In some alternate universe, this outing – already pleasant in concept, and hopefully it could be in execution today – might have seemed romantic to her. The town itself was quaint and picturesque enough as they left it, and the sun peeking out through the clouds in glimpses of gold in a way that seemed almost optimistic of the universe, in early May. But it was rather pathetic to fall so easily for pathetic fallacy.

So she had instead been half-heartedly guessing in her head at what cook might have packed in said picnic basket as they small-talked and training her gaze carefully on any unevenness in their path to keep herself grounded, until a real topic came out and made her catch her breath.

“I’ve started a list,” Jemima admitted (it was best not confessed how long ago she had started thinking about things like this, rather than anything sensible like how to pay for a child’s upbringing when they had no excess of money). “Well, for girls’ names, mostly,” she added – whether this was because she imagined a father would rather choose his son’s name, because she hadn’t found any boys’ names she liked, or because she had begun envisioning the babe in her as her daughter almost from the start, and it had stuck, Jemima couldn’t say. “But I thought perhaps you might have – ideas?” She glanced sidelong at him, a little hopeful that they were going to be able to choose one together. (He had said her first, too. Maybe he had the same feeling – a daughter.)

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