Stephen, who had begun to take a drink, choked loudly.

“Yes,” Chase said. “The face is blurry. But everything else…” He allowed his gaze to drop from Harriet’s face down to her bosom. “Everything else fits perfectly.”

“My goodness!” Mrs. Ward, her face bright red, hurriedly said, “Someone…please pass the butter!”

Sophia, eyes wide, never removed her gaze from Chase and Harriet, as she absently handed her mother the butter.

Harriet’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “How…I can’t believe you…What do you mean—Don’t!” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth as if to reply. “We will talk about this elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Ophelia leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “Why do you need to discuss it elsewhere? All he said was that he remembered the barn.”

Sophia shook her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Later, Oph. Not now.”

Ophelia stiffened. “Do not call me that! My name is Ophelia, not Oph.” She turned a resentful gaze on the captain. “I do not mean to complain, but I do wish my parents had spent a little more time considering the burden of having such a name. It was not at all considerate.”

Mrs. Ward grabbed the turn of conversation, smiling brightly. “Dear, I’ve apologized for that at least a thousand times. It was your father’s turn to name the baby, and you know he was sadly addicted to Shakespeare. He happened to be in the middle of reading Hamlet when you were born and there was simply no reasoning with him.”

Stephen dusted his fingers with his napkin. “Just thank the stars he didn’t name you Cleopatra.”

“Or Puck,” Derrick added around a mouthful of asparagus. “That would be worse.”

Sophia curled her nose. “Ugh! Puck would be a horrid name. Ophelia, if you want another name, I suppose we could call you Puck.”

“I like that!” Derrick said. “Pass the mutton, will you, Puck?”

“Just stop!” Ophelia snapped. “You are all horrid!” She turned to her oldest sister. “Harriet, please make them stop teasing.”

All eyes turned to Harriet. Chase noted that even Mrs. Ward waited expectantly, as if it was not at all unusual that her eldest daughter was being called upon to solve a dispute rather than herself.

Harriet put down her fork, the tines clanging lightly against the edge of the china plate. Chase rather expected her to lambaste her brothers and sisters for their levity, delivering a homily on the necessities of civility. Certainly that is what Marcus would have done.

But instead, Harriet’s lips quivered ever so slightly and she said, “Ophelia, as much as I would like to commiserate with you on the ignominy of having a literary name, I cannot. My own lamentably boring name prevents me from doing more than sigh with envy.”

“There is nothing wrong with Harriet,” Ophelia said, her plump chin firm. “I would rather be called Harriet than Ophelia.”

“Yes, well—”

“And anything is better than Oph.”

“Ophelia is your name, and it’s all you have, so you had best learn to enjoy it.”