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“First, go tell Mr. Pembroke to come to the kitchen if he’s hungry,” June said. “I’ll find Ivonne.”

She left the kitchen and went down the hallway to the housekeeper’s, or rather Ivonne’s, room. Someday she would be able to go there without feeling Tuppence’s absence press on her bruised heart.

Wasn’t it just the way of things, that she’d been afraid of living in a house with criminals because they might hurt her. She’d definitely been hurt—but not at all how she’d expected. The pain had come from losing one of them.

Voices rippled from the room—Reina and Ivonne, chatting in Spanish. The words fit together with a precision that made them come out as fast as drumrolls.

June went to the threshold. Reina was in the rocking chair, holding the baby.

Ivonne paused on the way to the bedroom and turned toward June with a questioning glance.

“Time to eat,” June told her, “if you want to come to the kitchen—”

“Sí.” The girl added a few words in Spanish and plucked at a fold of her dress.

“You’ll change your shirtwaist first?” June guessed.

An emphatic nod. Ivonne disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door.

June went to stand beside the rocking chair, looking down at the infant. He was turning out to be a sweet-faced little thing, with feathery light hair and pink cheeks.

Reina smiled up at her. “Ivonne told me about some women bringing food to the house while we were gone. Were they from the cookery school?”

“Indeed they was. Left a note of condolences for all of us.”

Reina’s attention returned to the baby, who was busy maneuvering his fist to his mouth. “Tita June has such nice friends,” she crooned.

“Are you going to raise him Spanish?” June asked.

“Half and half, I think. The Spanish community will be his familia—all the grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins he wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“That sounds nice,” June said sincerely.

“Yes. He’ll always know he belongs somewhere.” Reina adjusted a tiny, knitted bootee on his foot. “I would have loved to have an extended family while I was growing up. I was alone too much of the time.”

“You was,” June agreed, inwardly surprised. She’d never heard Reina say such a thing before. “Why didn’t your ma have nothing to do with the Spanish folk in London?”

“She was ashamed of being Papa’s mistress. But I don’t think she would have been ostracized. I joined the Sociedad after Mamaíta went back home, and they welcomed me with open arms.”

“They won’t mind the baby don’t have Spanish blood?”

“No. If there’s one thing exiles understand, it’s that people can’t be reduced to their circumstances. Give someone just a few resources, a little opportunity, and they’ll usually make something of it. But what really makes the difference is community. I mean for this boy never to feel like nobody’s child.”

It was then that June began to understand Reina’s decision to keep him.

Reina looked down at the infant, who was sucking his thumb. “He does this before he goes to sleep,” she said. “It helps him relax.”

June regarded her quizzically. “I ain’t never seen you so interested in nothing that weren’t one of your economic reports.”

“I never imagined what this would feel like. It’s lovely. Exciting, in a way. I’m right here at the start of a human being, and I want to make his life wonderful. But I know nothing about babies or children. There’s hardly any information available. I sent Mr. Goodluck to the bookseller yesterday, and apparently there’s only one book on infant care. It had to be specially ordered. I find that shocking, don’t you?”

“Most women don’t need books about babies. They find out what to do from other women.”

“I’ve heard the same thing about cooking,” Reina said. “But training and knowledge have made you a far better cook than the average person, haven’t they?”

“I should say so.”

“There should be at least as much education about what goes on in the nursery as in the kitchen.”