An awkward silence settles on the guests and their hosts. In it, Stefán and Margrét take stock of the baby’s future. In what kind of household will this child be raised? What might he report to Elísabet that will ease her mind? And who, exactly, has Koldís Ingólfsdóttir become?
Margrét has never been surrounded by so great a quantity of wood. And there are so many things made from wood in this country. Her eyes rove to a writing table, an occasional table, a screen, a round table, chairs and the sofa upon which she now uncomfortably sits. How heavy it all makes a place. There are, well, things everywhere. Objects crowd the mantelpiece. There are cloths on tables, brackets tipping with china. Collectors of dust.
Stefán and Margrét offer Jonesy a grateful nod for the steaming coffee.
Upon yesterday’s arrival, the claustrophobic, filthy London streets and the number of people in them quickly overwhelmed Margrét. There seem to be more people in one street than in all of Iceland. And now, in the weary midnight hour, this woman who has not even asked the name of her sister’s child, is clearly concerned only with herself, and would try to steal their attention over that of the baby’s. Margrét cannot hold silent.
‘Would you like to know the name of the child?’ she asks in Icelandic. ‘Would you like to know its sex?’
Clovis hesitates and casts a glance at the judgemental faces that stare at her. Damnation. She must repair this.
‘You read my thoughts exactly! I have been itching to know.’
‘His name is Rafe,’ Margrét says quite sternly, mixing the languages.
‘It is Rafe Fowler now.’ Clovis meets the woman’s glare.
It is for Stefán to quash the potential storm brewing between the two women. Clovis’s husband looks amused, which does not make their departure any easier. Their journey, the planning, and the resources used to deliver the child safely have clearly not been considered by these two Fowlers. Stefán stands and retrieves an envelope from his jacket and places it on top of the round table. Immune to Clovis’s beauty and her trap of a smile, and not at all interested in her husband’s thoughts, he delivers final instructions with a bare disregard of convention.
‘You will keep the boy safe and healthy. His education is primary. If he develops any unusual aspects or habits, or displays any physical abnormalities you must contact our emissary immediately. A man named Benedikt will be looking after you. But you must only communicate with him as he directs.’
‘What a lot of mystery there.’ Finn finally speaks.
Stefán ignores him.
‘If anyone else takes an interest in the boy – strangers asking questions, that sort of thing, stay out of their company and report it. Be detailed. You are being paid for such information.’ He nods towards the envelope that contains a great deal of money.
‘If you are involved in any illegal business, it must stop.’ He registers Finn’s glare. ‘Well, you do not think that I believe this house, its furnishings, the two servants, and the gown your wife wears is a result of the sale of a few clocks, do you? Your decoration is paired with an income that does not match it by any other means. A vital part of our agreement is that you raise no questions, court no trouble.’
‘Sir, I can assure you that …’ Clovis starts.
‘I think we have some right to know why this child needs such special protection and why Elísabet cannot raise it herself,’ Finn says.
‘No, you do not have a right. If there comes a time when you need to know, you will be informed.’ Stefán hesitates. ‘Honestly, we do not yet know all the answers ourselves. Your servants, they must honour our demands for secrecy.’
‘Sir, I give you my word. You have no worry there.’ Finn feels he must be heard and acknowledged.
Stefán nods, but will not make eye contact with this man, who has behaved so dishonourably in the past.
Clovis studies Stefán more closely. It is futile to probe him any longer about the baby, but perhaps she can learn more about him.
‘My goodness. We do not even know your name, sir.’
Again, Stefán catches the tone, the insincerity.
‘Come Margrét, it is time. We must go.’
His abruptness does not phase Clovis. While Margrét approaches the cradle for one last glance at the boy, Clovis edges closer to Stefán.
‘Does my sister send any message for me?’
‘None.’
She nods, a smug half-smile spreads across her face.
‘Do you have any message for her?’ he asks.
‘None.’
‘Well, there is this.’ Margrét says as she opens a bag made of dyed and untreated seal skin. Sewn with overlapping seams to keep it watertight for their journey, its contents are precious. Margrét lays a number of folded knitted items on the table beside the envelope. She then carefully removes a delicate piece of linen and lace that is clearly a christening gown.
‘Your sister’s hands. The lacework, the embroidery – all the white work is hers. Her wish is that he be christened.’ She reverts to Icelandic as she speaks.
Then Margrét takes one last item from the bag.
‘Rafe is to be fed dúsa from this spoon. Meat, fish and butter.’
‘Ah. Their marriage spoon.’ Clovis, toneless, barely glances at it.
‘Rafe is accustomed to dúsa from this spoon. He will soon grow out of the clothes and the boots, the mittens and caps. But he will always have the spoon. Your sister might find some comfort that he has it and requests that you keep it safe.’
Stefán places a hand on Margrét’s shoulder. ‘We must go now.’
Margrét nods and then fastens the silver buttons of her outer jacket. Her hands begin to shake when she picks up her cap, the
