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As Reina left the kitchen, she heard the sound of Ivonne’s voice coming from the nursery. She went to investigate and found Ivonne preparing to give Benjamin a bath. “May I help?” she asked in Spanish.
“Of course, señora.” The young woman smiled, but she looked tired and strained.
Reina looked over her with concern. “Have you had a chance to rest since this morning?”
“Not very much,” Ivonne admitted. “Benjamin had a short nap and has been fed, but he’s fretful. I thought a bath might help to soothe him.”
“Poor little bear,” Reina murmured, gathering up the baby and clicking her tongue softly. “Of course he’s fretful—I think we’ve all been out of sorts after having to deal with those despicable swine.”
Ivonne finished setting out supplies on the nursery table, next to the enamel bath basin. The girl’s stoical surface had been worn down to reveal a layer of melancholy. Reina knew she was haunted by the question of what had happened to her husband. Despite the efforts of the Sociedad and the police, there had been no sign of him yet, and each day that passed made it less likely he would be found.
“I know you’re worried about Pedro,” Reina said quietly.
“He’s been missing for six weeks.” Ivonne blotted her eyes with a washcloth. “I know he would have come to find me by now, if he were able.” Her watery gaze went to the wooden crucifix she’d hung on the wall opposite the door. “Don Ramón said if they don’t find Pedro in another two weeks, he’s either dead or he decided to abandon me.”
Reina made a little sound of annoyance in her throat. Knowing Don Ramón, he had probably meant well, but when it came to discussing highly emotional matters, he had all the delicacy and tact of an ox.
“Right after you came here, Ivonne, Señor Pembroke asked an acquaintance of his to help search for Pedro. This man runs a special branch of the Metropolitan Police—they use scientific methods in their investigations. They have more resources than regular police. It’s too soon to give up hope.”
The girl blew her nose and let out a sigh.
“In the meantime,” Reina said, “you must stay strong and take care of yourself, the way Pedro would want. Have you had lunch today? No? Well, then, I’ll bathe Benjamin and take him upstairs with me, while you go to the kitchen larder and find something to eat. June always keeps nice things in there—boiled eggs, pie, pudding—after that, lie down and have a nap. Things will seem better when you wake up.”
“Señora . . . what if the worst happens?”
“Then you’re in the right place,” Reina said gently. “We’ve all had the worst happen. Even little Benjamin. We’re all here to take care of each other.”
***
By the time Reina had bathed the baby and brought him upstairs to the parlor, Norman reappeared, bringing a tray with afternoon tea and a plate of toast and jam.
Having become accustomed to June’s usual teatime offering of tiny clever sandwiches or scones with sweet, clotted cream, a piece of toast came off somewhat the worse by comparison.
“Thank you, Mr. Goodluck,” she said as he set the tray on the low table in front of her, along with a folded copy of the Pall Mall Gazette’s evening edition.
Reina occupied a corner of the settee with Benjamin settled comfortably in the crook of one arm. “How is June? I hope she’s not ill?”
“No, ma’am. She regrets not having time to do a proper tea and is now busy preparing a cold supper.”
How odd. Everything seemed so off-kilter at the moment. “Why didn’t Pembroke bring up my tray?”
“He left a few minutes ago, ma’am, to visit the wine merchant.”
“What? Without so much as a word to me? Why would he do that?”
“Mr. Pembroke said the wine cellar inventory is out of date, and he felt it necessary to discuss the issue with a professional at once.”
“How can a wine cellar be out of date?” Reina demanded.
“According to Mr. Pembroke, we have far, far too many fortified wines. In recent years, the demand has increased for French table wines as well as certain German whites—and we also have a concerning deficiency of champagne, which—”
“Out with it, Mr. Goodluck! Where is Pembroke, and what is he doing? I’ll bet bonds to brickbats it has precisely nothing to do with blasted wine.”
“Ma’am . . . I’m not in a position to speculate . . .”
“Did he discuss Benjamin with you? Did he mention the Kingsleys? What’s he going to do about the situation?”
“I really can’t say, ma’am.”
