Blackie spoke again. “He will accept her as one of the blessed children, sure and He will. Believe me, it’s the baptism and the spirit of love behind it that counts—not the man that does it or where it’s done. Bring me a bowl of water, please.”

“I believe you,” Emma said as she went to get a bowl. “I want you to christen my baby. I’m so grateful to you.”

“That’s my girl.” He took the bowl from her and went to the sink. “Now, mavourneen, can you get me a small towel, please?”

She did so and looked at him. “Shall I get the baby out of the cradle now?”

“A fine idea,” Blackie answered, filling the bowl with tepid water.

Emma went to the fireplace and lifted her baby out of the makeshift cot, cradled her in her arms, cooing to her. “Oh, my sweet little girl,” she said, entranced with her child. Unexpectedly, Edwin’s face flashed before her eyes, and so did Adam Fairley’s, and having vowed never to think of them ever again, she was horrified. And her guard went down; suddenly she was distracted and aghast, actually flustered.

“Bring the baby over to the sink, mavourneen.”

“Just a minute, Blackie. I haven’t got her quite right. Let me move her a bit.”

Emma turned her back and swallowed, endeavoring to retrieve her composure.

Blackie was calling from the sink, “And what will ye be calling Tinker Bell then? Have ye thought of a name?”

Emma, so upset and preoccupied, did not have time to think. Edwin’s face was in her head; his name, on the tip of her tongue. She said automatically, thoughtlessly, “Edwina—”

As she heard herself saying that name, Emma froze, so furious was she with herself, and her own carelessness. Why had she said that name? She felt as if the blood were draining out of her. What a fool I am, she thought.

Blackie’s jaw had dropped open as he was staring at her back. Without having to give it a second thought, he knew who the baby’s father was. Why had he not realized that before? Especially since he had been suspicious about her story from the beginning.

He realized she had not meant to call the child Edwina. Emma was far too canny for that. Why would she spell it out to him? No, it was a mistake, and one she could not really correct now.

Adopting an unconcerned tone, he said with a show of gaiety, “And what an elegant name it is for wee Tinker Bell. I like it, sure and I do.”

Emma walked over to him, not trusting herself to speak. Blackie fussed with the towel, draping it over his arm, giving her time to regain her composure, feeling sorry for her.

“I’m ready,” he said with a very bright smile. “Hold the baby forward, Emma. Yes, that’s good, mavourneen.”