Parliament and not having had much time up to now to mingle in society.”

She nodded. “That is understandable. There is one other thing. You had expressed to Mrs. Coates the desire to have Lady Stanton-Lewis seated at your right. Since the Duke and Duchess of Belmont have sent their acceptance, I felt obliged to give them prominence. We placed Lord and Lady Stanton-Lewis just below them. Does that meet with your approval?”

He waved a hand, his mind wearied with questions of social etiquette. It had been a momentary whim to ask to be seated beside Lady Eugenia. Now he couldn’t care less. “Do whatever you deem appropriate. You are the expert on these matters.” Realizing Althea was really doing him an enormous favor in undertaking this responsibility, he tried to show some interest in the topic. “Will I be in disgrace for the uneven numbers?”

“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.

So there was a weakness there somewhere in her religious armor, thought Simon in satisfaction. She didn’t realize he was a master at finding a person’s vulnerability and exploiting it. He’d had to do so to survive. This time, however, he felt no satisfaction. Instead, her discomfort touched something in him. Suddenly he felt protective of her.

He pulled at his cravat, uncomfortable with the notion. All he’d wanted to do was repay her in some way. He’d ended up delving into something deeper that common sense told him was better left buried.

“If you can’t bring yourself to join the company for your amusement, you can always come to make yourself useful, pouring tea or something,” he ended in annoyance. “Think of it as helping me out. After all, you yourself said I needed a pair of ladies to even up the numbers.”

She said quietly, “Very well, I shall come to serve.”

He let out a breath and rubbed his temples. “Miss Breton, you try my patience.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I thought that’s what you wanted. I shall attend your dinner party. Was there something else you required?”

He met her guileless gray eyes, and his frustration dissipated. He said gently, “I didn’t mean my invitation to sound like an order. Let me restate it. Please honor me with your presence. You have done so much for Rebecca already. I wished to express my gratitude to you in some small way, that is all.”

Once again her face flooded with color, although this time not in anger. She seemed embarrassed. “You needn’t feel obligated—I have done nothing extraordinary—”

“Please, Miss Breton, will you honor me with your presence—of your own free will?” The last words were said a bit awkwardly, as he was unused to entreating people. Then he smiled, wanting to tell her not to be afraid, he had faced a lot worse situations than a simple dinner party.

He could see the struggle in her features. Finally, she gave a small nod and looked away.

“Very well.”

After he left, Althea stood by the fire thinking about what her employer had said. Simon’s words had hit their mark, although he probably didn’t realize just how accurately. Did she indeed hide behind her simple gray dresses and pious acts? Why did she feel physically sick at the mere thought of reentering the world she had known all her life? Why was she so afraid of it? She knew it no longer had any power over her. She knew the Lord had set her free of its hypocritical standards.

She thought she had turned her back on it, following a different road the Lord had opened up for her. Had she in fact merely been running away?

If so, her appearance at this dinner party would be her first act of facing down her long-dormant fears.

“‘…And who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?’” Althea made her voice speak the words solemnly and prophetically.

Rebecca took up her cue, responding in the queenly voice of Esther. “‘Go, gather together all the Jews that are present in Shushan, and fast ye for me, and neither eat nor drink three days, night or day: I also and my maidens will fast likewise; and so will I go in unto the king, which is not according to the law: and if I perish, I perish.’” Rebecca caused her puppet queen’s head to bow down on the last word, her fingers bringing the arms together against the queen’s breast.

The two had worked together the previous day fashioning the puppets for a presentation of Esther.

“What wonderful words—‘if I perish, I perish,’” sighed Rebecca, her own hand against her breast.

“It says here that on the third day Esther put on ‘her royal apparel, and stood in the inner court of the king’s house.’ We must fashion a properly royal gown for her,” Althea suggested.

“Oh, yes, a royal purple gown, velvet perhaps, with silk ribbons.”

“That sounds suitable. I shall consult Mrs. Coates about scraps of material.”

“Maybe you could cut up one of my old dresses.”

“I shouldn’t think we need go so far, but perhaps there are some ribbons you no longer use.”

“Oh, I have heaps of things. Let’s look in my cupboard.”

“Very well.” Althea moved to the dressing room adjoining the bedroom. Rebecca was correct. Dozens of dresses were hung up, little kid slippers and boots lined the bottom shelves. Cupboard drawers were piled to the top with petticoats and stockings.

“You could dress a whole neighborhood of children with these clothes,” she said, thinking of all the ragged children in the mission’s neighborhood.

Rebecca laughed. “Look at the green velvet dress. That used to be my favorite. When I was littler.”

Althea pulled out the dress and brought it to Rebecca, who put it up to herself. “I used to wear this to go to my grandmama and grandpapa’s. Now it is too short.”

“It is very pretty. Has it been very long since you went to your grandparents’?”

“No. I went to visit right before you arrived. Abba usually takes me for the holy days and sometimes for Shabbat. Grandmama always has lots of food. Mostly they visit me here, though.”

“Perhaps if you are feeling a little stronger, he can take you again soon.”

Rebecca’s eyes lit up. “And we could put on the puppet show for them!”

“Yes, that is an idea. You could write up some invitations, just as your papa has done for his dinner party.” Althea put a finger to her mouth. “I wonder where we can find a puppet theater?”

“Perhaps in my old nursery. That’s where I used to sleep, until I got ill then Abba decided to move me down here. This used to be his bedroom, you know. And Mama used to sleep where you are now sleeping. But that was long ago. I don’t remember that time.”

“I see.” So she and her charge were occupying the master suite. She had wondered at the size and splendor of the rooms and the presence of dressing rooms.

She returned to the dressing room and brought back some ribbons and a dress that looked absurdly small. “There seem to be clothes in here that go back to when you were an infant. I wonder if someone would mind if we cut this one up for the puppets.”

“Oh, I’m sure no one would mind. I shall ask Abba tonight.”

“Who goes over your wardrobe?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I don’t know. Mrs. Coates, but she hasn’t looked at my clothes in ages. The governess didn’t do anything about clothes.”

Althea considered. “I know some children who haven’t even one good outfit of clothes.”

“Really? Are they the ones at the mission?”

Althea sat back down by Rebecca’s bed. “Yes, and many more that live around it.”

Althea continued telling her about the children at the mission as she drew up some patterns for the queen puppet’s outfit. They had made her out of an old stocking stuffed for a head, sewed to a piece of cloth for body and arms.

“Tommy used to steal fruit from the market.” She spoke as she cut and sewed. “One night, he decided to break into the mission. He must have heard there were all kinds of things in it—food and books, even toys. Well, I hadn’t been able to sleep that night, and I had come downstairs because I was going to fix myself a cup of tea. I heard the sound of shattering glass.”

“Were you frightened?” Rebecca’s gaze was riveted to Althea’s face.

“A little, perhaps. I had known someone eventually would try to break in. You see, the house is in a part of London where there are many poor people.”

“Is it like Mayfair?”

Althea shook her head. “No, not on the outside, at least. The houses are old and haven’t been kept up. Many are boarded up because all the windows have long been broken. At night people shut themselves up because they are afraid of those around them.”

“Why do you live there? Is it because you are poor, too?”

“No, dear. I have great riches.” She smiled. “Like Esther.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Are you a queen?”

Althea laughed. “No, though sometimes I feel like a princess. My riches are invisible most of the time. But even though you cannot see them, they are more precious than all the gold in the world. And so, like Esther who knew God had sent her to help her people, I, too, want to share my riches with those who need them.”

“What are your riches like?”

Althea pursed her lips. “They bring life, for one thing. They bring freedom from fear. They bring joy.”

“How did you get these riches?”

“By believing in God’s goodness.” Althea hesitated. “By believing God looked down from Heaven and saw all the poor people—even some people who seem to be rich, even people who live in palaces—and felt compassion on them because they didn’t have any of these true riches. So, He decided to give them of these riches. He decided to send the very best of Himself to them, and if they received Him, they would receive these true riches.”

Rebecca pulled her coverlet up, excited by the story. “Did it work? Did the people believe?”

“Some did, but others didn’t. Some became so angry they killed the gift God sent.”

“Oh,” breathed Rebecca. “Then what happened?”

“Well, that was many hundreds of years ago. Since then, God has asked those who believe to share the riches with others who haven’t heard. It’s gone on from there. God sent me to that part of London, for example, to show these children and the grownup folks around them how much He loves them and wants them to have these riches.”

“Why did you come here, then? Do people here need these riches, too?”

Althea smiled, touching Rebecca’s cheek. “People everywhere need them. I know God sent me here to meet you and let you know He loves you.”

Rebecca’s thin hand came up to Althea’s. “I’m glad He sent you.” She lay quietly for a little while. “Do you think Papa knows about these riches?”

“I don’t know, dear. Perhaps he doesn’t think he needs them.” She added after a moment, “Sometimes people are afraid to believe in God.”

“Why would they be?”

“I think they believe God might ask them for something, and they are afraid to give it.”

“My grandmama is afraid of God.”

“Is she?”

Rebecca nodded then smiled. “She’s always saying, ‘God forbid’ and ‘The evil eye spare me.’ She puts things around the house and on the doors to ward off the evil eye. I always imagine God’s big eyeball staring at me from the ceiling, looking to see who might be doing something wrong.”

“God’s Word tells us to ‘fear God,’ but I think the meaning is a little different from the one your grandmama has taken.”

“How do you mean?”

Althea pondered how best to explain it. “Think of how you feel about your papa. You love him?”

Rebecca nodded.

“And you know he loves you?”

A more vigorous nod.

“You respect him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You respect him because you love him, isn’t that so, and not the other way around? You don’t love him because you respect him.”

Rebecca thought about it. “You mean, I respect him because of my love for him, and not that my love comes because I respect him?”

“Exactly. Now, do you fear your papa?”

Rebecca giggled. “No, I’m not afraid of him!”

“Have you ever seen him angry?”

Rebecca screwed up her face. “I don’t remember. Oh, yes, once. I was little and I went down to the library and heard him talking to the footman. I had opened the door and could hear him. He was angry at the footman, but I don’t know about what.”

“Was he shouting at him?”

“No, he wasn’t shouting, but I could tell by his voice that he wasn’t being very nice to him.”

Althea could imagine the cutting remarks. “Were you afraid of your father then?”

“I wasn’t afraid of him for my sake but for the footman’s. I remember thinking I would never want him to talk to me like that.”

“So, in that sense you fear your father. You know he is capable of being angry, but you wouldn’t want that anger turned toward you.”

Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. Is that how it is with God?”

“Yes. He is our Heavenly Father. Because we love Him, we don’t want to anger Him. But it’s not because we are afraid of Him. It is because we love Him so much.”

“Oh,” Rebecca breathed in wonder.

Althea plumped the girl’s pillow and smoothed her coverlet. “Why don’t you take a little nap? We can continue with our puppets later.” At the girl’s nod, Althea stepped away, picking up the scraps. She stood a moment, watching her charge. Oh, Lord, she prayed, heal her, let her laugh and run and jump like those children at the mission.

The following week passed quickly with puppets in the mornings and dinner party preparations in the afternoons. Althea dug up a puppet theater in the nursery and had it brought down to Rebecca’s bedroom. One afternoon after luncheon, they put on a performance for Simon.

Mrs. Coates began to thaw towards Althea as she perceived Althea’s knowledge in matters of etiquette. She yielded more and more of the preparations to Althea’s management. Under Althea’s gentle persuasion a thorough housecleaning was begun. Curtains and carpets that hadn’t been moved in years were taken out and shaken, floors mopped and waxed, dust covers removed from unused rooms. With Mrs. Coates as an intermediary between herself and Cook, Althea made sure orders for food were placed in time for the event.

Althea knew a dinner party could make or break a host, and the quality of the table was crucial. She surmised from the talk of the servants that this was Simon’s first foray into the world of entertaining. She imagined that with his star rising in Parliament it was important for him to mingle in society. Althea threw herself into the preparations, vowing to do her best to make the party a success.

She didn’t know what to do about her own attendance, and the day was drawing near. She had no evening clothes, and decided finally to use her brown merino. She made sure it was clean and reserved for that evening. She had mentioned the dinner party to her brother on one of his quick visits during a trip to London. He didn’t share her misgivings about attending, but rather applauded Simon for insisting upon it.

On the afternoon of the dinner party, Althea finally escaped for a walk in Hyde Park. It had been several afternoons since she had been able to spare the time. The raw March wind felt refreshing against her face. She walked briskly along the Serpentine for an hour, then made her way back home. The house was still when she entered. She noted with satisfaction the gleaming entrance and the smell of beeswax. A vase of fresh orchids had been placed on a side table. She removed her cloak and prepared to ascend the staircase. Then she hesitated, her cloak over her arm.

Bracing herself, telling herself she had nothing to fear, she decided to go down to the servants’ quarters and check for herself that preparations were fully under way in the kitchen. Mrs. Coates had assured her that Cook had everything under control, but Althea hadn’t yet seen for herself.

She pushed open the door, and a group of servants stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. They were all grouped around the long table where they usually dined. Something didn’t seem right. The only one sitting was Mrs. Bentwood, who wasn’t so much sitting as slumped over the table.

“What is the matter?” Althea ventured farther into the servants’ domain. “Is anything wrong with Cook?”

Giles coughed. “It seems she has fallen asleep.”

“Asleep?” Althea reached the cook and leaned over her, touching her on the arm. Her head did not lie cushioned on her arms, but rested sideways on the table itself. Deep, rough breathing emanated from her nostrils. Her lips parted slightly and Althea received the full force of her breath at close range.

She knew that smell. “Why, she’s inebriated!”

Chapter Five

Althea looked up in indignation at Giles, then at Mrs. Coates, then at each of the younger maidservants and footmen in turn. They all stared back at her, their looks scared.

“How long has she been this way?”

Again Giles coughed, his demeanor no longer dour. “It’s hard to say, miss. She seemed all right this morning. She was making all her preparations. Then she served us some soup at noon. After that…well, I don’t know…I don’t remember seeing her much after that. I was down in the wine cellar for a while, then upstairs inspecting the rooms.”

Althea turned to Mrs. Coates.

“He’s right, miss. It was after lunch we lost track of ’er.”

Althea looked at the serving girls.

One bobbed a quick curtsy. “I work with Mrs. Bentwood, miss.” She motioned to another girl in a dingy gray apron. “Me and Martha. She’s scullery maid.”

“Weren’t you assisting Cook with this evening’s preparations?”

They both nodded their heads vigorously. “Oh, yes, miss. But she put us to work first, scrubbing the pots and dishes from our dinner, then told us to start on the vegetables.” She motioned to the other end of the long table littered with vegetables and parings.

Again Giles gave a discreet cough. “If you please, miss.”

Althea turned questioning eyes to him.

“I…that is…we all know Mrs. Bentwood likes to take a nip now and then. Oh, nothing more than that. She’s never shirked on her work. But she’s not opposed to a little swig in her tea.”

“I see.” Yes, the explanation of all those overcooked and frequently cold dinners became clear. “This is more than a little nip, however.”

“Yes, indeed. You are most correct, miss. I found this in the cellar.” Giles held up an empty bottle.

Althea took the bottle from him and brought it to her nostrils. She didn’t need the smell of stale rum to tell her what it was. Many such a bottle lay strewn in the streets of the East End on a foggy dawn.

“Where did she get this?”

“We don’t know, miss. She must have had her own supply. I keep the wine cellar keys with me at all times.” Giles tapped the key ring at his waistcoat.

Althea put her hands on her hips and looked around. “There is nothing to be done about Mrs. Bentwood now. How are the preparations for the meal coming?”

“Oh, Miss Breton, there’s not nearly enough done,” said Mrs. Coates, ringing her hands. “Without Cook, none o’ us knows enough about cooking to carry on.”

Althea turned to the first kitchen maid. “Show me what she has done.” The girl showed her around the room then took her into the kitchen and pantry. Althea found the cook’s scrawled menu and a few written recipes she had left beside it.

Back at the dining table, she addressed the assembled servants. “It is now three o’clock. We have between four and five hours to prepare a dinner for the sixteen people who will assemble upstairs. It is not much time for a dinner of this many covers. I’m going to need the help and cooperation of each one of you.” She looked at each face in turn. “Can I count on all of you?”

“But surely, miss, you can’t… We can’t prepare such a meal,” protested a chorus of voices.

“We not only can, but will. Mr. Aguilar expects a dinner to be served by eight o’clock this evening.” She gave them a smile of reassurance. “I believe enough preparations are under way. I have sufficient experience in a large kitchen to guide me somewhat. I’m relying on your collective know-how to do the rest.

“Now, if someone would be so good as to hand me an apron, we shall begin.” Althea began to roll up her sleeves. “Oh, yes, thank you.” She took the large apron the kitchen maid had brought her. “What is your name, please?”

“Daisy, miss.”

“Very well, Daisy. You stick by me.” She glanced at Giles, who was still looking at her, his mouth slack. “Giles, could you and Harry be so kind as to take Mrs. Bentwood to her room? Or perhaps to your sitting room down here, Mrs. Coates?”

“Yes, miss, right away.” Apparently relieved at being dismissed from the coming activity of the kitchen, the butler quickly signaled to one of the footmen to help him.

“When you come back, we can go over your wine selections,” she told him.

“Yes, miss.”

“Now, the first thing is to get the roasts in the oven,” Althea told the remaining staff. “Daisy and I will see to those. Let’s see, there’s the pheasant and venison, which thankfully have already been dressed. Now, Mrs. Coates, if you would be so good as to don an apron and oversee the vegetables at this table.

“Oh!” Althea slapped her forehead. “Rebecca! I forgot about Rebecca!”

“That’s all right, miss.” A young parlor maid spoke up shyly. “I can take her tray up and sit with her.”

“Oh, would you? That would be wonderful. Tell her I’ll be in to see her later. Perhaps you could read to her?”

The woman blushed and began twisting her hand in her apron. “I’d like to, miss, only…only I can’t.”

It took Althea a few seconds to catch her meaning. “You can’t read—is that what you are trying to tell me?”

She nodded, her eyes downcast.

“Well, look at a picture book with her. Sometimes she feels like reading, and you can have her read to you. If not, you can make up the story as you go along, with the pictures. Do you think you can do that?” She gave her an encouraging smile.

The girl nodded, her eyes hopeful.

“Martha—” Althea turned to the scullery maid “—you start setting up a kettle to boil water for the lobster. I may dispense with the bisque and simply serve the meat on a bed of greens. All right, to work….”

Nearly five hours later Althea took her damp handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. Her dress clung to her body; the only thing keeping her from collapsing over the suffocating coal stove was the knowledge that the clock was ticking without mercy. Every second counted.

She kept her eye on the various pots simmering before her, all the while stirring the sauce in front of her. She had concocted what she could from the cook’s receipes. Other dishes she had improvised from all her girlhood years spent in the kitchen with her own family’s cook, who had been more of a mother to her than anyone. She also drew on her experience in recent years from her work at the mission’s kitchen. She knew what feeding a multitude entailed.

“How does this look, miss?”

Althea glanced at the tray Martha held out to her. She had filled the pastry cups with the creamy fricassee. “Very good. We shall have to keep them warm until they are ready to be served. Place them here.” She indicated a spot with the tip of her wooden spoon, then went back to stirring.

“Miss, we’ve finished cutting the fruit into the crystal bowl.”

“Very good, keep the bowl on ice. How is the syllabub?”

“All set. We’re also keeping it cold.”

“Miss Breton.” Mrs. Coates came up to her with a look of concern. “Shouldn’t you be getting upstairs to dress? It’s going on eight. The guests are all here.”

Althea looked at the watch pinned to her dress. “Oh, so it is. Let me just put the shrimp into this sauce and check on the fish.” She removed the sauce from the stove, then opened the oven door and looked at the flat white fillets baking in butter. She tested one. “Yes, these are ready.”

While Mrs. Coates took the pan out of the oven, Althea pricked the pheasant with a long fork. She basted it and the venison one last time.

“Daisy, come here and stir the shrimp carefully into this sauce. Giles, you will be able to oversee carving the pheasant and venison?”

“Yes, miss.” Giles was sharpening the long carving knife with a whetstone.

“How does the table look upstairs?”

“All is in order. Sixteen places, with their place cards.”

“And the sideboard?”

“All is in place.”

“The wines?”

“Uncorked.”

Althea walked to each servant in turn and gave last-minute instructions.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Coates,” she said, taking a glass of lemonade from her. “That tastes wonderful.”

“Your cheeks look so flushed. That stove is awfully hot.”

“Yes, it certainly is. I begin to see why Cook might take to drink.”

“Oh, no, miss. She’s a disgrace. We shall speak to her in the morning, you can be sure.”

“How is she? Have you looked in on her?”

“Snoring like to wake the dead.”

Althea drained her glass, then proceeded up to her room. As soon as she had closed the door, she began stripping off her clothes. They were drenched. As she was walking to her basin, a knock sounded on her door.

“Yes, who is it?”

“It’s Dot, miss, the parlor maid.”

Althea opened her door a crack then, when she saw it was the young woman who had sat with Rebecca, bade her enter. “How is Rebecca?”

The young woman smiled. “Oh, she’s fine. Dropped off to sleep while I was still talking, poor lamb. We had a grand time imagining the dinner party tonight.”

“I was going to stop in as soon as I took off these wet things.”

“I heard you come in. Would you like me to help you dress?”

Althea was going to refuse help, then thought about how late she was. “Thank you. Please come in. I must hurry. I should have been down by half-past seven. Could you help me undo these buttons?”

“Certainly, miss.” Dot came toward her. “Oh, miss, is this what you are going to wear? It’s beautiful!”

“What?” Althea turned. “Oh—” She hadn’t noticed the dress draped across her bed. “My, who put this here?” She moved to the bed and picked up the garment. It was a beautiful evening gown of jade-green gauze over a white silk underskirt. Matching green kid slippers sat on the floor beside the bed. Alongside the dress were laid underclothes, gloves, hair ribbons, even a soft white cashmere shawl. As she picked up the dress, a note fluttered to the ground. Dot immediately bent to retrieve it.

Althea took it from her and unfolded it.

Dearest Althy, I heard you were attending a fashionable dinner party. Please accept this dress with my compliments. I have grown much too large for it, and I know it will suit you admiringly. Enjoy it on my behalf, as my dinner party engagements are few and far between at this juncture!

It was signed Gillian, her sister-in-law. Althea smiled despite herself. How like Tertius’s wife. She looked at the maid. “I must hurry. Let me wash. I can’t wear this garment in my present state.” She walked to the washstand and began sponging off her skin. The maid handed her the fresh underclothes and petticoats.

“Oh, we must hurry!” It was past eight. She hoped Simon had not missed her. The maid brushed out her hair then dressed it for her. Althea turned toward the door without even glancing in the mirror. Instead she turned to Dot. “How do I look?” she asked quickly, not sure if she wanted to hear the reply. She felt a little naked with her upper arms and throat exposed.

“You look beautiful.” The maid hesitated. “Haven’t you no jewels, miss?”

Althea’s gloved hand went to her neck. “Does it look too bare?”

“It looks very pretty, miss, but isn’t it usual to have a few jewels?”

Althea nodded. She went over to her dressing table and opened a box. “I’ll wear these,” she said, taking out the only jewelry she possessed, a strand of pearls.

Dot helped her with the clasp. “They’re just the thing,” she said in approval, giving her one last looking over.

“My father gave them to me at my coming out.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Well, I had better go down.” She squared her shoulders, feeling as if she were about to face a firing squad.

She bolstered her courage with scripture, which she recited as she descended the stairs.

By the time Althea reached the double doors leading to the main salon, her heart felt as if it were pounding in her throat. She gave her hair a pat with both hands, having no idea what it looked like. “‘Not my will, but Thine,’” she murmured under her breath, wanting to run as Elijah had when he fled from Queen Jezebel.

The first thing that greeted her when she opened the doors was the noise. After weeks in the quiet household, Althea was no longer used to crowds. A buzz of voices greeted her. The light from the chandeliers and wall sconces gave the room a bright glow. Several gentlemen stood about in groups, their dark-colored evening jackets contrasting with the brighter gowns of the ladies. Although her reasoning told her there were not more than fifteen or sixteen people in the room, certainly not more than twenty, her senses felt an assault of noise, heat and light.

Giles spotted her over the crowd of heads and came toward her. His gaunt, wrinkled face suddenly seemed the friendliest one in the world.

“Very good, miss, that you’re here. Mr. Aguilar told me to inform him as soon as you arrived.”

“Thank you, Giles.” Already she felt at a disadvantage, hoping she had not held things up through her tardiness. She ventured a few more steps into the room, wishing there was a quiet corner where she could fade into the background. As her breathing steadied, she noticed one or two gentlemen turn to look at her. She kept walking without meeting anyone’s eyes directly, but smiling in the general direction of everyone. Before she could reach a wall of the room, Simon came up to her.

“What kept you so long? Dinner’s long overdue!” His tone was a sharp whisper as his dark eyes frowned at her behind their spectacles. Not waiting for her answer, he turned to Giles, giving him the signal to announce the meal.

The couples began pairing up. Althea had no idea what the gentleman she had assigned herself looked like, so she stood waiting. All she knew about him was that he worked with Simon as a clerk of some sort.

A young man approached her and gave a discreet cough. “Miss Breton?”

She gave him a smile. “Yes, Mr.—” Oh, no, she could not recall his name.

“Charles Covington, at your service,” he said, offering her a black-sleeved arm.

“Thank you.” She made her way with him to the end of the line as the party proceeded to the dining room. Althea realized Simon had only been waiting for her for the dinner to begin. No wonder he had been annoyed. She could only hope the extra time had given the kitchen staff down below a chance to see to any final preparations. Wondering how things would proceed, knowing she could no longer do anything to assist them, she entered the dining room with the feeling that everything was out of her hands now.

Had Daisy remembered to stir the sauces and keep them warm until the proper time? Would Mrs. Coates and the kitchen maids remember the correct order of the courses? Peering around the table, Althea tried to discern whether the hot plates had been lit. The table did look beautiful, she had to admit, as Mr. Covington tucked her into her chair. The plate glistened. The crystal sparkled. Fresh flowers added a touch of color against the white damask cloth and china.

She watched the footmen. Giles stood back, with a nod here and a nod there, directing them in bringing in the first cover. Althea removed her napkin and spread it upon her lap as the footmen ladled out the consommé. Bowing her head, she said a short prayer of thanks. Looking up, she realized that her companion was holding out a covered basket of rolls to her.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, taking one automatically. The conversation drowned out the other noises while the guests were being served, but once the footmen finished their task, the volume descended as everyone brought his attention to the food before him.

Now was the moment of truth, thought Althea as she took a spoonful of soup. It tasted like absolutely nothing to her. She put down her spoon and glanced around the table trying to discover the reaction in the others. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the soup. She mentally went down the list Mrs. Coates and she had gone over a dozen times, able now to fit names to faces.

Simon sat at the head of the table, his face looking relaxed, she noted with relief, as he spoke to his immediate dinner companions. Althea’s gaze drifted to his right, where she had been forced to usurp Lord Stanton-Lewis’s place for that of the Duke of Belmont, the highest ranking of the dinner guests. Her grace, the duke’s wife, sat on Simon’s left.

On the duke’s right sat Lady Stanton-Lewis. A flash of recognition went through Althea. She now distinctly recognized Lady Stanton-Lewis. Althea had been seventeen and eighteen, respectively, during her two London Seasons. Lady Stanton-Lewis had been only a few years older, recently married and becoming a leader in the fashionable world. The shy, young Althea had envied her wit and beauty in a world where those qualities were highly esteemed.

Despite the duke between them, Lady Stanton-Lewis and Simon seemed to be having a lively discussion at the head of the table. Something Simon said caused Lady Stanton-Lewis to answer in a laughing retort. The duke and duchess joined in the laughter.

Althea had no fear that Lady Stanton-Lewis would recognize her that evening. The last time Althea had appeared in London society was eight years ago. She didn’t remember ever having Lady Stanton-Lewis address a word to her; she doubted Lady Stanton-Lewis had known who Althea was back then, unless someone had pointed out her family connections. The two had been worlds apart then—Althea one of the dozens of young ladies on the Marriage Mart—someone’s ward, at that—while Lady Stanton-Lewis was a seasoned young matron. She had made a respectable if not brilliant marriage to a baron. Althea calculated Lady Stanton-Lewis had been in her mid-twenties then, so she must be just over thirty now.

Althea’s gaze roved down the table. The rest of the guests were untitled, although most of noble lineage: a couple of notorious dandies, a cabinet member and his wife, a few other members of the House of Commons with their wives, a prominent poet and some lesser individuals. Althea sat near the end, between the young Mr. Covington and an older white-whiskered gentleman in uniform. Colonel Ballyworth, she remembered, was his name.

Just as their glances met, she saw his mouth move, but she couldn’t hear his words above the clatter as the footmen began removing the soup bowls and all the dishes and silverware around and under them, whether used or not. She could only smile at him while waiting for the noise to subside again.

A new set of plates was set before the guests and the next cover brought in. Althea looked and saw with satisfaction that the two kinds of fish arrived with their accompanying sauces and vegetables. Thus far, everything was going according to schedule.

“I beg your pardon, Colonel Ballyworth,” she said to the gentleman who had addressed her earlier. “I didn’t hear what you said a moment ago.”

“Quite all right, m’dear.” He took a hearty bite of sole. “I was just inquiring if you weren’t the Marquess of Caulfield’s ward?”

She smiled in surprise. “Yes, I am. Do you know Lord Caulfield?”

“Oh, my, yes. Since we were boys. How is Caulfield? He doesn’t come up to London much anymore, does he?”

“No. He prefers the quiet country life in Hertfordshire.”

Colonel Ballyworth chuckled. “He must have changed a lot since I last saw him. He was one of the leading rakes in his day.”

“He has…mellowed somewhat since then, I believe. Now that he is awaiting the arrival of his first grandchild, he doesn’t like to be away from Pembroke Park.”

“Oh, no, I should think not.” Colonel Ballyworth took a forkful of potatoes before turning to her once again. “And how are you, m’dear? I recall you during your London Season.”

Her eyes widened. “You do?”

He chuckled at her amazement. “Quiet little thing, you were. Didn’t think anyone noticed you, did you.”

“That was quite some time ago. I’m certainly flattered you remember me.”

“Oh, I never forget a face. Can’t always come up with the right name, but never forget a face. Must say you look much prettier now than you did then.”

She blushed. “I—I thank you.”

“Oh, I’m not saying that you weren’t an attractive thing then. Excuse my saying so, but at my age, you earn the right to speak your mind, and I always like a pretty face. You were so pale and timid back then that I guess a body wouldn’t notice you much, sitting at the back of the room. But, my dear, when you walked into the room tonight, I saw more than one gentleman stand at attention.”

She said nothing, but her glance strayed back down the length of the table. Had her employer noticed that she wore something other than her “gray governess garb”? She doubted it, watching his absorption with his immediate dinner companions.

The colonel’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Excuse my asking, but what’s your connection to Aguilar?”

She did not hesitate. “I am nurse—or perhaps I should say governess—” she remembered her correct title “—to his young daughter, Rebecca.”

“Nurse-governess, eh?” He turned back to his plate and took a last bite of fish. “My, that was excellent. Not every cook knows how to prepare sole. I must send her my compliments.”

Althea restrained a smile.

“Nurse-governess, eh?” he repeated. “I heard his little girl was ailing. What a shame.” He shook his head, then took a sip of wine. “So, you were forced to seek employment. Pity you never married. Didn’t Caulfield settle anything on you? Never knew him to be niggardly.”

She shook her head. “My decision to enter my present employment did not have to do with my financial state. Lord Caulfield has always been most generous to me.”

He looked more puzzled than ever. “I can’t understand why some young gent didn’t grab you up then. What’s got into them nowadays? No starch in ’em. It’s all in their shirt points, I guess. Now, in my day—”

Althea laughed out loud. “Colonel Ballyworth, please, I’m sure the fault was not in the young gentlemen who were presented to me. As you pointed out, I was a quiet thing who preferred sitting in the background.”

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