‘Why?’
‘We have no family here, Mrs Fitzgerald. You are known for your good deeds, and you have experienced loss, which transforms a person, does it not … to the sort of person who cherishes life.’
‘Be very careful, Mrs Fowler,’ Constance warns.
Verity catches Constance’s eye and then lifts her chin slightly to indicate, let me handle this.
‘Mrs Fowler.’ Verity slowly makes her way around the sofa to stand before the woman who seems to have an unending supply of gall.
‘What do you consider to be the role of the godparent?’
‘After their participation in the baptism, to be present and active in the matters of the well-being of the child.’ Clovis has rehearsed.
‘Because …’ Verity interjects before Clovis can continue. ‘My sister and I, well, we are Catholic. We have been Catholic all our lives. Catholic when it was dangerous and illegal, and Catholic when it was thought vile to be so, and Catholic still, in the face of prejudice. In that light, we would consider such a relationship with your son to be a spiritual kinship.’
‘Yes …’
‘And,’ Verity quickly continues. ‘My sister and I, we are not your friends, we are hardly acquaintances. So, Mrs Fowler, that could only mean that we are the richest women you do not know, whom you would like to know. And you would use your son to make it so. Would that not be uncomfortable for you?’
Cloves raises her eyebrows and shakes her head no.
An oval-backed armchair sits forlornly in the corner by the shelving. Constance drags it close to the settee in front of Clovis. Still the woman does not blink! Constance sits with her back shooting straight up like a proud tree and speaks so softly that Clovis must lean forward.
‘Do not think us foolish, Mrs Fowler. Do not think you know our sorrow. Do not think you can play upon it.’
Clovis does not flinch. Then there is a change. A tear forms and drops. Her face transforms with embarrassment. A vulnerable smile in way of an apology is offered. Then she folds the blanket back until the baby’s soft tufts of ginger hair appear. She keeps her gaze on the child as she speaks.
‘I do not think that at all, Mrs Fitzgerald. I assure you. I am sorry if I have given you that impression. It is only the child I think of. Mr Fowler and I know of none better than yourselves. I lost my mother when I was very young and know what it is to need the guidance and comfort of a female. I would wish for my son to have such influence …’ She raises her head. ‘Your influence, should anything terrible befall me. This world is so unpredictable and … well, there is no one else.’ Clovis believes this. For if there were danger enough in the air, the kind for which Elísabet would give up her son, then Clovis is truly alone.
The sisters, despite the tinge of threat in their manner, are thawing. They detect a genuine note in the woman’s plea and exchange a glance when they hear it. Neither have dared study the boy. They cannot allow themselves to look too closely.
‘What about the Mocketts?’ Verity asks. ‘They are younger, more suited.’
‘And they have always wished for a child,’ Constance adds.
‘Have they? I did not know.’ Clovis lies effortlessly and offers no more conversation on that topic as she now turns the baby to face Constance and Verity, positioning him on her lap.
Tiny patches of eyebrows furrow as he stares first at Constance and then turns his focus to Verity. Something not unlike a smile forms on his face, and a noise that the sisters will later swear was a giggle erupts, along with a feisty punch into the air.
Clovis summons a demure flutter of her eyes to both sisters. Inside, she is reeling with joy. How well the boy has performed, and so innocently, completely unaware of the enchantment he casts. These two old women are besotted. The answer is not yet secure, but she is certain they are seduced.
‘I have overstayed my welcome. I will take no more of your time. Mr Fowler and I can only hope that you will consider our invitation. I thank you for your attention and your hospitality at my interruption.’
Clovis then makes a show of overcoming the dilemma of rising from the sofa with the baby in her hands. Constance reaches out for him. It is a natural reflex and Verity’s hands open too, welcoming the child like a treasure, a delicate golden treasure.
‘Oh thank you. If you don’t mind holding him for a moment while I …’
‘What do you call him?’ Constance asks.
‘Rafe.’
‘Rafe,’ Constance and Verity repeat together.
They are falling … falling … falling …
‘You will have our decision in a few days, Mrs Fowler.’
After Clovis departs, the sisters return to their private parlour.
‘I think there is nothing more comforting than a good fire. Do you agree, sister?’ Verity asks.
‘Hmm, yes.’
‘We’re going to do it aren’t we?’
‘Yes. Yes, we are, sister.’
They sit quietly for some time, each with the single thought of this extraordinary invitation and all that it implies, turning it over and over, examining it for its consequences. For an hour or more they lose track of time and every now and then glance at each other with an intimacy that requires no words. They share the same thoughts, the thoughts of a child in their lives again after a long emptiness.
The stubborn wind does not find its calm and creates a song, a swirling melody. Bertie comes bursting through the parlour door, her face the hue of a bright plum from her beer and she shakes her head in wonderment.
‘Blessed Mother of Christ. What is this night like then?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Her small stomach swelling by the minute with buns and marmalade, Willa stumbles over the question
