"What about Charlotte?"

Tom set down the book he was previously indulged in and placed it on the little table bedside the bed, acknowledging the fact his wife had often complained on having to compete with J. S. Mill. Droplets of water flew from his hair, ruffled by courtesy of Sybil, as he shook his head in answer.

Sybil's sigh was one she made no effort to disguise. "Darling, you can't dismiss every English name I suggest."

He argued from the bed, "Our child will be Irish - have Irish heritage, an Irish accent, an Irish school - I just think it would be better off with an Irish name."

A small bunch of glass roses that was a moving in gift from Sybil and Tom's landlady, who happened to be an old school friend of Tom's, sat upon the mantelpiece in their bedroom. Sybil rotated this left, paused and stepped away, before proceeding to rotate it right. "Don't call the baby 'it'."

"What do you want me to call it? We can't know if it's a he or a she. And I don't see how 'it' is worse than 'thing'."

"'Thing' is more affectionate than 'it'."

He scoffed but his eyes reflected the gentleness he owned that he rarely let show to anyone other than his nearest and dearest. "Is it indeed."

She ignored him and moved onto a small clock that she'd brought with her from Downton. She swapped the position of this with a petite statue of a wooden cross - a wedding present from Tom's mother, Aofie, an ornament which Sybil genuinely loved as she appreciated the thought that had gone into the gift. Once this was done she changed the position of the clock with the position of the glass roses.

"Do you want a girl?"

Sybil turned her head over her shoulder, confused and intrigued by her husband's question. "Not particularly. Why?"

"You've suggested more girls names than boys, that's all."

"I don't mind whichever we have, as long as he or she is healthy. But we only have a couple of weeks left to decide and the poor thing needs a name." Her back to him, she imagined with little difficulty the eyebrow raise she would no doubt be receiving as a result of her term for their child. However, he did not pursue the matter. She stepped back and admired her modest display of treasured items.

Sybil lowered herself onto the edge of their bed at an angle so she was facing her beloved. His eyes were thoughtful but soft and open, a side of him she often wished he would allow others to see more of. But, in another sense, she felt privileged to be included in a part of him he didn't let show to anyone other than those he trusted the most.

"What about May? It seems rather fitting, given the month."

Tom did not argue although Sybil could see in his eyes that avoided hers this suggestion did not please him.

"Emily?"

"There was a girl I knew at school named Emily. She was nasty."

"All right, not Emily." She paused with a sigh and then reminded him, "You don't have an Irish name and it's never stopped you."

The corners of his mouth lifted. "I suppose not. But no monarch names. I won't have that."

"As long as no Republican activists' names. It may be for a good cause, but I won't have my son or daughter named after someone who's hurt innocent people."

She could see the anger in his eyes when he began to argue, "The English soldiers - "

"I never said the English were right, I'm merely saying not all Irish fighters were either. Neither of us like violence so I would think it inappropriate to have our child named after a violent person."

He didn't bother trying to contradict that. He couldn't.

Sybil took his hand. The backs of his fingers were rough and warm and in his strong hand hers looked small and dainty. "Let's not argue. Why don't we leave girls names for a minute. For a boy, what about Andrew, or John, or... Peter?"

He nodded slowly. "I like Peter. And it's in both English and Irish forms."

"It's Catholic, but the baby will be Catholic, so that's not an issue."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Mind what?"

"That the baby will be Catholic."

She smiled and ran her thumb up the edge of his palm. "Religion's not a big part of my life and I know how much it means to you." His lips curled softly and he squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. "Shall we say Peter, then? For a boy?"

"I think so."

"Well, that's one down, I suppose. One to go. Do you like flower names? Rosemary, or Lily?"

"A bit." She could see he was trying his best to agree and as a result she offered, "What names do you like?"

"You won't like them."

She smiled and dropped her shoulders. "I might."

Tom's eyes flickered between hers and after a pause he admitted, "I like Saoirse the most."

"Saoirse. How do you spell that?"

"S-A-O-I-R-S-E."

She chuckled as she whispered, "It's hardly the easiest name out there!"

He smiled at the sound that escaped from her lips as he said, "I think the meaning's fitting."

"Why? What does it mean?"

"Freedom."

Her smile turned gentle and she pulled herself up the bed beside him. In sync they shuffled down so they lay together, opposite and their toes tangling which meant his head was far above hers. Sheltered by the blankets and Tom's arm around her waist, Sybil's belly rested between them, warm and full.

She tucked her head underneath his chin and curled her arms around him. His hand in the small of her back rubbed up and down slowly and his lips kissed the top of her head.

"Saoirse." She repeated with a smile on her face. "I rather like that."