Winter Is Past. Ruth Morren Axtell
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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