May 10, 1895 — Bartonburg & English Countryside

Ford had hemmed and hawed for weeks leading up to their anniversary over how, if at all, the event ought to be celebrated. Obviously he and Jemima both knew the event itself had been less than celebratory, and he suspected she might view it even less fondly in hindsight given what she knew now, but it seemed callous to let the event go entirely unremarked upon. There was also the issue of the other people in the house; even if Jemima didn't appreciate a gesture at all, he didn't want to let on to his mother or to Clementine that they were unhappy. Clementine was liable to gossip about it, he feared. His mother, worse, might try to help. So he had carefully picked out some flowers for her, based on some of the things Mrs. Grimstone had been sending earlier in the year that she had seemed to like, and he had asked the cook to make a special dessert for dinner. He had planned perhaps to ask her to eat in the garden with him, just the two of them, if it was warm enough, and maybe to say something heartfelt and sentimental if he could mange it... but that morning a stray comment from her over breakfast had left him with the unshakable conviction that she wanted nothing to do with him that day, so he had aborted those plans. The flowers were snuck onto her bedside table while she was out of the room, with no note, and he had dallied on his way home from work so that there was no time to ask about alternative dinner plans. Conversation over dinner had been stilted. Ford did not draw attention to the dessert.

For the week following he bounced between these convictions: that Jemima was simmering with disdain and only barely concealing it behind politeness and he had been right to avoid her; that he had imagined the malice in the comment from that morning and he ought to have kept up with his original ideas for the day; that Jemima was disappointed that he had made no attempt to do anything special; that Jemima knew precisely what he had planned and how he had failed to follow through and recognized the cowardice in his retreat; that he might be able to salvage things with another attempt to do something caring; that a second attempt could only possibly make things worse.

But they were going to have a baby together, so they had to actually talk to each other eventually. Really talk, not just passing comments or dinner-table niceties. So although it had taken weeks to scrap together enough courage to attempt planning something again, he was committing to it this weekend. There was nothing on their calendar for social events so theoretically there was no way for her to have any serious conflict, but even so when he approached her that morning he was anxious that she would invent one to avoid spending time with him. "Jemima, I was thinking," he began, tentative and hopeful, "We might go out for a bit, today?"

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Jemima Greengrass

  

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Set by Lady!

If she had to pin down how she was feeling these days, Jemima was anxious. The anxiousness had swallowed up most of her other emotions – days when she felt almost content, almost happy, almost free; days when she felt sorry for herself, or sad or resentful or exhausted. She spent most of her energy trying to seem calm enough just to get through the day, but there was an almost constant flutter in her heart. She was anxious about everything.

Somehow, she was about two-thirds of the way through the pregnancy, and everything seemed to be normal – so she had been told – but that did not stop her fretting about everything as it happened. And if she could have gotten used to the growing bump or the other side-effects, there were plenty of fears in the sea. Normal as it may be, there seemed to be a very real chance of nearly dying in childbirth (see: Adrienne Lestrange; see: Daffodil Grimstone) – and Merlin, it would be her luck if she couldn’t manage to give birth successfully. And that was before she even considered the baby’s future, and theirs – those nebulous nightmares kept her awake most nights. But never mind! During the days, she found other things to fret about. How not to spend any money they obviously didn’t have, for one; how not to take up any space, or get in anyone’s way, or press Ford for anything, overstep the bounds of caution they seemed to have in place – the real truce of this pretend-marriage, pure politeness and show. Jemima even worried that the other Greengrasses, and her family when they visited, could all see the strain of the pretence, see through her smiles, this stupid charade. She worried, too, that she was going to go insane before the baby even came.

She had steeled herself to project calmness when Ford approached her, but she blinked in surprise at what he actually said. “Oh!” she said swiftly, “– of course.” She wasn’t actually sure if he was asking or expecting, if he had already made plans for them – be it a social event or a necessary errand – but she wasn’t going to pick a fight with him about it when her only alternative was spending the day slowly and painstakingly embroidering some muslins for the baby. (She had never had much patience for embroidery, before – but she had had rather a lot of practice in these last few months.) “Where are we going?” Jemima queried, because Ford seemed – unsure. And she supposed she ought to know, practically, if she ought to change out of her day dress, or if there was anything she should bring.

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"Oh, nowhere special," he immediately hedged. He didn't know what she would have been expecting, but it was doubtless best to lower those expectations straight away. He hadn't planned to take her anywhere nice, obviously, because nice places cost money, and it wasn't anywhere romantic, because he didn't think he had the rights to pretend at romance, given the state of their relationship. It was just out, just not here, just together, and at the moment that felt like quite a big enough step all on its own.

"There's a — Shropshire," he managed, unsure how to really convey his plans for the day in a way that didn't sound entirely strange. Did people ever just go to places like Shropshire if they didn't live there? "There's a nice walk, in the country, and cook packed a little picnic lunch, if — does that sound alright?" he queried anxiously. "I was out there for work recently and I thought —" He didn't know where he'd been going with that. He could hardly just come out and say it was quiet and it's free to visit and those were the chief requirements for us spending time together anywhere. Not while they were still at home, anyway, with risk of being overheard by Clementine. "— well it's very green — and the weather is good for it, today."

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Set by Lady!

If she hadn’t been so anxious that there was some bad news or hard conversation Ford was looking for a way to break to her today, Jemima’s mouth might have twitched up in amusement at there’s a Shropshire. As it was, she tried to temper her bewilderment until he had gotten out the bones of what he wanted.

Not an errand, then. A walk in the country, and a picnic, and good weather and greenery. There was nothing to complain about in that (though the picnic food might be interesting; her appetite had been all over the place lately) – and in fact, Jemima had spent so much of her time at home that she was quite exhausted of it... so any time out of it, Shropshire or otherwise, would probably feel pleasant enough a change.

“It would be nice to get out,” she said, honestly; and then, half-joking, added, “if there aren’t too many hills.” Walking she could still do just fine, but she had begun feeling occasionally winded just after traipsing up and down the stairs a few times a day, and somehow more ungainly and slow by the week. Still, she smiled, grateful for the distraction of an outing to drag herself out of her own head... and then wondered, suddenly, if he meant – “Everyone? Or – just us?”

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It was difficult to keep from deflating at everyone? as though she could not imagine why they might ever want to be alone together. "Just us," he answered, with a slight flush. Considering the probability that she had asked because she was thinking of planning her excuses or escape he tacked on hesitantly, "...if that's alright."

He had thought, once upon a time, that they enjoyed each other's company. Granted, they hadn't had a wealth of prolonged opportunities since their honeymoon had ended, but when they did spend time together it had been nice enough, hadn't it? Though given how crowded the house was, mostly they had only been alone together in the evenings, when he called on her in her room and before they'd gotten around to the business of sex. They didn't do that any more. They hadn't been alone much at all since December, so maybe her clarification on the point was warranted. Of their recent private interactions none had been particularly pleasant in tone, so there was reasonable cause to be concerned. Maybe she thought he had asked because he was going to share bad news. It would have been a reasonable assumption. In her shoes Ford might have spent the next ten minutes in transit fretting over the possibilities, worrying himself into a frenzy, and he didn't want to risk her doing the same.

"I thought it might be nice to talk about the baby," he explained.

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Set by Lady!

Just us. Jemima let out a breath. Strangely, some of the anxiety had lessened, even in spite of the awkwardness just them usually entailed. Possibly it was because she had to mind herself more amongst the other Greengrasses, around any other people – most of her life now, indeed, where she had to think doubly hard about anything she said or did, so as not to let on the myriad things she knew or ways she felt about her husband.

Which meant, although there was some trepidation, there was a breath of fresh air and a freedom in it too. Of course Ford hadn’t wanted to spend time with her for no reason: there were probably hundreds of practical things to discuss about the baby. And plenty more Jemima would have liked to discuss with her husband about them, if only he didn’t always look as though he were treading on a tightrope as he talked to her. Sometimes she fancied speaking to her physically pained him, for all the flashes of discomfort in his face.

So she might have spared him the outing for his sake, but at the prospect of it Jemima had realised just how desperate she was to go out, and to talk to someone, anyone, other than herself, and now she would rather not give it up. “Yes, of course,” Jemima began quickly, worried he would change his mind and leave her hanging. Time was running out before the baby came, after all – so hopefully the more they talked now, the better. She smiled gently, to reassure him that she could manage, that an outing alone did not need to be like pulling teeth. “I’d like that, Ford. I’ll be ready when you are.”

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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Ford was ready at that very moment, but pretended to be busy for the length of time it took her to prepare so as not to rush her. The trip through the floo was uneventful, except that he had to contend with an odd feeling that they were embarking on something illicit and ought to be careful of being caught leaving by anyone in the house. He carried the picnic basket, small enough from outward appearances but magically expanded to hold everything they would need on the journey, or at least everything either he or their cook had anticipated they might need. The floo on the other side was in a back corner of a hotel, the only publicly accessible floo in this small town (and site of a recent spirit complaint, hence his having been here in the first place). On their way out of the inn and through the street he found himself making the sort of banal conversation about the weather that no one could possibly care about, half from that same strange feeling that they were doing something they ought not to be caught at and half from a spree of nerves at the idea of having a real conversation with her after having gone so long without.

They were passing the last sparse cottages on the edge of the town when he worked up the nerve to change the topic. "Have you decided what to name her?" he asked sheepishly. "— or him. The baby." Given that the business of naming them had been left entirely to their mother, it had never occurred to Ford that he might have any input into the process, but that didn't mean he wasn't invested and curious.

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Set by Lady!

In some alternate universe, this outing – already pleasant in concept, and hopefully it could be in execution today – might have seemed romantic to her. The town itself was quaint and picturesque enough as they left it, and the sun peeking out through the clouds in glimpses of gold in a way that seemed almost optimistic of the universe, in early May. But it was rather pathetic to fall so easily for pathetic fallacy.

So she had instead been half-heartedly guessing in her head at what cook might have packed in said picnic basket as they small-talked and training her gaze carefully on any unevenness in their path to keep herself grounded, until a real topic came out and made her catch her breath.

“I’ve started a list,” Jemima admitted (it was best not confessed how long ago she had started thinking about things like this, rather than anything sensible like how to pay for a child’s upbringing when they had no excess of money). “Well, for girls’ names, mostly,” she added – whether this was because she imagined a father would rather choose his son’s name, because she hadn’t found any boys’ names she liked, or because she had begun envisioning the babe in her as her daughter almost from the start, and it had stuck, Jemima couldn’t say. “But I thought perhaps you might have – ideas?” She glanced sidelong at him, a little hopeful that they were going to be able to choose one together. (He had said her first, too. Maybe he had the same feeling – a daughter.)

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She thought he might have ideas? Ford's eyebrows arched in surprise before he could help it. Even if he'd considered the naming of a child to be a joint task rather than primarily a mother's responsibility, he wouldn't have expected Jemima to seek his input here, given... everything. Under the circumstances he rather thought he would have been fortunate to retain veto power, which he presumed was typically the extent of a father's involvement in the process of choosing names (to be used sparingly, evidently, unless his father had been somehow smitten with the idea of Fortitude as a firstborn). Being invited to share his thoughts felt... intimate. The sort of partnership he had done nearly nothing to earn since Christmas. But maybe a very good sign for the future?

"Oh, I —" he started, fumbling. "— I wasn't expecting... I don't have a list," he said. "But I would... I mean, I'd like that. If we could pick it out together." They continued walking a few steps and something else occurred to him, and he added, "I suppose the only thing I've been thinking about is that I don't want to name the baby after someone." She ought to have a name of her own — and a life of her own, and a legacy of her own, rather than the sort of inheritance Ford had come into. It wouldn't be easy, given the situation she was being born into. He'd have to work her whole life to manage the rest of it, but having a name of her own was a good first step.

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Set by Lady!

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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Ford wasn't sure if she'd meant her remark to be chiding, but he'd heard it as such. Jemima was too kind to be openly critical, even now when she had every reason in the world not to spare his feelings, but he seemed to have fallen short of her expectations here in not having given the matter more thought.

"My father never seemed especially involved, in naming my sisters," he explained. They were getting a little off topic but he felt the need to defend himself given that he had not, until this moment, been aware that he was missing the mark here, and certainly hadn't intended to. He had been old enough to be cognizant of the conversations of adults when all three of his sisters had been born (though not, he thought with chagrin, taken into their confidences — never that, even up to the day his father had died). But now he was doubting his own recollections, or at least his interpretation of them. "But maybe they talked more about my name? By the time Verity was born there was a theme." He had always assumed his father hadn't had input in his either, because it seemed so improbable that two adults would have both landed on a name like Fortitude.

But as to the theme, since she'd asked... Ford shook his head firmly. "It's my mother's theme." If this were a tradition that stretched back generations perhaps he might feel more beholden to it, but he really couldn't say. "I like your family's style better," he continued, somewhat shyly.

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Set by Lady!

Her family had not had quite so particular a naming scheme – most of their names were quite ordinary (Zipporah’s was really the most biblical and unusual of their lot, and at this juncture, for the first time in her life, Jemima wondered whether the more eccentric the name the more eccentric the character... but perhaps that was just Zippy.)

And Ford might be protesting his own input in this matter – maybe it was a mother’s domain entirely; Jemima wouldn’t know, since no one had thought to tell her yet the full list of a mother’s responsibilities – but it felt like so big a decision to make. Or, rather, she just felt fundamentally incapable of making decisions in life, because it felt like she always made the wrong ones. And if there was anything she didn’t want for this child, it was to suffer for her choices.

(It was all a little late for that, given the succession of decisions and mistakes she and Ford had made to find themselves here.)

“Well, I have ideas enough,” Jemima assured him, and she glanced at him hopefully, “but you ought to say if you don’t like one.” She wasn’t sure if a name would help increase anyone’s fondness for a child, but she did want to give this baby the best start towards it, if she could. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall all the names she had scribbled on her list at home. “I had Felicity – which I suppose now is not really a virtue at all –” for it was less a quality of character, and more a vague wish for what they might find in life; “and then I liked – Beatrice. Phoebe. Clara. Louisa. Lydia. Marianne...”

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