“I’m calling her Minty. Araminta will do well in the family Bible, but I do believe she’s a Minty.”
Sophie pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. “Your mother would hate that.”
“Yes,” Posy murmured, “she would, wouldn’t she?”
“Minty,” Sophie said, testing the sound on her tongue. “I like it. No, I think I love it. It suits her.”
Posy kissed the top of Minty’s head. “What kind of girl will you be?” she whispered. “Sweet and docile?”
Sophie chuckled at that. She had been present at twelve birthings—four of her own, five of Posy’s, and three of Benedict’s sister Eloise. Never had she heard a baby enter this world with as loud a cry as little Minty. “This one,” she said firmly, “is going to lead you a merry chase.”
And she did. But that, dear reader, is another story…