Winter Is Past. Ruth Morren Axtell

in his library?”

      “I wouldn’t know. It’s been many years since there’s been any entertaining under this roof.” Mrs. Coates sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea. “Before the missus died, they did some entertaining, but it was mostly amongst their own kind. There’s never been what you’d call ‘society’ here. I don’t think they’d know much of such things.”

      Althea noted the disdain in her tone but said nothing. She took a swallow of tea, then pushed away from the table. “I think I shall just look in the library and see if he doesn’t have a copy. That will help us in these arrangements.”

      “Very well, miss.”

      Althea entered the quiet library. No one went in there on the days when Simon was at the House. She closed the door softly behind her, trying to decide where to begin. On the two occasions she had crossed this threshold, her mind had been too preoccupied with the coming interviews with her employer to take in her surroundings to any significant degree. Now she could enjoy the peace and comfort of this room. It reminded her of her father’s library on his country estate in Hertfordshire.

      She walked slowly into the long vast room, breathing in the scent of book leather and paper, over which lingered the acrid tinge of a spent fire in an unswept grate. Walls of bookshelves on two sides accentuated the length of the room. Stacks of books and paintings along the walls waited to be shelved or hung, as if in the years since the original order of the room had been established, more books, paintings and objets d’art had been accumulated but no time or interest found to place them properly.

      Rich carpets covered the floors, muffling her footsteps as she ventured farther into the room. Heavy velvet curtains framed the wall of casement windows at the far end of the room.

      Midway the length of the room stood a fireplace with a sculpted marble front. Gilt-framed oil paintings, one above another, hung around the fireplace from ceiling to wainscoting. The walls beneath were a rich red. A welcoming group of brass-studded leather chairs and a small, upholstered sofa faced the fireplace. Althea touched a leather armrest, remembering the hours she had spent as a girl curled up in just such a chair, safe from all eyes.

      She rubbed her fingers together, noticing how grimy they had become. She examined the rest of the furniture more closely, noticing the film of dust over every surface. Brushing the dust off her hands, she decided that was a problem to be tackled at another time.

      The rest of the room was given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of dark oak. She began examining the bookshelves, looking for a classification system. She found histories; biographies; works in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, which made her wish she could spend a few hours in that section; another section devoted to novels, including many of the newest; stacks and stacks of old issues of The Times and The Observer as well as the newer more radical publications like Cobbett’s Political Register. There were countless political and philosophical tomes. Althea also came upon a stack of pamphlets containing Simon’s name. Curious, she riffled through these, reading the various titles he had authored: factory reform, parliamentary reform, arguments in favor of a minimum wage, abolition of the tithe. The topics sounded altogether radical for a member of the Tory party. She placed them back in a neat stack.

      Althea ran her fingers one last, lingering time over the spines of the books. The wisdom of humanity contained in a roomful of shelves, she mused, craning her neck upward. Solomon had written, “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom….” But he had also begun the book of Proverbs with the preface “…the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

      Althea considered all the knowledge Simon had extracted from these centuries of human understanding and knowledge. But one thing he lacked, she thought, paraphrasing Jesus’s words to the rich young man: the fear of the Lord, and without that, all the rest of the wisdom was in vain.

      She finally spied copies of both Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage. They were placed in an area with some copies of The Morning Post, The Court Guide and The Royalist, a periodical known for its scandals and on dits. Clearly, Mrs. Coates’s opinion that Simon knew nothing of society was ill-formed, Althea thought as she picked up one of the two volumes on family names and genealogies.

      The rest of the afternoon was spent with Mrs. Coates, pairing off ladies and gentlemen for the dinner party, deciding who would escort whom into the dining room and where they would be seated.

      “Oh, dear, Mrs. Coates, there is a surplus of gentlemen,” Althea said, looking at the invitations laid out in two groupings.

      “Don’t suppose he knows many society ladies. As I said, he’s lived a very quiet life ’til recently, mostly working in Parliament and visitin’ his family. He’s brought gentlemen ’round now and then for a bite to eat and game of whist.” She eyed the scented note. “Never known him to entertain a female, leastways not here in his home.”

      “Well, we shall just have to do the best we can with what we have. Perhaps some replies will still come in.”

      As she located the family names in the books, she remembered more and more of the details from her two London Seasons. In the end there were only a few she didn’t know what to do with. She supposed they might be colleagues of Simon’s.

      “I think we have done all we can this afternoon. You shall just have to consult Mr. Aguilar about these remaining names. You can show him our chart and he can pencil them in where he deems appropriate.” She considered. “Perhaps I shall mention to him the imbalance in the number of ladies and gentlemen.”

      “Oh, very good, miss.” Mrs. Coates stood as soon as Althea did, her face troubled. “You don’t think he’ll mind that we moved Lady Stanton-Lewis, do you?”

      “Don’t trouble yourself about it. I’m sure he’ll understand that we had no choice in the matter, with a duke outranking a baron. If he has any objections, tell him to see me about it. Now, have you had a chance to review the menu?”

      “No, miss. But, if you have a moment, perhaps we could go down now and consult with Cook?”

      “Let me see if Rebecca is awake. I shall join you in the kitchen momentarily.”

      “Yes, miss.”

      The two exited the sitting room together, with Althea heading up to see Rebecca. When she told her about the dinner party arrangements, Rebecca wanted to know the names of the guests who had accepted. Promising to tell her upon her return, as well as to describe the dishes to be served, Althea went back downstairs to review the menu.

      Mrs. Bentwood, the cook, was showing Mrs. Coates the menu when Althea joined them. Although she had been talking with the housekeeper, the moment Althea entered she fell silent. Mrs. Coates handed Althea the list. Althea took it from her without a word and began reading: Clear Consommé, Salmon with Shrimp Sauce, Dover Sole, Chicken Fricassee, Giblet Pie, Roast Pheasant with Egg Sauce, Haunch of Venison, Peas, Potatoes, Cauliflower, Kidney Pudding, Preserves, Tongue with Red Currant Sauce, Lobster Bisque with Champagne, Pastry Basket, Fresh Fruit, Syllabub.

      The menu sounded appropriate. Althea had watched her family’s cook prepare many such menus in the cavernous kitchen at the estate where she spent her childhood. She had probably spent more time in their cook’s company than with her own family. Althea knew well the army of kitchen maids needed to successfully prepare such an array of dishes. She looked up at the cook, thinking of the overcooked meats, cold potatoes and dry puddings that had been her fare since coming to this household.

      “This is quite an ambitious menu. Mrs. Coates tells me the master has not entertained in quite some years. Will you need any extra help—”

      Mrs. Bentwood pulled herself up to her full height, crossing her arms beneath her bosom. “I’ll ’ave you know I’ve worked in the finest ’ouses of London. Many’s the menu I’ve planned.”

      “Yes, of course. Has everything been ordered?”

      “Hit’s all being taken care of.”

      “Very well. The menu looks very good. I wish you the best success with it.