She felt an itch of embarrassment at his answer, because – for all he was trying, here – it seemed he hadn’t been expecting to partake in that decision. Maybe that made sense, and she could trust him to be involved with her and his baby in all the sensible, day-to-day, practical ways (be a father; work to support them, to somehow find the money for this; ready the nursery, even); but of course he preferred keep them at an arm’s length in other ways. No emotional attachment to the child – or had this been Ford trying to be kind in giving her some small measure of freedom, some choice of her own in it?

She – or... “They’re to be our child,” Jemima pointed out, slightly sheepish, to explain her expectation, not hers alone; but she hastily moved on, nodding in genuine echo of his sentiment. Yes, she would prefer an original name too, rather than something old, reused. “Though I wasn’t sure if all Greengrasses ought to continue with your family’s theme,” she admitted wryly, wondering if Ford’s mother would expect another virtue name from them. She had some on her list – she rather liked Felicity, or even Constance – but at the same time she couldn’t imagine that Ford, who was always Ford and never Fortitude, would profess to be too beholden to it. Jemima smiled, mostly to herself. “But I like – lots of names that don’t, too.”

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