“You saw her when she was less than a week old,” Beatrice reminded her.
“Exactly! She’s practically a lady now.”
The baby gurgled in response, waving a small fist.
Cecily gasped as though it were a declaration. “She remembers me!”
“I doubt that.”
“Don’t be contrary. Babies are good judges of character.” Cecily bent low, her voice softening. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“She remembers your noise, more likely,” Beatrice muttered.
“Noise builds character.”
“Some would call it a nuisance.”
Cecily gave her a side-long look. “And some would call it exactly what this house needs.”
The baby cooed, as if in agreement, and Mrs. Hart’s eyebrows rose approvingly.
Lady Moreland smiled faintly, watching them. “You’ve not named her yet, have you?”
Beatrice hesitated. “No.”
Cecily blinked. “Truly? You haven’t even discussed it?”
“There hasn’t been an opportunity,” Beatrice replied, though she wasn’t sure that was true.
Cecily’s eyes softened. “You’ll have to, Bea. A baby should be called something other than ‘the child.’”
“I’m aware.”
“Well,” Cecily said brightly, unwilling to linger in sentiment, “then I will help. She needs a name while she waits for yours and His Grace’s approval.”
Beatrice sighed. “Oh dear. Go on, then.”
Cecily leaned in, hands clasped behind her back, as she inspected the baby with the gravity of a general surveying his troops.
“Well…” Cecily brushed a fingertip over the infant’s soft cheek. “She might suit something gentle. Clara, perhaps.”
After a while, she changed her mind and made a face. “She is not a Clara.”
“No?” Beatrice pursed her lips in thought. “Emma?”
Cecily’s eyebrows rose. “Absolutely not. Far too sensible.”
Beatrice hid a smile. “What about Anne? Short, sweet?—”
“Bea,” Cecily interrupted, squinting at the baby, “look at her.”
Beatrice did. The little girl’s brow was furrowed, her mouth set in a determined little pout, as if she were evaluating the world—and finding it lacking.
“She has an opinion already,” Cecily declared. “That rules out anything delicate.”
Beatrice laughed softly. “Very well, wise one. What does she look like?”
Cecily studied the baby’s face, which had taken on an expression of serious concentration. “She looks like a Pip,” she declared.
