Winter Is Past (26 page)

“Yes. I've been thinking I really need to disassociate myself from that tiresome little Jew. He has become a bit of a nuisance. Any suggestions?”

Her husband smiled at her from the mirror. “I have just the thing. I've been watching him for a while now.”

S
imon returned to London and sat down to his writing. This time he found himself making some progress. Although Parliament was not in session, he went around and visited those members who were not away hunting. He knew his only salvation now was his work, and he needed to connect himself once again with the people in power. He'd lost too much time.

A fortnight after he'd arrived and was well into a schedule of work, he had a visit from Althea's brother.

The two shook hands, and Tertius looked at him earnestly. “I'm so sorry I wasn't able to speak to you as I wished at the funeral and offer our condolences,” he began.

“No, no, that's quite all right. It was I who was in no shape to hear anything anyone said to me. How is your wife, the baby?”

“Fine, everyone is fine.” He paused awkwardly, as if ashamed of their good health in light of Simon's situation. He cleared his throat, looking away. “This is only the second time they're in town, actually. Gillian has been eager to do some shopping and visit with friends and acquaintances while she's here. We'd like to have you over for dinner some night.”

“Certainly,” Simon replied, though he knew he would find some excuse to refuse the invitation when it arrived.

“Listen, Simon,” said Tertius when they were both seated. “The reason I have come by today, is….” He hesitated.

Simon wondered what was wrong. It wasn't like his friend to draw back from telling him something. Was it…could it be about Althea?

“Have you seen this?” Silently he handed Simon a folded-up copy of
The Royalist,
a Sunday paper known for its gossip.

“No.” He hadn't read the society news since he left London. It no longer interested him.

“Look at the page it's opened to.”

Simon dutifully unfolded the paper and scanned the headlines. “Young M.P. Serving King and Country under False Pretenses?” immediately caught his eyes. He read the small column, which described a young member of the Tory party, who, although baptized and swearing allegiance to the Church of England, was in fact a dyed-in-the-wool Jew, still participating in their ancient rites. The article ended with the question, Was he a member of the Tory party or of the party of the circumcision?

“Have you made any enemies recently?” was Tertius's only question.

In the following days, the two-penny papers took up the story, adding lurid details. They insinuated at Simon's involvement with a certain society lady without naming her name, called his father a moneylender, and referred to him as the “Ephraimite.” Grotesque caricatures pictured rituals he and his family practiced in secret.

Finally, Simon had had enough. He went to Eugenia's residence one evening, in the hopes of getting to the bottom of the scandal. He could scarcely believe she would lower herself to such a thing for spite, but perhaps her husband had suddenly suffered a fit of jealousy.

Instead of immediate entry into her salon, he was made to cool his heels in a small antechamber. After a while he believed
he wouldn't see anyone but a servant, but finally Eugenia showed herself.

She greeted him indifferently.

“Good evening, Eugenia,” he said. He came straight to the point, throwing a newspaper on a chair. “Are you or the baron, or perhaps someone who attends your salon, behind these stories?”

She shrugged. “I know nothing of them.”

“Do you have someone else do your dirty work for you?”

“I told you in Scotland you were becoming a bore. Don't become a nuisance as well.”

“For my part, I didn't think you would prove so petty.”

“Tell me, Simon, can you refute these stories?” She eyed him sardonically. “Because if you can, the scandal will die down on its own.” She shrugged. “And if you can't, well, I pity you.”

He clenched his fists, wishing for a second he could throttle that long, pale throat. He didn't doubt she had made good her threats in Scotland. His rage left him as quickly as it had come. Did he really deserve anything better than this?

“Why, Eugenia?” he asked wearily.

She took a step closer to him and looked him straight in the eye. Gone was any tenderness he had seen on earlier occasions. “You know, Simon, I can't believe I once found you amusing.” She gave an abrupt laugh. “Did you really think I would condescend to sleep with a conniving Jew?” She turned and left him then, the sparkling train of her evening dress swishing behind her as she exited the room.

For the first time in his life, he felt truly dirty.

 

Simon tried to ignore the attacks, but the stories became more and more lurid, insinuating the most awful customs practiced by his family members. His father tried to investigate the source, and suspected a connection to the man who had put Simon up for Parliament from his borough, but he couldn't prove anything.

Finally, the chief whip called Simon in. The gist of the talk was
that the prime minister himself felt the only honorable course left to Simon was to resign.

Simon left, feeling dazed and disoriented, like a boxer who has received one too many punches to the head. He began walking along the Thames, not seeing anything or anyone. He finally stopped when he reached London Bridge, exhausted. He stood there for a long time, looking out over the forest of masts down-river—a jumble of moored ships and small craft moving hither and thither. Everyone with a purpose, something to accomplish—everyone but him.

Finally he hailed a hack to take him back home.

A few days later he tendered his resignation.

 

Simon fought the yearning he'd had in him since he'd returned to London, but finally he could fight it no more. One afternoon he called for his carriage. He had hardly shown his face outside his house since his resignation, so the coachman's alacrity in obeying him was almost comical. Simon instructed him to go across town. The address caused his coachman to cough and hesitate, but Simon told him it was all right.

Simon had never been to that section of London, although he knew one of the oldest synagogues in the city was located near it. His ancestors who had immigrated to England had probably helped found it and worshiped there.

Simon disembarked from the coach in Whitechapel. The first thing that assailed him was the smell. Garbage and filth was piled in the gutters to the sides of the muddy road. He brought a handkerchief up to his nostrils as he looked around. The dilapidated state of the structures shocked him despite what he had prepared himself for. He needn't have worried about finding the mission. The neatly kept building stood out among the boarded-up and crumbling structures around him, like a cultivated flower among weeds.

Two painted window boxes were filled with evergreen boughs and sprays of holly berries. The door was neatly painted, too, the stone steps washed clean of the smelly garbage that littered the
rest of the area. Simon picked his way through it, aware of the eyes of the loiterers upon him.

He was getting ready to lift the knocker, when the door opened and two lads rushed out. He looked down the hallway and, seeing several people standing or sitting about, he entered. The place smelled of soap and cabbage.

He hesitated a moment in the long corridor. From the comings and goings, he deducted the right-hand side held an infirmary. He walked down a ways, and heard the sound of children in the rooms on the left-hand side. He finally retraced his steps and knocked at the first door on the left, labeled Office.

“Come in.” He recognized Althea's voice with relief.

He opened the door and immediately regretted having come. Four pairs of eyes turned in his direction. He recognized the young surgeon immediately. He was leaning over the desk where Althea sat. Another young man, dressed in a clergyman's cassock, sat in a hard-backed chair before the desk. Another, older, woman sat in another chair. They all stared at Simon, as he stood with his hat in his hand in the doorway.

Althea was the first to recover. “Mr. Aguilar! Please come in.” She rose from the desk and came around to greet him.

“Hello, Miss Breton,” he said, entering the room fully and closing the door behind him. She held out her hand and he took it. She gave him a welcoming smile and firm handshake.

She turned to the others in the room and made the introductions, which Simon didn't really heed, too intent was he on looking at Althea, whom he hadn't seen in some months. She was explaining to the others that he was her former employer. Mr. Russell greeted him quietly.

Simon was aware they were all looking at him curiously, but he didn't care. One by one the others excused themselves, finally leaving him alone with Althea.

The last time they had been together was that day in his library. Her color was high, as if the unexpected sight of him had flustered her. Had she never expected to see him again? He remembered
the words she had once spoken to him—about going anywhere with him. Had she ever meant them, or had they been merely sentiments spoken in the heat of the moment?

“You're back,” she said quietly.

“Yes, a few weeks ago.”

“How was Scotland?”

“As can be expected.” He didn't want to talk about Scotland.

“Please, have a seat.” She motioned to a chair. “Can I get you something? A cup of tea?”

Just then, there was a knock on the door and it opened before she had a chance to answer. “'Scuse me, Miss Thea, but where do you want the crates they've just delivered?”

“Oh—Have them put in the first classroom.” The door banged shut. “I'm sorry. Where—Oh, yes, can I get you some tea?”

“No, thank you.” He took the seat she had indicated. “So, this is the mission,” he said to fill the silence. He took a look around the spartan office, but didn't really notice anything. His gaze soon came back to her. He realized he should not have barged in unannounced.

“Yes.” Her small hands knotted together in her lap. She had on the ugliest brown dress, and yet he had never seen anyone more beautiful.

He looked down at his hat, not even sure now why he had come. “The reason I stopped by—”

They were interrupted by a boy poking his head in the door. “Miss Thea, Mrs. Burrows says to please come to the kitchens at your first convenience.”

“Yes, tell her I'll be there shortly.” She turned back to him. “I'm sorry, you were saying?”

“I just wanted to thank—”

This time there was a light tap on the open door.

Althea answered with a frustrated “Yes?”

The older woman opened the door a fraction more. Althea gave Simon an apologetic look and stood. “Excuse me a moment, will you?”

“Certainly.”

She went to the woman, and the two held a short conference in the doorway. She closed the door and returned to her seat. “I asked her whether she might be able to forestall any further interruptions. I don't know how much good that will do, but please continue.”

Simon shifted in his chair. “You seem rather busy here.”

“Oh, it's always like this. We are perpetually shorthanded. ‘The harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few….'” she quoted with a smile.

“I shouldn't have just dropped in.”

“Oh, no!” She looked crestfallen. She gazed down at her hands and said more quietly, “I'm glad you did.”

“I suppose I just wanted to thank you for all you did for Rebecca.” He looked down at his hat, turning the brim in his hands. “I don't think I ever really did it properly. I also wanted to apologize for my behavior the last time we met. I wasn't myself and—”

“There is no need to apologize—” she cut in quickly. “You had just lost your daughter, a dear little girl, whom we both loved very much.”

He nodded slowly, realizing it for the first time. She had loved Rebecca, too. He sighed. What a stupid fool he'd been. But it was too late for that. “It doesn't excuse my treatment of you. I never meant to blame you in any way. You were the best thing that happened to Rebecca during those last few months. The closest she could have to…a mother—” He swallowed and looked away.

After a minute she said softly, “I miss Rebecca, too.”

The two looked at each other, understanding in their eyes.

“You seem to have many children here,” he remarked with an effort at normalcy. He smiled, the first genuine smile he'd managed in a very long time.

She smiled back. “Rebecca knew them all.” At the question in his eyes, she said, “I used to tell her about them.”

Suddenly the door was thrown open. It hit the wall behind it.
A big burly man marched in, red in the face, sweating and cursing.

“So, there you are!” He came at Althea, looking as if he meant to take her in his big, hairy hands and crush her. “Sittin' pretty there, no thought to the likes o' us out on the streets!” He vilified her with every epithet he could think of.

Both Simon and Althea stood as soon as he entered. Simon could see the man was clearly under the influence, incoherent from both the alcohol and his rage. He looked like a common laborer. Simon caught the sour smell of an unwashed body when the man neared. His clothes were stained and looked as if they'd been slept in for several days. More alarming was the fury in his face. Simon was afraid he'd have a fit of apoplexy.

“You lyin' cheat—takin' a man's 'ard-earned coin, leadin' 'im on with those promises. You Christians is all alike. Nothin' but money, money, money!”

Althea stood her ground, not showing by a flicker of expression an ounce of fear. “Mr. Smith, what are you talking about? What has happened?”

“Wot 'as 'appened, she asks?” he mimicked her. “Easy fer you to say—livin' in yer lap o' luxury 'ere. Wot do ye know of goin' 'ungry, o' being thrown onto the streets? Eh? Answer me that, will ye?”

“You are not going to be thrown onto the streets. Now, if you will just calm down, take a seat and explain to me just what has happened….”