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In the meantime, John reached for the nearby oilcloth sack and held it with the drawstring top open.
“This process is far more time-consuming than it needs to be,” Reina remarked, dropping the wet napkin inside. “Did you know that most mothers have to make baby napkins themselves?”
“No, I didn’t,” he admitted, cinching the bag shut.
“Think of how long it takes to shop for bolts of toweling and muslin, measure and cut the pieces, hem the edges . . .” Reina pulled down the baby’s linen shirt and wrapper, and bundled him in a soft cashmere shawl. “If there’s a manufacturer that produces ready-made baby napkins, I’m going to invest in it immediately. If not, I intend to do some market research and cost analysis, find a textile mill that already makes diaper cloth”—she picked up Benjamin and exclaimed, “All dry and snug now!” before continuing—“and see about forming a business partnership—” She broke off as she saw the dance of laughter in his eyes. “What’s so amusing?”
“The way your mind operates,” John said, leaning over to place the diapering supplies back into the pail.
He rose to his feet in a supple movement and reached down to Reina. One hand cupped securely beneath her elbow, while the other went behind her back. He lifted her with ease, keeping her supported until she was on her feet. She didn’t step back, only stood there in an almost-embrace with the baby between them.
John stared down at Benjamin with a veiled tenderness that reminded Reina of when he’d carried Tuppence to her room after the surgery. “Not a cry from you, cân dy fam,” he said softly. “Such a good lad you are.” He touched the miniature arm and fist and felt Benjamin’s fingers grasping at his thumb. “And strong too; solid as a Welsh cob, you’ll be.”
“What did you call him?” Reina asked.
“An endearment, it was.” He hesitated before translating, “‘Mother’s song.’ ”
She stared up at him in wonder . . . this shrewd, tough Welshman with poetry woven through his everyday words.
But her brain reminded her that he’d deceived her in some way. She couldn’t risk trusting him, now that she was no longer making decisions just for herself. The baby needed her protection, her good judgment.
Her heart was hardening into glass inside her chest and soon would no longer be able to do the things a heart was supposed to do.
Reina was mortified to hear herself blurt out, “Mr. Farlow proposed to me.”
She had no idea why she was telling him or how she wanted him to react.
The softness left John’s face. His eyes were alert. “How did you reply?” he asked with unsettling calmness.
“I didn’t. He . . . he wants me to consider it.”
John stood there with one arm still around her, his other hand lightly curved around her upper arm. It seemed he was thinking something over, something that gave him no pleasure. His only movement was the slow but restless stroke of his thumb near the inside of her elbow—he didn’t seem to be aware of it.
“I’ll need you to set aside some time tomorrow,” he eventually said, “so we can speak in private.”
That wasn’t the usual way he spoke to her. It wasn’t commanding, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t deferential.
He let go, and the places he’d been touching her instantly turned colder than the rest.
“Let’s talk now,” Reina said, amazed at how ordinary her voice sounded, despite the anxiety throbbing all through her. “You can close the door. No one will bother us.”
John shook his head. “We’ll wait until tomorrow. Today belongs to Tuppence.”
***
A recent article in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, “Woman as a Waiting Animal,” had perfectly described women’s annoyance at having their time constantly wasted by everyone. They were always put at the back of the line, or the side of the counter, or the corner of the room. It happened whether one went to the bank, grocer’s, dry goods shop, post office, or doctor. Women had to keep dinner warm for husbands who might stop on the way home for a casual conversation at a club or tavern. The assumption that a woman’s time was of no value was perpetuated even by other women. Shopgirls, for example, always assisted male customers first, and then dawdled with their female customers.
For Reina, who had once calculated that women generally spent three times as long as men having to wait for things, it was increasingly hard to summon patience. Lost money could be replenished; lost time was gone forever. She understood that more now than ever before.
From her own childhood, Reina remembered the strong, unanswered desire to have more time with either of her parents. Real time, instead of benign neglect—although she couldn’t say exactly what would have come of it. But she thought it might have made her feel less like a ghost at the window.
It would be different for Benjamin. He would have her time and interest, which meant she could no longer allow it to be squandered by other people.
She spent the afternoon with the baby, walking from room to room with him and eventually taking him up to her bedroom. At some point, Alan popped out of a cat door and fell into step with them, panting happily.
Reina felt like the tour guide to her own life. This is our house, our rooms, our windows that give us a view of outside. Soon we’ll start going out there together—she needed to buy one of those handcarts for babies—perambulator?—and we’ll have a look at the world. Alan will have to come with us, won’t he? The world is full of surprises: We meet someone new and somehow end up with a baby and a dog.
From this peculiar new vantage, Reina realized she’d always thought of people rather like books on a shelf: to be taken out, enjoyed, and then put back again. She wouldn’t be able to do that with this boy.
