Althea smiled. “I fear it is no gossip. Lord Skylar is a devout Christian.”
Ballyworth just shook his head and sat back to let the footman clear his plate.
He dug into his next course with gusto.
Althea pushed her food around with her fork. She felt no appetite, the events leading up to the dinner still too fresh in her mind. She wondered whether the meats were cooked to a turn or had sat in the oven too long.
If the colonel were any indication, the former was the case. After a few hearty mouthfuls of pheasant and preserves, he took a swallow of the deep red burgundy the footman had poured into a clean glass. “If Lord Caulfield is as generous as you say, what are you doing working as a governess?”
“I chose to come here because Mr. Aguilar’s daughter needed me. My—That is, Lord Skylar told me about Mr. Aguilar’s little girl. Lord Skylar and Mr. Aguilar were close friends at school.”
Colonel Ballyworth clearly couldn’t puzzle it all out. He renewed his attack on his meat for another few moments.
He sat back, once again allowing the footman to remove his plate and refill his glass. He took a large swallow of wine, then wiped his mouth with the white napkin at this throat. “Now, tell me, young lady, how the ward of Lord Caulfield should end up as a nurse-governess. I may be an old codger, but I didn’t earn these medals by being dense. I know Caulfield would never see a ward of his forced to seek employment.”
“You are correct. If his lordship had his way, I’d be there with him at Pembroke Park.”
“So, why are you not?”
“I had a different call on my life.”
“Call, huh?” he grunted. “What was that?”
“To minister to the sick and needy, the orphan and the widow.” Before he could draw the wrong conclusions, she added, “Prior to coming here, I worked at a Methodist mission in Whitechapel. We run an orphanage, feed the hungry, teach the illiterate and preach the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Forgetting his food momentarily, he eyed her. “So, it is true about Lord Skylar getting religious. Has the whole family gone Methodist?”
She laughed. “No, sir. I am the only one, though Lord Skylar has been most generous in his support of the mission.”
“What’s that about Methodism?” Mrs. Ballyworth addressed her husband from across the table.
“I’m inquiring about a certain charitable work in the city.”
“Not Methodist, I trust.” The turbaned lady gave a shudder, setting her diamond earrings to shaking.
“As a matter of fact, it is a Methodist charity,” answered Althea.
The woman looked at her sharply, as if noticing her for the first time. Althea could feel herself redden. She gave a quick glance toward the opposite end of the table, fearing her employer’s displeasure. She did not want to be the recipient of sharp words from him a second time that evening.
She caught Simon’s glance and looked quickly away, hoping Lady Stanton-Lewis would draw his attention as she had been doing throughout the dinner.
Meanwhile the colonel’s wife had begun a litany against the Methodist movement, her voice growing louder and louder. “…blasphemous…uneducated…drawing away the ignorant masses from the true Church…” Her rouge paled before the blood rising in her cheeks.
Unperturbed by his wife, who seemed to be addressing herself to the company at large, the colonel turned back to Althea and asked quietly, “How do you come to be a Methodist?”
“I came to know the Lord at a Methodist meeting.” She looked down at the edge of the table, trying to sum up the turning point in her life in a few simple words. “I had grown up in the Church of England but had found no solace there. It had no bearing upon my life.” She met the colonel’s sharp gray eyes. “In one night, I felt the power of God and His word, and my life has not been the same since.”
“When did you have this experience?”
“Almost eight years ago.”
“And you left Caulfield’s household to come to this mission?”
“Not immediately.” Now came the difficult part, since she did not want to criticize her family in any way. “I spent another year in our local parish church, but it became increasingly difficult. There was much suspicion and enmity towards the Methodists. I…I finally had to leave. I had an invitation to come to London. I lived with a Methodist pastor and his wife and studied under them. In time the Lord led us to the East End where we began to work with the people.” She smiled. “We are not too far from one of Wesley’s original chapels up in Spitalfields. But we are closer to the Docks, where we bring the message of the gospel.” She fell silent again as the footmen cleared away the dishes and laid a fresh cover.
“I’ll wager you’ve seen some need there.”
She looked at him. “Yes.”
“You say a lot with that one word.”
“The people of the East End live with very little hope. The men fall into the clutches of the bottle and the moneylender. The women bear children out of wedlock and haven’t the means to clothe or feed those children afterward. My heart breaks at the sight of so many hungry, barefoot urchins, losing their innocence before they’re yet five or six.
“Although our work is only a drop in what seems like an ocean of poverty, we cannot stop. If we can save any life, we feel that the time and work has been well worth it.”
“You say this mission is in Whitechapel?” He looked at her keenly. “I’d like to visit your mission sometime.”
Althea turned to him eagerly. “Would you? That would be wonderful—”
Suddenly Mrs. Ballyworth’s voice, which had been heard across the table all the while, rose considerably. “Young lady, I don’t know what your name is, or how you come to be here, but I will not tolerate this heretical talk. I will not permit it in my presence.”
The entire table fell silent.
Chapter Six
Althea looked at each face frozen in shock, staring at her. Finally her gaze came to rest on Simon. He glanced from Mrs. Ballyworth to her then calmly took a sip of his wine.
“That is unfortunate, Mrs. Ballyworth, as I hold with the free exchange of ideas. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to tolerate the atmosphere in the House of Commons.”
Laughter greeted his remark, and the guests went back to their conversations. Althea caught Mrs. Ballyworth’s disgruntled comment to her dinner companion.
“What would you expect from a Jew?”
“You must pardon Mrs. Ballyworth,” the colonel said. “She has very decided views on things.”
“Yes.” She took a careful bite of cauliflower, realizing how closely her view of Jews had coincided with Mrs. Ballyworth’s not too long ago.
The young gentleman on her other side, Mr. Covington, asked her a question about the mission, and Althea turned to him. Her glance crossed Simon’s once again, and she saw him regard her over the rim of his glass. She wondered whether he would speak to her later about this unfortunate incident with Mrs. Ballyworth.
Dinner was over at long last, and the women rose to leave the men to their port. Althea followed them from the room.
When they entered the drawing room, Giles approached Althea to ask permission to bring up the tea. She nodded approval. She waited in the background, seeing that most of the ladies took seats around the fire. Beginning to feel the fatigue of a long and trying day, Althea hoped the next hour would pass quickly with the serving of the tea. She would make herself useful in that way, as Simon had suggested. She certainly did not expect any of these women to find her at all worthy of conversation, especially after that outbreak in the dining room.
Althea was ready when the footmen entered, followed by Giles. As Harry set the tea tray on the table before the fireplace, Althea approached.
Just as she reached the area, Lady Stanton-Lewis swept in front of her, cutting her off from the footmen.
“I shall do the honors,” she informed the men with a gracious smile. She seated herself in the center of the sofa, arra
nging her skirts around her.
Althea was left with nothing to do but step back as gracefully as she could, hoping no one had noticed. Giles gave her a questioning look, having known by previous arrangement that she was to serve the tea. She gave a short shake of her head and a brief smile.
She found a chair by a window and sat down. All the women had found companions and were chatting comfortably. Lady Stanton-Lewis poured tea, handing the cups to the footmen, who in turn brought them to each guest. Althea wondered what she would do for the next hour. She knew the men would take at least a half hour over their port. She glanced at her watch. Eleven o’-clock. How she longed for her bed. She adjusted the shawl around her shoulders, feeling the slight chill at that farther end of the room. Then she clasped her hands on her lap, prepared to sit it out.
“Excuse me, miss.” Startled, she looked up to find Harry at her elbow, holding out a cup and saucer to her.
“Oh, thank you.” Suddenly, stupidly, she had the urge to cry. She took the cup and saucer from him, the cup clattering ominously against the saucer. She gripped them both firmly in her hands and set them carefully in her lap. “Harry—”
He smiled attentively. “Yes, miss?”
“Please send my compliments down to the staff. Tell them…tell them I’m very proud of each and every one of them.”
His smile widened. “We pulled it off, didn’t we.”
She nodded, returning his smile.
She took a sip of tea, welcoming its warmth. She glanced at the ormolu clock over the mantelpiece, comparing it to her own timepiece. They were the same. Only two minutes had passed since her previous glance. She took another sip of tea. She wished she’d brought her sewing. She had not wanted to be here tonight; she had known it would be bad, but not quite this bad. Not one of these women talked to her; they didn’t even look at her. Like a battlement, they were seated around the tea table in a semicircle, giving the intruder no chance to penetrate their midst.
Was it because of her religion? Were they reacting as the servants had? Or was it worse? Did they remember her from her first entry into society, and now wondered what she was doing working as a governess? Whatever the reasons, she felt as out of place now as she had then.
Her gloved hands touched the gauzy overlay of her sister-in-law’s evening dress. What had looked so attractive at the start of the evening now seemed ludicrous. Her vanity had gotten the better of her common sense. She should be sitting here in her gray—what had Mr. Aguilar called it?—governess garb. It would certainly fit her role among these women more appropriately. This dress took her back ages ago to her first London Season.
Her guardian had purchased for her an entire wardrobe for the occasion. The most expensive silks and velvets, a whole ensemble of morning gowns, riding outfits, tea gowns, evening dresses, with matching shoes and bonnets, shawls and capes, as if he were trying to make up for a decade of paternal neglect.
But it had all ended before it had ever begun. In one evening, her world had been turned topsy-turvy, as Lord Caulfield, her guardian up until then, revealed to her that in truth he was her father. All those years since her infancy, when she’d been raised as his ward, she had been his offspring, the result of an entanglement of his on the Continent.
When she had asked why he’d picked the moment of her coming out to reveal the truth, she had discovered that although his timing might leave something to be desired, his motives were good. He’d told her he wanted to encourage her at the start of her Season in London. To know that she was a true Caulfield and not some ignominious ward of obscure French parentage should give her cause to hold her head tall among the ton.
It had had the reverse effect upon Althea. In a world where family name reigned supreme, suddenly Althea’s foggy if respectable origins were delineated with damning clarity. Who would welcome the illegitimate child of Lord Caulfield, when he himself was not ready to acknowledge the connection publicly? The marquess might be pardoned his indiscretion—a man of his station and wealth could pretty much get away with anything. But who was she? On her mother’s side, she was nothing—no, worse than nothing—the daughter of a French opera singer, she discovered when she finally managed to extract the whole sordid tale from her father.
Thus, Althea’s first Season had gone from high expectation to horrible nightmare, as she struggled to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She had sat it out on the edges of ballrooms and drawing rooms, saying as little as possible, waiting for some gossip to discover her secret, feeling a fraud every time she was presented as Lord Caulfield’s ward, but too scared to deny it, and too afraid that by one careless word or gesture she would betray her less than noble origins.
For two Seasons she had survived that way, saying little, remaining obscure and unnoticed. Much as tonight, she could have been part of the wallpaper for all the notice she had garnered.
Until this evening, she had left all that behind. Why had the Lord brought her back to this arena where she didn’t belong?
Althea glanced at the women before her. Didn’t she belong? The still small voice of God’s spirit asked her. Weren’t they all the same as she had been? Sinners in need of redemption? The women gathered in the drawing room were treated differently and treated others differently merely because of their birth and fortune. Hadn’t the Lord given Althea a treasure infinitely more lasting and more precious—that of His everlasting salvation? She might be illegitimate, but hadn’t the Lord purchased an eternal legitimacy for her?
Althea flinched from the bombardment of questions. She closed her eyes and repented of her old fears of not belonging. She could feel her Savior’s love enveloping her as she bowed her head, and she felt ashamed for letting her past overwhelm her for an instant. It was dead and buried.
A moment later, strengthened and reassured, she began looking at the women. Each was involved in an animated conversation. Some took out needlework, others snapped open fans, all the while talking and sipping tea.
Each woman seemed to have found her niche with one or two others, chatting comfortably and naturally, embroidery hoops mere accoutrements to the more essential business of verbal communication. What could each one be saying? Althea was too removed to catch more than a word or two; mostly she watched their lips moving. She closed her eyes briefly, letting the ebb and flow of female voices wash over and around her, never stopping, but punctuated by the clink of silver spoons against china like the cries of far-off gulls over the never silent sea.
In the midst of this reverie she felt the voice of the Lord coming up from deep in her heart, telling her to pray for each of the ladies. Slowly she reopened her eyes, focusing on the first one to cross her line of vision. The woman was an attractive, dark-haired lady, no longer so young, perhaps in her forties, but well preserved and elegantly attired in a white satin brocaded with gold. Althea began praying for her, not knowing anything about her; she prayed that the Lord would make His Son real to her. As she prayed a deep sadness filled her, and she sensed that the Lord was showing her something about this woman. The woman was looking at her companion and nodding from time to time in agreement, nothing externally suggesting sadness, yet the feeling persisted in Althea. She continued praying, her silent prayer becoming more fervent, and she wished she were in the privacy of her room to pour out her heart to God.
When she sensed the prayer was over, Althea’s gaze passed over the women again. This time the Lord’s spirit prompted her to pray for a younger woman. This one had a livelier demeanor and was leading in the conversation. Here Althea began to sense fear. Again, nothing in her countenance demonstrated it, but Althea felt the Lord’s spirit reveal it to her. She remembered seeing the lady’s husband at the dinner table—a young, handsome man. Althea sensed in her spirit that the fear had something to do with him. Perhaps it was a fear of losing him, and little did she realize that the more she tried to engage him, the more he eluded her. Althea felt a deep compassion well up in her, and prayed for guidance for the woman.
Althea continued praying for her until she felt God’s peace. Then she moved on to another woman. She prayed for each of the seven women gathered there, each time receiving a brief glimpse of something hidden from the natural eye. She ended with Lady Stanton-Lewis presiding at the tea table. The woman looked as beautiful as when Althea had seen her for the first time, ten years ago. Golden, fashionably short curls framed her face, silver leaves set like a victor’s crown above them. Her skin was flawless, all cream and rose, her dress emerald satin slashed with silver. The neckline plunged from her shoulders to the point of the gown’s high waist. Outwardly she was a vision of perfection.
Yet when Althea began to pray for her, she sensed danger and evil. She didn’t know whether it emanated from the woman or went against her, but she felt a warning.
Lord, whatever it is, please prevent it. Let whoever is involved realize the danger in time, and seek Your protection. Let them know You as refuge and fortress, trusting in You to deliver them from the snare of the fowler and from the noisome pestilence.
She continued praying, sensing in the woman fear as well. This woman, for all her position in society, feared losing it to a rival. Althea realized she was continually on the lookout for any new rival to her place in society, and every word she spoke, every event she attended, was carefully calculated to assure her continued place of prominence. Althea wondered how tonight’s dinner played in those schemes. She remembered Simon’s request that he be seated beside Lady Stanton-Lewis, the only preference he had shown toward any of the guests. Althea knew the woman’s husband was of an old, moneyed, Tory family. Perhaps Simon was looking for his influence and backing?
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