Winter Is Past (14 page)

“Look, Miss Althea, how do you like my tarts?” Rebecca clamored for Althea's attention, pointing to the tart tray. In front of her lay the remains of rolled-out pastry dough.

“Quite nice, dea',” said Mrs. Bentwood, approaching the table with a saucepan and wooden spoon. She set them down on a pot holder upon the scarred wooden table. “Now we shall spoon some o' this mincemeat into each one.”

Rebecca's face brightened as she reached for the spoon.

“Now, mind you don't burn yeself,” cautioned Cook, handing her a pewter spoon. “Use this 'ere smaller spoon, and dip it in like this. Not too full, now.” She demonstrated with a couple of the tart shells.

“Let me try, Cook.” Rebecca leaned forward, eager to take the spoon.

Mrs. Bentwood straightened, relinquishing the spoon at last. She watched the girl fill the first couple of cups. “Yes, that's right. No, not too much, mind, you don't want it to spill over. Put a mite more in that one, or the pastry might scorch. That's a good girl.” She looked over at Althea and winked. “She might make a cook yet, what do you say?”

Althea smiled. “Yes, indeed.”

Rebecca turned wide eyes to Althea. “Will they be ready for our tea party?”

“Oh, I imagine they shouldn't take too long in the oven. Isn't that right, Mrs. Bentwood?”

“That's right, miss. Then a little while to cool, then we'll 'ave Dot take 'em up to you just in time for tea, eh?”

At that moment the door to the servants' dining room swung open. They all stared openmouthed at Simon, who strolled in as if he entered the servants' quarters every day. He looked around and smiled when he spotted Rebecca.

“There's my missing daughter!”

“
Abba,
were you looking for me?”

He came over to the table and straddled a chair. “I went up to my daughter's room and no one was about. I went into the sitting room, and not a soul there. I went looking in the yellow salon to see if she might be listening to Miss Breton playing her pianoforte—” he glanced at Althea “—but there was not a note of music to be heard.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Then I got to thinking, and recalled something Miss Breton had told me.”

Rebecca giggled, enjoying his roundabout tale. “What did Miss Althea tell you?”

His gaze lingered on Althea, and she could feel her color rising.

“She said something about teaching some maidservants to read,” he said, and looked at the two maids, who began to gig
gle and look down at their work. Then, hearing the hammering, he glanced toward the open doorway to the kitchen. “I also recalled something about carpentry work.”

“How did you know I would be with Miss Althea down here in the kitchen?”

He looked at her sagely. “I said to myself, if I am any judge of Miss Breton, she will begin her improvements immediately. And that means I shall find her down in the kitchen supervising her new tasks. Wouldn't it follow that she would take my daughter along with her—” he gave the tarts a significant look “—especially considering my daughter's wish to try her hand at baking?”

Rebecca clapped her hands. “You remembered! My
abba
is the cleverest man in the kingdom—isn't he, Miss Althea?”

Althea could only smile. “It certainly looks that way, doesn't it.”

Simon touched his daughter's nose. “Now, I have something to consult the two of you about, if you can set aside your tasks for a few minutes.”

Rebecca promptly put down her spoon. “What is it,
Abba?
”

He smiled. “Something you'd like, I think. Do you know next week is the Passover week?”

“Is it? Will we go to Grandpapa and Grandmama's for the Seder dinner?”

“Something better.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“All the family is going to spend the holiday at Uncle Daniel's country house.” He turned to Althea. “My brother has a place by the seashore at Ramsgate. The family regularly gathers there in the summer.”

She smiled. “How lovely.”

He gave his attention back to Rebecca. “We shall go a little earlier this year, but since it has been fair weather, I think we'll manage fine. What do you think?”

“It sounds delightful. Doesn't it, Miss Althea? Oh, you shall love it. It is right by the sea.”

“I thought this would give Miss Breton a chance to have a little holiday of her own,” he interjected gently, laying a hand on Rebecca's arm.

“But,
Abba
—”

“When you hear the reason, you shall be very glad to let Miss Breton have her holiday.”

Althea waited, wondering what he would say. What would she do with her time? Would she go back to the mission? That is what she had longed for since she arrived. And now? Had she grown so attached to her young charge that suddenly the thought of being left behind gave her a feeling of being abandoned? Had she become so involved with her new household that she felt a disinclination to return to her old life? These thoughts unsettled her to the point that she didn't listen to what Simon was telling his daughter.

“So you see, Rebecca, Miss Breton is needed with her brother and his wife right now. But she'll be back here soon enough.”

“My brother? What is it?”

Simon addressed her. “I had a visit from Tertius today while you were out for your walk. He asked me to spare you for a fortnight. His wife is expecting any day now.”

She put a hand to her cheek. “Of course! How is Gillian? Why didn't he wait—”

“He was rushed, and wanted to get back as quickly as possible. He daren't leave his wife for even a day. Besides, he was afraid you wouldn't ask me to relieve you of your duties for a fortnight, so he came directly to me.

“I told him it was perfectly all right. We have this holiday coming up. Since Rebecca is doing so well at the present, I decided to risk traveling with her. We will make the journey in easy stages. This will give you the opportunity to be with your family, as well, during your own Easter holiday. I imagine you would want to be with them.”

“Yes,” she finally managed to say. Had she become so engrossed in the Aguilar family to the neglect of her own? “That is most kind of you.”

Just at that moment one of the workers popped his head into the dining room. “Come have a look, miss?”

Althea stood immediately. “This is Mr. Aguilar, the master of the house. Perhaps he should be the one?”

The man touched a hand to his cap. “Certainly. Sir?”

Simon rose. “Let us see what is being done to my kitchen.”

They all admired the new frame window nestled between the freshly mortared stones set high in the wall beside the stove.

“Well, I must return to my own work,” said Simon. He turned to Althea as the others began moving back to their tasks. “Your brother said he would be by to collect you on Friday evening. Is that sufficient time for you?”

She nodded, reminded again of the holiday plans.

“We've had another terrible massacre,” he told her in an undertone.

Her hand went to her throat. “Oh, no! Here in London?”

“No. Just outside Manchester.” He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was to be a peaceable march. Weavers from Manchester organized a pilgrimage to London to present their petitions before the Regent. They didn't get very far.”

She searched his face. “What happened?”

“Local troops fired on them just outside Manchester in Stockport. Poor, unarmed marchers,” he said in disgust.

“Oh, dear!” she breathed, closing her eyes.

“Yes, it wasn't a pleasant sight, by the reports I've received. A group of wretched, half-starved workers thinking to walk all the way to London. They've arrested several individuals. I imagine they'll transport most, if they don't execute them.”

She looked at him, feeling the pain of their families. She forgot her own situation as she thought of the people she worked with at the mission, whose plight was so similar to those Manchester workers. How could she have not wanted to go back?

“You will be busy, I imagine, in the wake of this news?” she asked finally.

“Yes. Something must be done to make the Tories see that re
form is no longer a matter of debate.” He replaced his oval spectacles, his tone turning brisk. “If I don't see you before Tertius comes for you, I wish you a pleasant journey and holiday.”

She realized he was saying goodbye. “Thank you.” Why did she feel so forlorn at the thought of not seeing him and Rebecca for a fortnight? “I wish you each a blessed holiday as well. I—” she hesitated “—I shall pray for you both.”

He gave a ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”

To her surprise his tone held no irony or contempt, merely resignation. Before she knew what he was doing he reached up. With his finger, he rubbed her cheek. She put up her hand. “Wha—”

“Flour. Is baking among your many abilities, Miss Breton?”

“I am called on to do many things at the mission,” she said breathlessly, still feeling his touch.

He nodded. “I am beginning to see that.” He stepped away. “Good day, Miss Breton.”

A
lthea looked down at the sleeping baby nestled in her arms. She touched the back of her forefinger gently across its feathery-soft cheek. Everything perfectly formed in miniature, each little eyebrow, the dark-lashed crescents of its closed eyes, the tiny nose, the little bow of red lips, down to the plump, dimpled chin barely visible above the knitted blanket swaddling it.

Her heart overflowed with love for the girl-child just born to her brother and his wife. Little Judith was truly a miracle baby. Althea looked across the room at Tertius and Gillian sitting on a settee. He was reading and she was knitting little booties. Every once in a while Tertius would stretch out his hand to Gillian and touch her. She would respond by putting down her needles and covering his hand with hers. The connection only lasted a few seconds, but Althea knew they were communicating more deeply than words. It hadn't always been so.

Little more than a year ago, when Althea had come to nurse her brother and meet her sister-in-law for the first time, Gillian had been full of hatred toward her husband, a hatred borne of
hurt. Tertius had been on the brink of death. Nothing short of the miraculous could have restored his health and healed the breach between him and his wife.

The little girl in Althea's arms was living proof of that miraculous power. Althea repeated her thanks to the Lord, a prayer of thanksgiving that had been ever-present on her lips since she had come to Pembroke Park for the Easter holidays.

Little Judith moved her lips in sleep, and Althea shifted her position slightly. What a little thing, she thought, once again marveling at the miracle of birth. Althea had assisted at the birth, which had taken place a few days after her arrival. She was grateful now to Simon for arranging her time off.

The two weeks in the company of her brother and sister-in-law, as well as of her father, had also done Althea a world of good. She realized how much she had missed being part of a family, instead of an outsider.

She looked up when she heard her father enter the sitting room.

“How was your walk?” asked Tertius, putting down his book.

“Excellent. I feel hale and hearty,” Lord Caulfield affirmed, pounding his chest. “It's not everyone my age that can still walk a couple of miles around a parkland and not feel winded.”

“That's right, Papa, I think you are fitter than I,” Gillian added with a laugh.

“Well, you can be forgiven anything, my dear.” Her father-in-law came over to her and gave her a quick tweak on the cheek. “You've given me new life with the birth of my first grandchild.”

Gillian put her hand in her father-in-law's. “Glad to oblige. I hope Judith will be the first of many.”

“I should hope so, I should hope so,” he muttered, walking over to where Althea sat, “especially as my only other hope lies in my confirmed spinster of a daughter here.”

“Hello, Father.” She gave her father a shy smile, knowing the sight of her with a baby only reminded him more vividly of her unorthodox way of life. She was sorry she could not please him in this seemingly simple matter of marriage and children, but
there it was. The Lord had another path for her, and she would not look back.

She glanced once more at her brother and his wife. Although being in their company for a fortnight, witnessing their domestic bliss, reaffirmed her belief in God's faithfulness, she had also had moments of fighting the temptation to make comparisons between her life and theirs. She knew her life was as it should be, and that she was where the Lord wanted her to be.

“Here now, don't go hogging the baby.” Her father's gruff voice broke into her thoughts, and she relinquished the precious bundle into his arms.

“How's my sweet little Judith? There, no need to be alarmed,” he reassured her when she began to stir. “It's only Grandpa, come to see his favorite little granddaughter in the whole entire world….”

Althea smiled, watching her father bring his face up close to his granddaughter's. She was glad he finally had a little girl to lavish his attentions upon. While she had been growing up as his ward, he had never dared overdo any signs of affection. As a result she had always longed for more than the occasional careless pat on the back and “carry on” attitude.

Althea rose. “I must go upstairs before dinner and finish my packing.”

“Oh, Althea, I wish you didn't have to go back so soon.” Gillian began her familiar wail at the mention of Althea's departure.

“Now, you know we've been all through this,” she replied.

Tertius grasped Gillian's hand. “Don't give my sister a hard time, you little termagant. Isn't it enough you have my father and me enslaved?” The loving look in his eyes belied the words. Gillian just laughed at him and accepted the kiss he planted on her hand.

“All right, all right, I shall excuse you. But who will save me from my overbearing husband when you are gone, I ask you that?”

“I am here, my dear,” answered Lord Caulfield.

Althea left them laughing together.

Upstairs in the quiet of her old bedroom, she confronted the
packing she had begun earlier in the day. She would be taking back more than she'd brought, since Gillian had insisted on giving her several dresses she could no longer wear, vowing that her maidenly slimness was gone forever, replaced by a new matronly figure that demanded a whole new wardrobe.

Althea had obliged, knowing she would never wear half the gowns, but knowing as well that she could find many women to give them away to. All the time she was packing, thoughts of her return to the Aguilar household hovered at the edge of her mind. Like the evening fog rising from the Thames waiting to engulf the city's buildings at the least change in wind or temperature, Althea's thoughts sought any unguarded area.

Only with difficulty had she held them at bay throughout the fortnight, keeping busy and standing firm against their invasion. Now she worked with single-minded focus, separating, folding and placing garments in her trunk, inspecting all drawers and cupboards for stray items, taking a last look under the bed, into the dressing room….

With a room swept clean of all personal belongings except those few things she would still be needing that night and the next morning, Althea stood, her hands on her waist, looking absently around. It was still too early to dress for dinner, but too late to do much else. It was the traditional time to lie down, but that was the last thing Althea felt recommendable for her state of mind.

She wandered to the window, looking over the parkland surrounding the hall. Everything was turning green, a soft delicate green overtaking the brown of field and forest like the downy fuzz on a baby's head. Pembroke Park was one of the loveliest places on earth, she thought, her gaze roaming over the hills and trees in the distance. Despite the absence of a father and mother during her girlhood years in the large, brick Tudor mansion, Althea had grown to recognize that she had had a wonderful childhood in many ways. Kindhearted servants had supplied a father and mother's warmth, and she had had a freedom to explore hill and dale around her.

Her guardian had provided her with a good education once she had come of age to be sent away to a young ladies' academy. It was one of the few things he could give his daughter what he could never manifest in public. No one would fault a guardian in providing his ward with an education.

Here and there daffodils offered bright splashes of yellow around the parkland. Althea watched a squirrel sprint from one hedge to another in the formal gardens. The peaceful vista only soothed Althea momentarily, before her thoughts turned with the certainty of a compass point back to London.

With a sigh, she let them overtake her. She was tired of standing guard against them. She thought first of Rebecca. She had missed the little girl more than she would have imagined possible for a child she had known barely two months. She had wondered many times how the girl was doing among all her boisterous cousins. Althea chided herself for her worry, knowing her father would watch over her. She knew, too, her heavenly Father was watching over Rebecca, as Althea kept Rebecca in her prayers.

The one she'd desperately avoided thinking of now came to mind. As the day approached to return to Simon's residence, Althea's agitation increased. Ever since the afternoon he had touched her cheek, she could no longer deny to herself her growing awareness of him as a man.
Awareness
was as far as she would venture in defining her sentiments. Simon's touch had only brought to the surface what had been growing for several weeks, so gradually she hadn't even noticed it. When this awareness of her employer as more than just the father of her charge had begun, Althea wasn't quite sure.

In the past fortnight, she felt she'd worn out the carpet praying to the Lord to take her feelings away. She didn't understand them. She hadn't even liked Simon when she'd first met him and she still didn't like many things about him.

When had her respect and admiration for him grown to outweigh her response to his imperfections? She admired his work in Parliament. His qualities as a father were above reproach. In
deed, she had never seen the kind of patience and devotion in a father as he exhibited toward Rebecca. She suspected her feelings were borne from this very thing, observing him almost daily in his interaction with his daughter. Not only was he so different from the way her own father had been, but compared to the fathers she had occasion to observe in the East End, Simon was exemplary. Althea was accustomed to seeing men abandoning their offspring at birth, or if they did raise them, it was with the liberal use of the rod. How many children were not led astray by their fathers' example of drinking, brawling and whoring?

And she could certainly not fault Simon as an employer. Although perhaps a bit distant, he treated all his servants fairly. She had never heard a complaint of anyone not receiving his wages on time. He had treated her with extreme fairness, even going so far as conceding all her requests. She recalled with deep gratitude how he had allowed her to teach the servants and, most of all, to teach his own daughter.

But for all his good qualities, there were the other things. She could see an intellectual arrogance and worldly ambition in him that she feared would lead to a disappointment. She thought of the proverb, “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” She prayed that it shouldn't be so with Simon, but she feared for him nonetheless.

Most of all she knew she could never give her heart to a man who had no reverence for God. She could not avoid the same conclusion she'd arrived at throughout the past fortnight. She must keep away from Simon Aguilar as much as possible. She was there to serve his daughter. She would do her utmost to help her, but she must remove herself from all but the most necessary contact with the girl's father.

Althea turned from the window praying once again that God would grant her the grace to see her assignment in the Aguilar household successfully through to its conclusion. She could see no clear way ahead; she felt as if she were in the middle of one vast desert. Her beginnings were already obscured; there was no
turning back; her destination was equally out of sight. There was no help for it but to keep putting one foot in front of the other, trusting that the Lord would see her through, even if she didn't understand it all at the time.

 

Simon came into the library and put his finger to his lips. “She's coming,” he whispered dramatically to his daughter, who sat in a leather armchair by the fire, her legs swinging in anticipation.

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling, her hands grasping the arms of the chair. “Oh, I can't wait!”

“Her brother's coach has just driven up. Giles knows what to do. Now quiet!” He came to sit in another chair.

Tea had been set out on a round table before the fire. They could hear only a few sounds through the thick door.

Before Althea reached the front door, Giles had opened it for her.

“Welcome home, miss.”

“Hello, Giles.” She gave him a surprised smile.
Home,
she thought in bemusement. No, it wasn't home, but it was nice to feel a sense of welcome at her return. “How is everyone? Rebecca? Have they returned?”

“Oh, yes, miss, everyone's back. We are all fine here,” he answered. “Harry, help the coachman with Miss Breton's baggage.”

“Hello, Miss Breton.” Harry sprang forward at Giles's words to take her portmanteau from her.

“Hello, Harry, how are you?” she asked, untying her bonnet ribbons.

“Right as rain, miss.”

“Let me take your things, miss,” said Giles. “I am instructed to tell you to freshen up, then to come down to the library at your earliest convenience.”

“Oh?” What strange instructions. It sounded like a summons. Was she to be dismissed? Was that the Lord's answer to her prayers? “Is something wrong?”

Giles put on his most unrevealing expression. “I couldn't tell you, miss.”

“No, of course not.” She took a look around her, seeing only closed doors. The smell, however, brought a sense of recognition—and welcome. Each house had its own distinct smell, and she noticed she had come to know this one's. It was not unpleasant, not like the smells of cooked food, stale beer, and human and animal waste present in most of the streets and stairwells near the mission. Nor was it the centuries-old smell of brick and mortar of Pembroke Park.

Althea breathed in the smell of this house, noting its familiarity. This house was a mixture of old, settled wood with decades of beeswax rubbed into it, leather-bound books and paper and dust that had sat for a long time. She gave a faint shake of her head. Would she still recall this scent years from now when she was a graying spinster living in the East End?

“Well, I shall go up, then,” she said, removing her gloves but still hesitating.