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June scoffed at the comparison. “Cooking is a scientifical art, but babies is just changing diaper-napkins and feeding and washing, over and over again.”
Reina’s lips quirked, but she didn’t bother arguing.
“What are you going to name him?” June asked.
“I have no idea. Nothing I’ve come up with seems right so far. Do you have suggestions?”
“Not off the top o’ me head.”
“Tell me if you think of something.” Reina paused and gave her a guarded look before adding, “I’ve decided his surname will be Martin. So no one will question his connection to me.”
June nodded, mulling that over. “It’s a big change, Queenie,” she said. “You take this on, and there’s paths in life you won’t never be able to take.”
“Yes. Every choice does that.” Reina shrugged. “It reminds me of the woodreeve we used to watch in Hyde Park, when he pruned the trees—”
“The what? Who?”
“The man with the tall ladder who sawed off limbs and branches.”
June had only a vague recollection of that.
“We thought he was hurting the trees,” Reina continued, “but he said no, just the opposite. Thinning the branches let more sun in and helped what was left grow stronger.”
Ivonne emerged from the bedroom in a fresh shirtwaist and pinafore. After they exchanged a few words in Spanish, Reina transferred the infant to Ivonne’s arms. “I offered to look after him while Ivonne has lunch,” she told June, “but she says the baby will sleep in his basket while she eats.”
“What about your lunch?” June asked. “Want me to send up a tray?”
“Yes, in a little while. First I’m going to change out of this mourning dress.” Reina hesitated. “What do you think about taking down the black crepe from the mirrors and windows? Should we leave it up longer, or—”
“Down,” June said emphatically. “All of it. Bugger the mourning rituals. It ain’t right to turn Tuppence into months of gloom.”
After Reina left the nursery, Ivonne settled the baby in a hooded woven basket with handles.
“Can I carry him for yer?” June asked, gesturing with her arms.
Ivonne smiled and shook her head. She lifted the baby’s basket by the handles and followed June to the kitchen, where Mr. Pembroke had gathered with the rest of the servants.
After a few admiring exclamations at the sight of the baby—“Stout little bullpup”—“Plumpin’ up like a Christmas goose!”—“A first-rater, he is”—they all settled down to eat.
Ivonne set the baby’s basket on the floor and draped a shawl over the hood to shelter him from noise and light. She sat in the chair to Mr. Pembroke’s right, as he was by far the best at understanding her. When June had asked him about his knack for figuring out Ivonne’s Spanish-talk, he’d said something puzzling about knowing Latin and words having “roots.”
Belinda stared at the baby’s basket with great interest. “Mr. Pembroke, can you ask Ivonne what’s that little black seashell hanging off the basket?”
Obligingly Mr. Pembroke leaned down and touched an amulet of carved jet stone set in silver and tied to one of the handles. “Ivonne, qué es?” He listened intently to her explanation, trying to pick out words he understood. “Bad . . . eye . . . Evil eye?”
“Sí, sí . . .”
More back-and-forth discussion followed, while Ivonne gestured to various decorations: a small medallion of the Virgin Mary, a rosary of wooden beads, and red ribbon woven through the wicker border.
Eventually Mr. Pembroke turned back to Belinda and said, “They’re all for protection and luck. The amulet with the black stone—”
“Azabache,” Ivonne said helpfully.
“Azabache,” Pembroke continued, “wards against the evil eye.” At Belinda’s puzzled expression, he explained, “The evil eye is something negative, bad luck, anything that might harm the baby.”
“Why’s it carved like a seashell?” Belinda asked.
Understanding the question, Ivonne put the heels of her hands together. She closed them as if they were the shells of a scallop keeping the tender creature inside safe.
