replaced the pen in its stand. The long, almost bony, fingers pushed through the dark, thick curls, leaving them in more disarray than before. “Because, Miss Breton, as should be obvious to you, I would prefer my daughter not realize she is so sick as to need a nurse.”
Althea bit her lip at her obtuseness.
He continued in a slightly more civil tone. “Besides, it is not the norm to have a young lady of noble birth working in one’s household as a nurse. Governess would seem to excite less curiosity. It has a certain veneer of respectability to it. A nurse usually hails from the lowest dregs of society…at least, that has been my experience up until recently,” he muttered, looking down at his papers once more.
He took up his pen, as something caught his eye on the page before him. He made another notation. Althea continued observing him, trying to reconcile his appearance and manner with the preconceptions she had of his people.
“What is it?”
She felt the blood rise in her cheeks, wishing for the first time in her life that she had more freckles to hide her heightened color. “N-nothing.”
“You find me interesting to look at?”
“No…not at all.”
“Does my Jewish heritage intrigue you?”
She started at his perception. After a few seconds she nodded.
“I expect your brother informed you of my conversion to the Church.” His lips curled sardonically. “But I imagine you, as most, assume it was only skin deep—”
He rolled the pen between his fingers.
Her eyes were fixed on the motion.
“You are correct in your supposition that it was a conversion in name only. Indispensable, you understand, for my entry into Parliament.”
He plucked at the dark sleeve of his jacket. “The marks of generations of Jewry cannot be so easily effaced, can they? Once a Jew, always a Jew—isn’t that what you think?” She stared at him, disconcerted by the frank admission of the purely materialistic rationale for his conversion.
“Tell me, my curiosity is piqued, did I meet all of your expectations? What did you come here expecting to see? An old man hunched over in a moldering coat, counting out his coin? Fangs, perhaps? A gross deformity? After all, we are the Jesus killers, are we not?”
He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer. “Well, Miss Breton, I can assure you, you shall be perfectly safe under my roof. I have managed to control the baser instincts of my race under this semblance of the gentleman you see before you.” He leaned back in his chair, his dark gaze assessing her, making her feel as if she were the one at fault.
She found herself struggling to meet that gaze, which seemed to see beyond her pious garb and acts of mercy, to something deep within her of which even she was unaware. This was ridiculous, she told herself. She had nothing to reproach herself for; she had seen firsthand what those moneylenders had accomplished with their extortionary techniques.
Deciding she would merely ignore his words, just as he had so many of her own, she asked, “What precisely are you looking for in a nurse?”
He looked at her as if trying to explain something to an imbecile. “Miss Breton, I am frequently not at home. I need someone I can trust with my child. I need someone to take care of her as if she were her own. I realize that may be difficult for a childless woman, much less a hired one, to comprehend, but nevertheless that is what I require. That is what Rebecca needs.” He sighed, raking a hand through his hair, a gesture Althea was coming to recognize as expressing his impatience with having to explain things to people of less astuteness or intelligence.
He gave her another assessing look. “I don’t expect you to understand this. I only agreed to this interview because your brother spoke so glowingly of your abilities. Quite frankly, I must admit my doubt.”
“I see,” she said, bowing her head and looking down at her tightly clasped hands, their firmness belying her inner trembling. She did not know what she had expected from this interview, but certainly not the doubt, much less the downright hostility, in the man before her. All at once it occurred to her that she had come harboring those very same sentiments, yet had felt perfectly justified in holding them. The realization piqued her conscience. For a split second she experienced the clarity of God’s spirit touching something within her. It was like a door opening upon an unused room, letting in a shaft of light. One could choose to shut the door, or allow it to open farther and flood the area. The latter way held an element of risk.
What had she expected from Mr. Aguilar? the still, small voice of the Spirit asked her. Gratitude for her condescending to leave her present position and come to his aid?
Her life was not her own. It hadn’t been for the past eight years. Whether she came into this household as a nurse was not up to her, nor even up to Simon Aguilar, she thought, looking up at the man seated behind the desk.
All she needed to know was whether her Lord and Savior Jesus was directing her to this household. Whether He was making her give up everything familiar, everything fulfilling—her very life’s work—for a season—a season of unknown duration—to come and serve in this household was not the issue.
She met Simon Aguilar’s gaze full on. “I can only say, give me a trial—whatever length you deem sufficient—a week, a fortnight—to satisfy yourself. I can only promise to do my best, by God’s grace, to help your daughter Rebecca in any way I can.”
Althea left, exhausted from the ordeal. She felt confused, deflated…downright terrified. How could the Lord possibly want her in the employ of one so irreverent and antagonistic of everything she believed in? She looked around at the neighborhood as she left the pale-blue stucco mansion on Green Street. Even the neighborhood contradicted all she’d given her life to in the past six years. Mayfair was as far from her present residence in Whitechapel as London from Bombay. She gave one last look down the street, taking in the black-painted, wrought-iron fences and neat tree-lined sidewalks as she mounted the coach. Before her ride was over, they would give way to the dirty, dilapidated buildings and muddy streets of the East End.
It took Simon a good quarter of an hour after Miss Breton’s departure to return to editing his speech on the repeal of the Corn Laws. It wasn’t every day the rank and file got the opportunity to address the ministers on the treasury bench, that coveted first row in the House of Commons. Backbenchers must stand awkwardly wedged between the tiered rows, clutching their notes but forbidden to read from them. Simon, gifted with oratory skills, relished the moment. After seven years in the House, he’d advanced from the top tier to the bench just behind the treasury bench, where Liverpool and all his cabinet lounged. He promised silently that he would make them sit up and pay attention.
But now the speech he had written in the wee hours of the previous night lay before him untouched as he thought about the woman he’d just interviewed. Simon twirled his quill between his fingertips more than once, his thoughts straying from the quotas and price fluctuations in imported and domestic wheat to the young lady who claimed to be a nurse.
Something more important than his career or the affordability of grain was at stake at the moment: his daughter’s well-being.
Very few things took precedence over his political career and the affairs of state. In fact, they were the only things he was passionate about. Simon had come to the conclusion long ago that he was in essence a cold-hearted, calculating
