Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago – July 1901
The christening began late on a Sunday morning, when the city had gone sleepy with heat and the church air had thickened with incense and starch.
Inside the stone coolness of Fourth Presbyterian, the sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows in shafts of gold and rose. The organ hummed gently in the background, a slow, respectful hymn. In the front pew sat the Masens—trim, upright, quietly proud.
Elizabeth, still wan from the summer birth, looked every inch the lady. Her pale lilac dress skimmed the floor as she sat straight-backed, holding the tiny bundle in her arms. Edward, swaddled in yards of ivory christening lace, slept peacefully against her chest, the fine down of his copper hair clinging to his damp forehead. Only barely six weeks old. One of his little fists had worked free of the fabric and rested against the collar of her dress, small and pink.
She kept smoothing her gloved hand over his back, not because he needed calming, but because she couldn't quite believe he was hers.
Behind her, the gathered family and acquaintances murmured and fanned themselves, their fans fluttering softly like moth wings.
Beside her sat her husband, Edward Sr.—his suit charcoal, his posture faultless, a pocket watch tucked neatly in his waistcoat. His moustache had been recently trimmed, not stiff with wax, but brushed smooth and neat. He hadn't removed his hat until they'd stepped through the heavy church doors. Now it sat on his lap, one gloved thumb resting on its brim. His pipe, recently outed, had left its scent behind—tobacco, warm leather, a whisper of cherry. He hadn't spoken much that morning. He rarely did. But he was present. That was enough.
When the minister stepped forward and smiled, Elizabeth rose carefully. Her movements were measured—her hips still sore, her frame not fully recovered. But she was elegant, as always.
She carried the baby forward alone, and the minister's eyes twinkled with something close to affection.
"And what name is given this child?" he asked gently.
"Edward Anthony Masen," she replied, her voice low but sure.
Behind her, her husband gave the smallest nod.
The minister dipped two fingers into the font—cool spring water from the church grounds, spooned into the basin that morning—and touched the baby's brow.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he murmured, drawing the cross across the infant's forehead.
Edward stirred faintly, his eyelids fluttering, but made no sound. His mouth opened once in a soft O before settling again.
Elizabeth accepted him back with a practiced, tender ease. She didn't press a kiss to his cheek in front of the church, but her arms folded a little closer around him.
She returned to the pew.
Edward Sr. glanced over, his eyes cool but alert. After a moment, his gloved hand reached forward, and with a surprisingly gentle touch, he straightened the lace at the baby's shoulder. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
The organ played on. The bells outside tolled the hour.
And little Edward, barely old enough to know his name, yawned delicately and blinked at the sunlit windows with mild interest—as though the colour spilling down them was painted just for him.