Winter Is Past (17 page)

He held her by the elbow this time and cleared a path for them through the thinning crowd. Once outside Rebecca's door, he said in a low tone, “I shall be by to collect you and Rebecca tomorrow morning. Sleep in. I won't come by too early.”

“Thank you.” With an effort she looked into his eyes, wondering what he would see in hers. “I hope you won't be too fatigued tomorrow.”

“Not to worry, I'm used to late evenings.” He chuckled, looking down at his feet. “I might have to put my feet on ice, though.”

She laughed as she looked downward. When she raised her eyes once more, he was no longer looking at his feet but at her. He was giving her such a warm look, she was glad of the low lights in the corridor to hide the color she could feel stealing over her cheeks.

“Was your evening enjoyable?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. Thank you for teaching me all those dance steps.” She was babbling, so she stopped and took a deep breath. “You are blessed to have such a wonderful family.”

His grin was lopsided. “They are tolerable.”

She frowned, remembering his younger brother. “You don't think your brother minded that you cut in?”

Simon smiled, shaking his head. “No. Don't worry about Nathan.” Still he stood there, giving her that strange look, a half smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he knew something she didn't.

“Well, good night, then, Miss Breton. Pleasant dreams.”

Her throat felt constricted. “Good night, Mr. Aguilar.”

He took her hand and brought it up to his lips. She could feel the pressure of his lips against the back of her gloved hand. Her heart felt as if it had stopped. Her feet couldn't move. Time itself had ceased to move.

The chimes of a clock at the end of the hall shattered the illusion. Althea sucked in her breath. At the same moment she withdrew her hand, Simon let it go. She could no longer see his face. He gave her a last bow before moving quickly down the hallway.

Althea opened her door. She clicked it shut behind her, then stood with her back against it. Her heart, having ceased to function a few seconds ago, now pounded with deafening thuds. She brought her gloved hand to her face and pressed the part that Simon's lips had touched to her own lips. She breathed in the scent of him and gave a soft moan.
Oh, God, oh, God.

 

Simon descended the stairs quickly, too restless to retire for the evening. What had got into him this evening to pay court to Miss Breton, of all women? He who'd prided himself on being in control of his actions in all areas of his life had allowed some impulse to rule him tonight.

“There you are, Simon—”

His father's voice cut into his thoughts. Simon stopped short in the hallway. Leon Aguilar had just exited the ballroom and stood waiting for his son.

“Good evening, Father.” Of all his offspring, Simon was the only one who didn't address him as
Abba.
It had started at Eton,
when Simon had begun shedding more and more of his ancestral customs and emulating the English boys around him.

“How's Rebecca?” Leon Aguilar's tone was gruff and abrupt. “Can she sleep through all the noise?”

“I think she's sleeping fine,” Simon answered absently. He didn't want to lie to his father that he hadn't actually checked on his daughter. He realized that he had trusted Miss Breton to do so. Suddenly he did not want to tell his father he'd just escorted Miss Breton up to her room. That annoyed him even more, so he deliberately said, “I took Miss Breton up to her room. I'm sure she'll see how Rebecca is doing.”

His father nodded, although Simon didn't like the look he was giving him, as if he saw past the words to something deeper.

“Come with me for a moment. I feel like a smoke.”

His father didn't wait for him to reply but began leading the way to a quieter room. “Mr. Cardoso told me to use his study. It should be down here somewhere. Ah yes, here we are.” He opened a door to a small, book-lined room whose main feature was a large desk and two armchairs facing it.

They seated themselves in the two chairs. Simon waited quietly while his father lit a cigar. At his offer of one, Simon shook his head. He'd learned to tolerate the smell, though he didn't like it. His aversion stemmed from his days at public school when a gang of upper-form boys had forced “the little Ephraimite” to smoke an entire cigar, coughing and retching, his eyes tearing, his lungs on fire, until he'd puked up all his dinner. The boys had found this uproariously funny. That's when they'd had the idea of “examining him” to see if he really was circumcised. They'd yanked down his pants, laughing at the evidence of his Jewry till they were in danger of wetting their pants, then they'd run away as soon as they heard Mr. Simmons, the evening floor watchman come along. They'd left Simon frantically pulling up his trousers, wiping his face clean, to meet the suspicious old man alone.

Simon shook off the memory, focusing on his father's words. “Nice wedding,” grunted Mr. Aguilar between satisfied puffs.

“Yes, it's been quite a celebration.”

“Tirzah will do well with Solomon. Solid sort of chap. The Cardosos are good people, too.”

“Any business plans together?” Simon ventured, doubting his father would have turned all sentimental at this juncture.

“Oh, yes, but there's time for that. Let them enjoy the nuptials.” He chuckled. “Even the Good Book says a man newly wed must keep away from the front lines of battle and enjoy that first month with his wife.”

“Of course.” Simon tapped the arms of the chair with his hands, wondering what his father wanted. He knew him well enough to be sure he never wasted words.

“You know it's been eight years since Hannah died.”

“Yes.” Were weddings supposed to remind every widower of his departed spouse?

His father looked at the tip of his cigar. “It's time you were thinking of remarrying.”

Ah. Simon's tapping fingers slowed their rhythm. Now they were coming to it.

His father looked at him from under heavy brows. “Any prospects?”

Simon put his fingers together in a pyramid and looked over them at his father, keeping his tone neutral. “No.”

“Oh, come, son. You are beginning to get a name for yourself in the world. I read about you in the papers. Don't tell me you haven't caught the attention of some wealthy lady.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “A Gentile?”

His father shrugged. “If she has the right name and connections, we needn't hold that against her necessarily. What is happening with the prime minister, by the way? Wasn't he considering you for one of the junior lords of the treasury?”

Simon rubbed his face, too tired for this type of conversation at such an hour. “He still is. Nothing's been decided yet.”

His father took another puff, exhaling with evident pleasure. Simon took a breath through his mouth to escape the smell that was making him nauseated in the small, close room.

“Well, you mustn't keep a thing like this hanging too long. There are only three junior lords, and you don't know when another will open up. If you dawdle, someone can come along and snatch it from under your very nose.”

“I'm well aware of that.”

“That position is only one step away from a Cabinet position. And a salary of one thousand pounds a year is quite a jump from what you're getting now. You'd be reporting directly to the chief whip. You'd be moving from the backbench to the treasury bench, you'd be at the heart of the power.”

“You're not telling me anything I don't know.” It rankled Simon that his father was right. He was always right. When was he going to realize Simon knew the rules of the game very well and didn't have to be told them?

His father ignored his son's tone. After a few moments, he said, “Marriage to the right individual could help move things along. We must consider it from all angles—the right family name—perhaps even a title—a member of the Church, and—” he struck the ash off the tip of his cigar with one decisive tap against the ashtray “—any rumors of your Jewishness would be squelched.”

Simon breathed outward. So that was it. His father thought his advancement was being held up because of doubts over the validity of his conversion.

He offered no comment. His father continued puffing in silence.

“Your name has been cropping up lately along with that of Lady Stanton-Lewis in the gossip sheets.”

Simon's glance connected with his father's. “I've been to her salon a few times. Many unmarried gentlemen gather there.”

“But none of their names have been linked to hers as yours has.”

Simon shrugged, beginning to drum on the chair arms again. “I can't help what the gossipmongers say.”

“They would say, Where there's smoke, there's fire.”

When Simon didn't reply, his father continued. “It's never good business to pay too much attention to a married woman. You're single, young still, with an ambition to make it in politics, and for all your British polish, you're still a Jew. You need to guard your reputation more than most.”

“I shall take your advice to heart.” He knew his father spoke the truth, but the words chafed him. Perhaps because for his whole adult life he'd been doing nothing but guard his reputation.

His father continued to smoke. Simon waited, wondering if there would be anything more. If Lady Eugenia was all his father wanted to bring up, Simon could feel some measure of relief. Lately, he'd been raked over the coals every time his father read about what Simon had said in Parliament.

He might be playing with fire with Lady Eugenia, but Simon felt no real concern from that quarter. She was just seeking to be amused, as he himself was. To a man who had never gone after sheer amusement, it had a surprisingly liberating quality to it.

Simon's relief was short-lived, however. His fingers stopped their drumming at his father's next words.

“I noticed your dancing with what's-her-name—the nurse.”

“Miss Breton?” he said carefully, watching his father's face.

“That's right. You two seemed to be having yourselves quite a time.”

Simon shrugged, though he could feel the tingling at the back of his neck. His father seemed to have eyes everywhere. “I just felt sorry for her, sitting with all the old women. She's been good to Rebecca. It was nothing.”

“Careful when you start feeling pity for a woman. She can get you ensnared before you know it.”

Simon laughed, though he felt sick inside. Is that what it had been? Mere pity that could turn a man's insides on fire and make him behave like a fool? “Oh, come, Father, as you said, she is just Rebecca's nurse.”

“That's right, and it would do you well not to forget it. She's
an employee under your roof, under your protection. Two things your grandfather taught me, and they've stood me in good stead all these years. Leave married women alone, leave the hired help alone.” His father turned to the desk and pushed the fat cigar against the ashtray. He stood, brushing off any ash from his shirtfront and waistcoat. He looked at Simon. “I have the names of some nice young debutantes making their appearance this Season. I'm going to ask my friend, Lord Woodsbury, to arrange for you to meet them at a few social events. You just let me know which one you favor, and we'll take it from there. All right?”

Simon stood so that he was eye level with his father, the acrid smell of the extinguished cigar insinuating itself into his nostrils. “As you wish, Father.”

His father gave him a hearty pat on the back, leading him out of the smoke-filled room. “You won't regret it. We'll see you a prime minister before you're forty, eh?” He chuckled. “Let me find your mother. I think we'll be getting along home. It's getting late.”

“Good night, Father.”

Simon left his father and walked to the end of the mansion, looking for a quiet spot. He finally found an unused room, cool and dark. He stood by the window, looking out at the night sky, wondering why his father's announcement had left him so cold. He had had no qualms the last time his father had arranged a marriage for him. He'd barely known who his betrothed was, hadn't even exchanged any words with her when his father and Hannah's had arranged their betrothal. All he knew of her was that she was a pretty brunette who sat with her mother and sisters up above in the gallery of the synagogue faithfully every Sabbath and holiday service.

He remembered feeling only relief that she was pretty. The match, based purely on economics, could have yielded an ugly lump of a woman to be the one to warm his bed over the next few decades.

Hannah had been pretty enough and compliant enough with
the twenty-two-year-old lad who'd fumbled on that first night, but who'd eventually figured things out on subsequent attempts.

It hadn't turned out badly, either. Hannah had been a nice girl, a good wife in her short life. It hadn't been her fault that she wasn't around to warm his bed for very long.

Why did he now feel as if he were bound for the slaughter a second time—first handed over to the Gentile world in the realm of education and religion, in a gesture of political fealty—and now, sealed forever through matrimony? This final act would obliterate any hint of the Jew in him. It would also mark the final surrender of his identity. It was what he'd wanted, what he'd worked for, so why did he hesitate?

There was no denying the truth of what his father said. Was his posting to junior lord—which had been a certainty only a few months ago—delayed because of questions over his ancestry? Would marriage to a Gentile woman of high birth silence those qualms for good?

Or had his radical political views on certain issues so shaken the old-line Tories that they now regretted their prior willingness to promote him?

Simon put his two hands up against the window, feeling his well-ordered life beginning to unravel. The years of self-imposed discipline, of denying himself many worldly pleasures in order to succeed in his career, apparently were of little merit in the eyes of his colleagues. He clenched his fists against the cold glass, wanting to rail at those old men in the party who wielded the power through their names and fortunes. He wanted them to feel the sweat and sacrifice he'd expended to get where he was. Did it count for nothing?