Winter Is Past. Ruth Morren Axtell
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“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.