6 July, 1891 — Greengrass Garden, Bartonburg
If pocket watches had limited uses, Ford likely would have burnt through the one he'd inherited from his father today as he continued to check the time every five minutes. Not that it made any difference; he got off of work at five just as he always did and then had three and a half agonizing hours to wait until he'd planned to meet Macnair. Luckily, he had things to occupy himself, otherwise he'd likely drive himself crazy pacing his room and trying to focus on poems and daydreaming. Dinner with his siblings would fill an hour, and before that he was expecting Wye for one of their usual reading sessions.
They'd moved from Paradise Lost to Paradise Regained, which was the inferior of the two works as far as Ford was concerned, but he was reserving his opinions on it until they'd gotten a bit farther so that he didn't influence Wye's experience too much. He liked to hear what Wye thought of it all after hearing it for the first time, so he kept his commentary to himself until they'd reached the breaks between books (or, occasionally, when they took a break because Wye had something to interject). Normally Ford looked forward to these meetings, but he scanned the passage they were about to read before heading to the garden today — titled Christ determines his path is made of suffering — and rolled his eyes. After the turn things had taken with Macnair, he simply wasn't in the mood for more poetry that wallowed in misery.
"What if we switched it up today?" he asked Wye after they'd exchanged greetings. "Something a little happier. Love poems, maybe. I've got a copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese somewhere." Not that it needed to be love poems, necessarily, but they were certainly unlikely to be such a jarring mis-match from what he was feeling as Christ determines his path is made of suffering.
They'd moved from Paradise Lost to Paradise Regained, which was the inferior of the two works as far as Ford was concerned, but he was reserving his opinions on it until they'd gotten a bit farther so that he didn't influence Wye's experience too much. He liked to hear what Wye thought of it all after hearing it for the first time, so he kept his commentary to himself until they'd reached the breaks between books (or, occasionally, when they took a break because Wye had something to interject). Normally Ford looked forward to these meetings, but he scanned the passage they were about to read before heading to the garden today — titled Christ determines his path is made of suffering — and rolled his eyes. After the turn things had taken with Macnair, he simply wasn't in the mood for more poetry that wallowed in misery.
"What if we switched it up today?" he asked Wye after they'd exchanged greetings. "Something a little happier. Love poems, maybe. I've got a copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese somewhere." Not that it needed to be love poems, necessarily, but they were certainly unlikely to be such a jarring mis-match from what he was feeling as Christ determines his path is made of suffering.
Set by Lady!