Winter Is Past. Ruth Morren Axtell

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