Winter Is Past. Ruth Morren Axtell

what close friends they were until Tertius had pleaded on his friend’s behalf for his daughter.

      She gave Rebecca’s hand a squeeze, acknowledging how close she had come to turning down his appeal. “The important thing is that the Lord had us meet now.”

      That evening Simon glanced from his sleeping daughter’s bed to the sitting room door. Seeing the light shining through the door Miss Breton always left ajar, he approached it and tapped softly.

      Hearing her bid him enter, Simon pushed open the door. He found her sitting by the fire, reading by lamplight. “Good evening, Miss Breton. I don’t wish to disturb you. I just wanted to ask you how Rebecca was today. I didn’t have a chance to see her before I went to the House.”

      She marked her place in the black, leather-bound Bible. “Rebecca was fine.” She smiled, adding, “She became quite animated when she found out about the dinner party. I had to describe all the dishes to be served and go over the guest list with her.”

      Simon smiled, feeling refreshed by her smile. “May I come in?”

      “Certainly.” She stood, but he waved her back. “Please, stay put. I shall only linger a moment.” He sat in a chair before the fire and sighed, feeling ragged after hours of debate. “How are things coming with the arrangements?” he asked perfunctorily, not really interested at that moment in preparations for a dinner party. He wondered if he’d been mad to even contemplate such a thing. “Have you and Mrs. Coates had a chance to sit down together?”

      She fingered the edges of the book in her lap. “Yes, we did. I think Mrs. Coates and Cook have things well under control. I believe all the replies have been received. There should be thirteen in attendance aside from yourself.”

      He was thankful he’d put her in charge; maybe it wouldn’t be a complete fiasco. Why was it, when he could wield power from his bench in the House, he felt absolute terror at the thought of hosting those same men and their wives in his home for an evening?

      Althea spoke again. “That is a good number for a dinner party, particularly if one hasn’t entertained in a while. It is better to start small.”

      “Is that a small number?” he asked, doubts assailing him.

      “No, not all. It is a good number, as I said, neither too small nor too large a party, so that you will be able to give your attention to each one of your guests.” She added, “Mrs. Coates has drawn up the seating arrangements. She will be seeing you about one or two names that remain in question as to rank.” She hesitated. “There is only one problem, as I see it.”

      He looked inquiringly at her, wondering what else he must worry about.

      “The gentlemen outnumber the women. We are lacking two females to make the numbers even.”

      “Is that an unforgivable social blunder? I confess to having more male acquaintances than female. It comes from working in Parliament and not having had much time up to now to mingle in society.”

      She nodded. “That is understandable. There is one other thing. You had expressed to Mrs. Coates the desire to have Lady Stanton-Lewis seated at your right. Since the Duke and Duchess of Belmont have sent their acceptance, I felt obliged to give them prominence. We placed Lord and Lady Stanton-Lewis just below them. Does that meet with your approval?”

      He waved a hand, his mind wearied with questions of social etiquette. It had been a momentary whim to ask to be seated beside Lady Eugenia. Now he couldn’t care less. “Do whatever you deem appropriate. You are the expert on these matters.” Realizing Althea was really doing him an enormous favor in undertaking this responsibility, he tried to show some interest in the topic. “Will I be in disgrace for the uneven numbers?”

      “Only with the very proper hostesses.”

      He looked at her more closely, noting the humor in her eyes. He’d never shared a moment of humor with her. “Since I am probably not acquainted with them, I suppose I shall survive.”

      “And give many more dinner parties,” she quipped.

      He gave her a crooked smile, running a hand through his hair. “If my first proves not to be an unmitigated disaster.”

      “Oh, I’m certain it shan’t be.”

      Her tone was oddly comforting. Simon stretched out his legs before the fire, thinking of his earlier meeting with the chief whip. “I don’t know,” he began. “If my standing with my colleagues is any indication, I’ll be lucky if anyone shows up.” After Simon’s speech on the Corn Laws, the chief whip had taken him aside and given him a thorough dressing down, with warnings that came down directly from Liverpool himself, he intimated. If Simon didn’t toe the party line, he might find himself back in the upper tier. He had succeeded in his party because of his gift for oratory, but if he used it against his own party, he could forget about a junior lordship.

      Simon sat in silence, gazing at the fire, contemplating this dilemma.

      As if reading his thoughts, Miss Breton’s soft voice penetrated his hearing at last. “How…how are things in the House?”

      He sighed deeply, giving her his attention once again. “Much debate and little real action. The Tories don’t want things to change.”

      “But you…are you not a member of the Tory party yourself?”

      “Oh, yes. The party in power,” he added with irony. “It doesn’t mean I agree with everything they stand for. I’m beginning to think I disagree with more and more each day.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Words, words and more words. I used to enjoy them. Now it seems as if all we do is bicker and call each other names. We’re worse than a bunch of schoolboys at times. In the meantime, there are more men out of work each day, widows and children are going hungry, and those with work are rioting.”

      “Yes, it does seem things have grown worse since the end of the war,” she agreed. “We all looked forward to peace with France, but since then, there are so many discharged soldiers and sailors. We see so many idle men around the mission, with nothing to do but drink.”

      He looked at her in surprise, not having expected to be able to discuss these things with a woman, much less his daughter’s nurse. Yet, because of her work at the mission, he realized, she was probably the one who would best understand.

      A whimper from the other room caused them both to turn. Miss Breton immediately arose, with Simon close behind her. She pushed aside the bed curtains and knelt by Rebecca’s pillow, feeling her forehead. It was hot.

      “Althy…” moaned the girl, her head turning from side to side, her eyes still closed. “Oh, Althy, my head hurts so. My whole body hurts….”

      “There, there,” she answered in soothing tones, smoothing the hair off her forehead. “Your papa’s here.”

      Rebecca opened her eyes. “Abba, you came home.”

      “Yes, dear.” Simon sat on the edge of the bed as Althea moved to the night table to measure out a dose of laudanum. Simon continued speaking in soft tones, stroking his daughter’s forehead as Althea had done, while she administered the medicine. The two of them stayed there until Rebecca finally fell asleep.

      When they returned to the sitting room, too restless to sit again, Simon leaned against the back of his chair, his forearms against it, vaguely aware of Althea adding coal to the fire. The new chunks sizzled as they touched the red-hot ones beneath. He stood, staring at the glowing coals but not really seeing them.

      Abruptly he looked at her as she brushed off her hands. “How often do you have to give her the laudanum?”

      She met his dark gaze as she bit her underlip. At last she answered him softly, “Almost every night.”

      At least she was honest with him. He grimaced. “It’s funny—since you came I’ve been sleeping through the nights, but it’s not because my daughter has been getting any better. She merely has