Winter Is Past. Ruth Morren Axtell
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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