No one knew what name he would give the child. He had refusedto discuss it, even with his wife. Arabella had told him she liked David, but he had not said yes or no.
Baptism was normally a family ceremony, but a bishop’s child was special, and a crowd gathered around the ancient stone font in the north aisle of the nave, all wearing their warmest winter coats. The most important people in Kingsbridge were there, including Viscount Northwood, Mayor Fishwick, Alderman Hornbeam and most of the senior clergy. Many brought costly silver christening gifts: mugs, spoons, a rattle.
Elsie stood next to Kenelm, with two-year-old Stevie in her arms. On her other side was Amos, and when their shoulders touched she felt the old familiar ache of longing.
At the back of the group were Spade, his sister Kate, and Kate’s partner, Becca – the three people, thought Elsie, who were mainly responsible for Arabella’s being so well dressed.
The mood was subdued, a bit wary: no one was sure how heartily to congratulate the bishop, since he himself showed little sign of a father’s joy and pride.
The baby had a lot of dark hair. He wore a white christening gown lavishly trimmed with lace, the garment that Elsie herself had been christened in, as had her son Stevie. After today it would be carefully washed and pressed and folded away in a muslin bag for another child. That would surely be Elsie’s next, due in the New Year. She had told only a few people, not wanting to steal the limelight from her mother; but her pregnancy would soon be evident, even under discreetly draped clothing.
Kenelm was relating to Stevie more, Elsie mused during the prayers. He actually spoke to the little boy sometimes. Now that Stevie could walk and talk, Kenelm made efforts to train him: ‘Don’t put your finger in your nose, boy,’ he would say. And he gave him information. ‘That horse isn’t brown, it’s bay, look at its black legs and tail.’ She reminded herself that people had different ways of showing love.
The ceremony was not long. At the end, while Arabella held the baby, the bishop poured a trickle of water on the tiny head. The baby cried immediately and loudly – the water was cold. The bishop said: ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you...Absalom.’
There were half-muffled grunts of surprise and gasps of shock at the name. It was a strange choice. As he said the final amen, Arabella glared at him and said: ‘Absalom?’
‘The father of peace,’ said the bishop.
Well, yes, Elsie thought; in Hebrew Absalom meant father of peace – but that was not what he was known for. One of the sons of King David, Absalom had murdered his half-brother, revolted against his father, declared himself king, and died after a battle with his father’s army.
The name, Elsie realized, was a curse.
25
HORNBEAM’S GRANDSON, LITTLEJOE, reminded him of someone. Joe was two and a half, tall and confident and, in that, he resembled his grandfather; but there was something else. Hornbeam did not coo over babies as his wife and daughter did, but he studied the boy as the women fussed, and something in the babyish face tugged at his flinty heart. It was the eyes, he decided. The boy did not have Hornbeam’s eyes, which were deep-set under formidable brows that shadowed his feelings. Joe’s eyes were blue and candid. He might never dominate others by sheer force of character, as Hornbeam did, but he would get his way by charm. There was something familiar about those innocent eyes, but Hornbeam could not say why – until he realized, with a shock, that when he looked at Joe he saw his long-dead mother. She had had eyes like that. Hornbeam hastily pushed the thought out of his mind. He did not like to be reminded of his mother.
He put on his coat, left the house, and walked to Willard House, where he asked to see Major Donaldson.
Donaldson looked boyish but, Hornbeam reckoned, he must have brains, otherwise Northwood would not have had him as a right-hand man for so long. It would be wise not to underestimate him. Hornbeam noticed but did not comment on the Bible displayed on the desk. Some Methodists wore their religion like a badge. Hornbeam thought religion was all right as long as it was not taken too seriously. He would keep that belief to himself during this meeting.
He began by saying: ‘I’ve already sent you a written bid for your current cloth requirements, but I thought it would be a good idea to chat to you a bit.’
Donaldson replied tersely: ‘Go on.’
‘Your military career has been impressive, and – if I may say so without condescension – you’re clearly a very capable man. But you haven’t any experience of the cloth trade, and you may perhaps find it helpful if I give you some hints.’
‘I should be most interested. Please sit down.’
He took the chair in front of the desk. So far, so good.
He said: ‘In every business there are formal and informal ways of doing things.’
Donaldson said warily: ‘What do you mean, Alderman?’
‘There are the rules, and then there is the way everybody actually does things.’
‘Ah.’
‘For example, we put in bids to you, and you give the order to the bidder with the lowest price, in theory; but in practice that’s not the whole story.’
‘Is it not?’ The tone of Donaldson’s voice gave no hint of how he felt.
Hornbeam was not sure he was getting his message across, but he pressed on. ‘In reality, we operate a Special Discount System.’
‘And what is that?’
‘You accept my bid of, say, a hundred pounds, but I give you an invoice for one hundred and twenty. You pay me a hundred pounds, which leaves you with a surplus of twenty pounds which, being already accounted for in your records, can therefore be used by you for other purposes.’
