Clovis flees to Fore Street in a night that has turned damp and threatening. In a gust of wind the baby’s white blanket leaves a tail that skims along behind her. She pauses for a brief moment when she hears footfall on the slick pavement. From the corner of her eye she recognizes the figure that follows her every step these days. Unlike her, he does not breath heavily. Well, follow me if you wish, even if it may be to hell, she thinks, and fleetingly wonders at Benedikt’s commitment.
She is on the move again. Though it appears that she speaks to the fog in front of her, her words are meant for the man at her heels.
‘I go to the sisters Fitzgerald.’
No response.
‘I must tell them about you. It will be unavoidable if you want to be informed of the boy’s progress.’
Still nothing.
‘We will need a great deal of money or else we will hang. Tell Iceland I will not be deported. I will take my own life first.’
Clovis picks up her pace again, as does Benedikt.
When she reaches Fore Street she pauses once more.
‘He will be safe here.’
She then turns to face him but he has already melded into the indefatigable fog.
It is three o’clock in the morning, a sombre hour to be alone on any London street. Clovis has no torch or protection now that Bendikt has disappeared again. She expects to wake the entire street when she beats on the Fitzgerald sisters’ door but is taken aback when it opens immediately.
In spite of Clovis’s mission, her astonishment tumbles out. ‘I find you awake?’
The house is alive with brilliant light suffusing the hallway, where both sisters stand bathed in a pale, yellow glow. They are all sleeves, large gigot sleeves of matching black gowns with broad, white collars. Clovis wonders if a ritual is performed in this house tonight. A violin’s melancholic tune continues, despite her interruption. The sisters’ faces are warm from cognac, their breathing heavy from dancing to the violin’s song.
‘We do not follow rules of day and night. And you?’ Constance asks.
Clovis summons her nerve, a different sort than she has relied upon in the past. For a woman about to be charged, she displays a remarkable presence of mind.
‘A great emergency has occurred. May I be admitted?’
Constance opens the door wider for her to enter.
‘There has been a grave error … A terrible misunderstanding … A mistake has been made.’ Clovis clenches her jaw for stumbling, for sounding needy.
With a furrowed brow Constance looks to the baby, then to Clovis. ‘What is it that brings you out at this hour? What would encourage you to endanger your child in this way?’
Clovis ignores the admonishment. ‘I have little time to tell you. My entire household is arrested. I have absconded with the boy for his safety. I plead with you ladies, who are to be his godparents, that you look after him until I return. And return I will, rest assured of that. These charges … they are unfounded.’
Verity has hold of Constance’s arm in such a tight squeeze that Constance winces and gently removes it.
The three women stand like statues, each filling up with past regrets and wild thoughts of the future. Verity makes a low choking noise and turns her head away.
A child. A boy.
‘Well.’ Constance finds her voice. ‘It is a great responsibility.’
‘I do not have the luxury of time. You must take him this very moment, or I will find another solution.’
‘Yes,’ Constance says. ‘We will have him.’
Verity nods in agreement.
‘I ask that you visit Mr Mockett. Please,’ Clovis adds. ‘Ask him to watch over our home.’
‘As you wish,’ Constance agrees.
‘There is something else. There is a man. He …’ Clovis has not had time to think this through, nor time to concoct an explanation for Benedikt’s presence. ‘He acts for us as a … protector. The baby’s protector. He will come and go, he will communicate with you by way of written correspondence. He may bring you word of our proceedings. You can trust him. You must trust him.’
‘How extremely odd,’ Constance says.
Clovis places the baby in Constance’s arms.
‘There is a final matter. I have no time for delicacy.’ Soon to be arrested, Clovis is still capable of picking her moment. ‘We will most likely need your help with financial burdens that may be ahead. I would not impose if …’
Constance lifts her gaze from the baby and meets her squarely. ‘You are very bold in your troubles, Mrs Fowler. But we will help where we see fit.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Fitzgerald. We will repay you, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘The boy, Mrs Fowler. Are there any instructions for the boy?’ Verity asks.
‘The boy? Oh. Yes.’ Clovis shakes her head, as if she has just remembered Rafe exists. ‘He is ready for pap and milk. His feeding has been in the Icelandic way until now. There has been no time to collect his clothes.’
‘We will see to it all tomorrow.’
‘I must go.’
Clovis turns. She runs into the night and does not look back.
‘Extraordinary,’ Verity says. ‘She does not love this child.’
‘No, sister, she does not. She loves only herself.’
‘Why would he need a protector?’ Verity asks.
‘Curious, indeed.’ Constance sways gently with the child in her arms. ‘Carry the lamp into the kitchen, sister. We’ll feed him when he wakes.’
The evidence of Bertie’s absence from this bizarre turn of events stands upright on the kitchen table. Three empty bottles of ale it is tonight. She will be snoring in her room, her jaw slack, and her mind oblivious of the surprise to which she will wake.
Verity cuts through the bread and warms a splash of milk. Soon a slice torn of its crust turns soggy. The sisters gaze at the baby’s tiny sucking mouth, his cheeks doing their work to take nourishment. His eyes are fixed on these new adoring faces that look at him so intently.
‘Arthur. I am sorry! Do sit for a glass.’ Verity beckons to the violinist, who has been standing forgotten and ignored in the doorway.
Verity pours cognac and indicates for him to sit.
The wind has left them and blows, perhaps out to sea, maybe to the west; wherever it flies a hush is left in its wake. The boy is satisfied and struggles against sleep. He kicks a bit and his wee fingers splay. The musician drains his glass then places his chin upon his violin and picks up his bow.
It is but a hint of a melody, soft and slow, yet the sisters recognize the old tune. They look at each other with their shared pasts between them, with ‘who would have thought it’ written across their faces. Constance begins to sing hesitantly, unsure if she is still capable of it. The old man plays on and when he begins a new verse her voice reaches the baby in a whisper.
I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest
In a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow.
To the shosheen ho of the wind of the west
And the shularoo of the soft sea billow.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear.