do you mean?”
Althea pondered how best to explain it. “Think of how you feel about your papa. You love him?”
Rebecca nodded.
“And you know he loves you?”
A more vigorous nod.
“You respect him?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You respect him because you love him, isn’t that so, and not the other way around? You don’t love him because you respect him.”
Rebecca thought about it. “You mean, I respect him because of my love for him, and not that my love comes because I respect him?”
“Exactly. Now, do you fear your papa?”
Rebecca giggled. “No, I’m not afraid of him!”
“Have you ever seen him angry?”
Rebecca screwed up her face. “I don’t remember. Oh, yes, once. I was little and I went down to the library and heard him talking to the footman. I had opened the door and could hear him. He was angry at the footman, but I don’t know about what.”
“Was he shouting at him?”
“No, he wasn’t shouting, but I could tell by his voice that he wasn’t being very nice to him.”
Althea could imagine the cutting remarks. “Were you afraid of your father then?”
“I wasn’t afraid of him for my sake but for the footman’s. I remember thinking I would never want him to talk to me like that.”
“So, in that sense you fear your father. You know he is capable of being angry, but you wouldn’t want that anger turned toward you.”
Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. Is that how it is with God?”
“Yes. He is our Heavenly Father. Because we love Him, we don’t want to anger Him. But it’s not because we are afraid of Him. It is because we love Him so much.”
“Oh,” Rebecca breathed in wonder.
Althea plumped the girl’s pillow and smoothed her coverlet. “Why don’t you take a little nap? We can continue with our puppets later.” At the girl’s nod, Althea stepped away, picking up the scraps. She stood a moment, watching her charge. Oh, Lord, she prayed, heal her, let her laugh and run and jump like those children at the mission.
The following week passed quickly with puppets in the mornings and dinner party preparations in the afternoons. Althea dug up a puppet theater in the nursery and had it brought down to Rebecca’s bedroom. One afternoon after luncheon, they put on a performance for Simon.
Mrs. Coates began to thaw towards Althea as she perceived Althea’s knowledge in matters of etiquette. She yielded more and more of the preparations to Althea’s management. Under Althea’s gentle persuasion a thorough housecleaning was begun. Curtains and carpets that hadn’t been moved in years were taken out and shaken, floors mopped and waxed, dust covers removed from unused rooms. With Mrs. Coates as an intermediary between herself and Cook, Althea made sure orders for food were placed in time for the event.
Althea knew a dinner party could make or break a host, and the quality of the table was crucial. She surmised from the talk of the servants that this was Simon’s first foray into the world of entertaining. She imagined that with his star rising in Parliament it was important for him to mingle in society. Althea threw herself into the preparations, vowing to do her best to make the party a success.
She didn’t know what to do about her own attendance, and the day was drawing near. She had no evening clothes, and decided finally to use her brown merino. She made sure it was clean and reserved for that evening. She had mentioned the dinner party to her brother on one of his quick visits during a trip to London. He didn’t share her misgivings about attending, but rather applauded Simon for insisting upon it.
On the afternoon of the dinner party, Althea finally escaped for a walk in Hyde Park. It had been several afternoons since she had been able to spare the time. The raw March wind felt refreshing against her face. She walked briskly along the Serpentine for an hour, then made her way back home. The house was still when she entered. She noted with satisfaction the gleaming entrance and the smell of beeswax. A vase of fresh orchids had been placed on a side table. She removed her cloak and prepared to ascend the staircase. Then she hesitated, her cloak over her arm.
Bracing herself, telling herself she had nothing to fear, she decided to go down to the servants’ quarters and check for herself that preparations were fully under way in the kitchen. Mrs. Coates had assured her that Cook had everything under control, but Althea hadn’t yet seen for herself.
She pushed open the door, and a group of servants stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. They were all grouped around the long table where they usually dined. Something didn’t seem right. The only one sitting was Mrs. Bentwood, who wasn’t so much sitting as slumped over the table.
“What is the matter?” Althea ventured farther into the servants’ domain. “Is anything wrong with Cook?”
Giles coughed. “It seems she has fallen asleep.”
“Asleep?” Althea reached the cook and leaned over her, touching her on the arm. Her head did not lie cushioned on her arms, but rested sideways on the table itself. Deep, rough breathing emanated from her nostrils. Her lips parted slightly and Althea received the full force of her breath at close range.
She knew that smell. “Why, she’s inebriated!”
Chapter Five
Althea looked up in indignation at Giles, then at Mrs. Coates, then at each of the younger maidservants and footmen in turn. They all stared back at her, their looks scared.
“How long has she been this way?”
Again Giles coughed, his demeanor no longer dour. “It’s hard to say, miss. She seemed all right this morning. She was making all her preparations. Then she served us some soup at noon. After that…well, I don’t know…I don’t remember seeing her much after that. I was down in the wine cellar for a while, then upstairs inspecting the rooms.”
Althea turned to Mrs. Coates.
“He’s right, miss. It was after lunch we lost track of ’er.”
Althea looked at the serving girls.
One bobbed a quick curtsy. “I work with Mrs. Bentwood, miss.” She motioned to another girl in a dingy gray apron. “Me and Martha. She’s scullery maid.”
“Weren’t you assisting Cook with this evening’s preparations?”
They both nodded their heads vigorously. “Oh, yes, miss. But she put us to work first, scrubbing the pots and dishes from our dinner, then told us to start on the vegetables.” She motioned to the other end of the long table littered with vegetables and parings.
Again Giles gave a discreet cough. “If you please, miss.”
Althea turned questioning eyes to him.
“I…that is…we all know Mrs. Bentwood likes to take a nip now and then. Oh, nothing more than that. She’s never shirked on her work. But she’s not opposed to a little swig in her tea.”
“I see.” Yes, the explanation of all those overcooked and frequently cold dinners became clear. “This is more than a little nip, however.”
“Yes, indeed. You are most correct, miss. I found this in the cellar.” Giles held up an empty bottle.
Althea took the bottle from him and brought it to her nostrils. She didn’t need the smell of stale rum to tell her what it was. Many such a bottle lay strewn in the streets of the East End on a foggy dawn.
“Where did she get this?”
“We