‘He’ll want feeding in an hour.’
Stefán stops at the door.
‘For as long as Benedikt reports that the boy is well – and make no mistake, he will know – then you will be paid regularly. But if any harm befalls him, there will be no more compensation and other arrangements will be made.’
The clouds have wrung themselves dry and steam rises from the pavement. The river fog eats the shadows of the two Icelanders.
Finn stands by the table holding the envelope, which he now opens.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Let me see.’
This couple seldom share an agreeable moment these days. No sooner had the banns been read did the passion that previously directed all their actions begin to wane, and their interests split and separate like a ruined curd. They woke up one morning in their London marriage bed, exhausted from all their efforts of running from the scandal they had so famously created in Iceland. The domestication of their union did neither of them very good at all. They are best together when they are bad.
‘I told you, Finn. And this is just the beginning.’
Her eyes dance over the notes and sovereigns. In this they find common ground.
Finn tucks the envelope of money under his arm. Before he makes his way to bed, Finn takes a good long look at the baby. A stirring, a memory, and he thinks how queer and mysterious it is that a child of Elísabet, a part of her, would find its way to him.
‘Mistress?’ A bleary-eyed Willa yearning for sleep pops her head in. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘The remains of the cold joint. I’d like that and the butter. Bring them in here in a bowl. And fetch another bowl.’
Willa is sure she can hear her muscles whimpering over the sound of the second stroke of the clock. She must be up at five because she has not yet laid the morning’s fire in the kitchen.
Jonesy is still awake and hovers by the kitchen worktable.
‘You might as well help. Standing around like that for no reason. You might lay the fire for the morning. If you know how,’ Willa says to him, cross and spent.
She monitors the strange, young man as he works the fireplace. He is precise, she will give him that.
They hear the baby’s cries along with Mistress’s call to hurry it up. Quickly, Willa lays a tray with a bowl of sliced meat, the butter dish and an empty bowl.
‘Hurry, will you? He irritates me. Christ! Didn’t I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, mistress. Sorry, mistress.’
Clovis slathers a coating of butter on a slice of meat and begins chewing. There are many things about her country that she does not miss, one of which is the sour butter that was a staple of their diet. The rancid stuff never agreed with her. Upon her first taste of the sweet butter of the Irish she was a convert.
‘Willa, where are you going? Come back here. You must watch. I certainly will not do this each time he needs feeding. Jonesy, you, too.’
Clovis suddenly points her knife at her two servants, using it to punctuate her words. ‘If either of you ever disclose our secret arrangement with Iceland I’ll kill you. Both of you.’
Then she chews, exaggerating the mastication until finally she spits it out into the empty bowl. She places more food in her mouth and begins again. When she has thoroughly ground a spoon full of the moistened beef and butter, she dips the baby’s spoon so that a small amount rests on the tip.
‘Bring him over, Willa.’
Willa’s hand has been in her pocket, rubbing the back of the jade cicada. She is so distressed from her mistress’s threat and what she fears is about to take place, her fingers are sore. She does as her mistress asks.
Clovis holds him like she might a loaf of bread, loosely, with one hand under his head. She places the tip of the spoon to his pouty mouth. His cheeks move as he sucks, first slowly, then ferociously.
In an appearance of unexpected kindness, Clovis orders Willa and Jonesy to bed.
‘We can’t have you dead on your feet tomorrow. Off with you both.’
‘Thank you, mistress. I’m sure I’m very grateful.’
‘I stay, if you wish,’ Jonesy says.
Clovis looks up at him and considers. ‘Yes. You can sleep downstairs tonight near the baby. Feed him more of this when he wakes. But leave me with him for a few moments. Here. Put him back in the cradle.’
Jonesy seems adept at handling a baby, or he is doing a fine job of pretending. He is so eager to please his mistress that he bows deeply before going off to gather the makings of a pallet for the floor.
Finally, alone with the child, Clovis begins to undress him. Off come the knitted dress and the cap, which she will discard in the morning along with the others that the bristly Margrét brought. She refuses to have any further reminders of her sister in the house. The baby is quite enough. And she has just noticed after removing the cap that his hair has a pale reddish hue. She throws her head back and laughs. He squirms as her laughter fades and now she stares at him coldly.
At the beginning of their union, each month she waited, hoping for a sign that she would carry Finn’s child. She caught the look of relief on his face when no such thing occurred, though he tried to
