Chapter 2 Nobody’s Baby
FLORA WAS THE mother, no surprise there.
The father, it turned out, was not the insufferable Jason Ipcar—it was Hugh Renois, an accountant who mostly worked with the projectionists and the live theaters of Aft Port Eleven and so had an office on that deck.
He wore half-moon spectacles and an extremely loud floral waistcoat, and when we showed up with the baby he sat back and polished the one upon the other in the gentlest expression of shock.
“Oh my word!” he said. “How curious. A child, you say? My child?”
“You didn’t know?” I was watching him closely: He was not particularly expressive, but his astonishment when Ruthie had plunked the baby’s basket down onto his desk had seemed genuine enough.
He returned his spectacles to their perch upon his stout nose.
“Mine, and—Flora’s?” he asked, then tsked at himself.
“It would have to be Flora—there hasn’t been anyone else.
Not in years.” For a moment, those half-moons gleamed sadly as his head turned aside, but then he rallied.
“Is she all right? Has something happened?”
“Why would you ask that?” I returned.
He blinked at me. “Well, I assume you wouldn’t be talking to me if you could be talking to her.
She’s the one who would be at risk, surely?
” He tugged the hem of his waistcoat and smoothed his lack of hair.
“Was it—did she—was it on purpose? The pregnancy?” He swallowed.
“Only I hope she’d know that if she’d wanted—if she’d asked, I’d have…
” He trailed off with an unhappy expression.
I wondered if Flora knew how many broken hearts she was leaving in her wake. I counted two so far, which wasn’t so many, except that it represented 100 percent of the people we’d talked to in Flora’s life. “When was the last time you spoke to her?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said with a sigh, “that would be—second quarter, last year. She and Anne—Mrs. Godfrey, I assume you’ve met her?
—were celebrating the Palace’s fifth anniversary.
They held quite a party, and the memory cocktails Flora decanted were exquisite.
Especially the Savoy Saturday night—made you feel like you were at the best and most luxurious party in the world just before midnight, when everyone is tipsy enough to be brave but not yet drunk enough to be obnoxious.
Flora was wearing silver spangles, and I asked her to dance, and, well…
” He shrugged, pinkening, and ducked his head.
“I shall leave out the details, if that’s all right. ”
“And it was only the one time?”
Mr. Renois tugged his waistcoat again, the blush deepening.
“I woke up alone in her bed. Apparently she had an early matinee at some other theater that she was very keen on seeing. Flora loves the flickers more than anyone else I know … I went to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast from the autochef and Anne was there. Now, I quite like Mrs. Godfrey, but that morning she didn’t seem to like me very much.
I’ve been her bookkeeper for three out of those five years and never found her less than pleasant—but that morning, she was entirely different.
Awkward, silent—not cruel, I don’t think she has cruelty in her, but—well, it was very apparent that she wanted not to be resenting my presence so much.
And then she looked up, and her face changed, like a light that was out had come back on.
And I turned to see Flora standing behind me in the doorway.
Later, I got Flora alone, thanked her for a lovely evening, and made it clear that I understood it was only a one-off.
She seemed relieved, and I stayed away from the Palace except when Anne came here for business reasons.
” He lifted one shoulder. “You see how it is.”
“What?” Ruthie demanded. “How what is? I don’t see anything.”
I bit back a sigh. I was going to have to find a way to abandon my sidekicks, and soon. “Mrs. Godfrey is in love with Miss Tilburn, Ruthie,” I said. “Mr. Renois is explaining that he knew it, and did not pursue Miss Tilburn because of it.”
“It seemed prudent to bow out gracefully, avoid the trouble before it started,” Mr. Renois confirmed.
That was the kind of sensible thing that everyone knew was wise and virtually nobody ever actually did. Perhaps I should keep Mr. Renois in mind as an aberration, in case he was the solution to any of the puzzles in this case.
But there were still a few more questions to resolve: “Would you like to claim custody of the baby?” I asked. “We still have to sort things out officially, but if you are interested then we can include you in the process going forward.”
He reared ever so slightly back in his chair.
“Custody! Oh no, I don’t think so. I’m generally a very solitary kind of person, even when people aren’t babies.
” He gazed at the basket as one would a nest of small, nonvenomous snakes: mild wariness but not outright fear.
“Would I be permitted to arrange visitation, instead of custody?”
Ruthie was ruffling like a chicken in a rainstorm, but I cut him off before he could explode.
“We’ll see what we can do,” I replied. And now, the more delicate question: “Would you be willing to report to Medical for an examination, so we can determine how the pregnancy happened, and how to prevent future occurrences?”
“I should hardly think that necessary—Flora was, um, an aberration from my usual habits—but if it would help, then of course.”
“I’m sure the Board will appreciate it,” I said, and rose to my feet.
So there we had it: one child, two parents, all properly identified and informed and promising not to do it again.
The most urgent matter had been addressed.
But there were still too many questions left for me to count the business as resolved—the most glaring one being, of course: Who had been the person caring for the baby after Flora had her stroke?
Who else had known about the child?
We paused outside Mr. Renois’s office, bathed in the rainbow glow of Aft Port Eleven. Ruthie had the baby out of the basket and cradled on his shoulder; he swayed softly back and forth as the marquee lights tinted his face and the child’s half yellow and half blue.
Perhaps that was why the sausage vendor across the deck didn’t notice the baby right away—until the thing raised his head and gave a happy, hungry shriek.
The sausage vendor stared at the small blue-yellow face and shrieked back.
“Time to go,” I said firmly.
We hurried into the nearest lift, and Ruthie spun to face me, still clutching the child in possessive hands. “Aunt Dorothy, I’m officially petitioning for custody.”
“What?” John blurted.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and leaned against the lift wall. “Of course you are.”
“Someone has to love him,” my nephew said stubbornly.
“If his parents aren’t going to do it, then someone else has to pick up the slack.
He deserves nothing less.” His hand loomed large where it spread across the baby’s back.
He cast John a glance that was half defiance, half pleading.
“I loved him the instant I saw him on our doorstep.”
John’s face softened. “I know you did.”
“We still haven’t found out who was taking care of him during the two days Flora was in Medical being reembodied,” I said. “Maybe someone else already wants him.”
“We could put out a bulletin,” John said, but without conviction.
For a moment I winced at the prospect of telling the whole ship’s population that there was a new person on board.
That babies could happen, in spite of everything.
It was never wise to give the passengers ideas.
Some of them would immediately want babies of their own, and they wouldn’t stop there.
They were going to start questioning restrictions on everything. What would be next: Candles? Poisons?
Weapons?
Ruthie’s grip on the baby tightened; the infant made a noise of protest. Ruthie murmured soothingly and bounced him a little.
I had to admit, the child did look—comfortable, there on my nephew’s shoulder.
Ruthie’s eyes met mine. They were the same eyes my sister had had, back on Earth. And right now they had the same set look she would get sometimes, when no amount of arguing or logic or good sense was going to change her mind.
I yielded to the inevitable. Would save me trouble in the long run, or so I hoped. “Tell you what: We’ll leave the custody question aside for now. But—” I said, holding up a hand against my nephew’s protests, “for now, I will let you pick the name we put on his paperwork.”
“Peregrine,” Ruthie said at once. He rested his chin briefly against the top of the infant’s head. “Because he’s a wanderer.”
Well.
I cleared my throat, and a second time for good measure. John Pengelly sucked in a small, helpless breath, and if he raised his hand to swipe briefly at the corner of one eye I very carefully took no notice.