A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [75]
She laughed. “Nothing that exotic, now—though for my birthday I may permit you to give me a phoenix’s feather. What would you say to a little pony for her?”
“A pony? Shouldn’t it outgrow her?”
“We would give her a newborn foal when she turned four, say—then it might be broken in time for her to ride at six or so.”
“I call it a handsome idea.”
So the present was decided, and on the appointed day, at the appointed time, they arrived at the church prepared to fill their more serious role as godparents.
It was one of the small alabaster white churches of the eighteenth century, with a single high spire and a brick parish house next door. Between them was a small circular garden, ringed with a path of white gravel. The whole picture was almost rural, and its simplicity seemed fitting to this simple occasion, with the whiteness of the church, too, recalling the child’s purity.
“Do you remember all of your lines?” asked Lenox as they walked up the steps of the church. They were fifteen minutes earlier than the invitation said, because they had to speak briefly with the clergyman.
“Lines!” said Lady Jane, turning to him with alarm. “What have I missed?” He laughed. “Ah—I see you’re teasing me. Well, it’s not very gentleman-like of you, is all I can say.”
A few stray parishioners were in the pews of the church, but otherwise it was empty. It had a remarkably open, airy feel, with high clear windows—no stained glass—flooding light inward. Along the transept stood long tables of ferns and Easter lilies—from a hothouse of course, for it was September—and at the crossing, where the four sides of the church met, was a large, round baptismal font, made of silver and with crosses worked into it.
The clergyman was a bishop—Toto’s father had asked him to be present as a personal favor—and when Lenox saw him he remembered the man spoke with a terrible lisp.
“Mr. Lenoxth!” he called as they approached. “Thith ith truly a joyouth day!”
“Indeed it is, my lord,” said Lenox and bowed his head. “Are Thomas and Toto here?”
The bishop nodded. “You know your roleth?”
“I think we do,” said Lady Jane. “Will you tell us once more?”
They heard their roles, and soon the church started to fill up. Lenox stood to the right of the font, Lady Jane to the left, and though they nodded to anyone who caught their eye neither moved, save once: when the grandparents arrived, and came into the first pews. Toto’s mother was a formidable, large old woman, but her father was something else, tiny, with pure white hair and a jolly face; it was clear that his daughter’s shine came from him. McConnell’s parents were stout Scots, both red from long hours outdoors, the father very dignified and the mother positively monumental, with a whole fox for a stole. Both wore the McConnell plaid, gray, green, and white, he in the form of a kilt, she in her hat.
There was a loud din of conversation until suddenly the bishop, now in his vestments, appeared at the font between Lenox and Lady Jane. Lenox found himself suddenly nervous, in the new quiet, and with the sun directly on him rather warm. It felt like a solemn moment, to be sure, but more than that he realized now for the first time that to be a godfather meant more than a present now and then—that it was of importance to God, and in God’s eyes.
Without speaking, the bishop gestured for the child to be brought forth. Toto, looking radiant, held her, with McConnell behind her. They took their places beside the bishop (with Lenox and Lady Jane now on the outside of them), who began to speak.
“Almighty God, who by our baptithm into the death and rethurrection thy Thon Jethuth Chritht dotht turn uth from the old life of thin: Grant that we, being reborn to a new life in him, may live in righteouthneth and holineth all our dayth; through the thame Thy Thon Jethuth Chritht our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Thpirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.”
As he spoke he ladled water over the child’s head with his hand and