“Confess?” Mr. Appleton said, raising his eyebrows without dropping his smile. “Why, Mr. Longfellow, we have just met. I’m not sure I’m prepared to carry whatever sin you might feel the need to unburden.”
He was making a joke, but Henry felt his face pale.
Mr. Appleton noticed, and his smile fell. “I have misspoken,” he said quickly. “I did not mean—”
“I am recently widowed,” Henry blurted out with all the tact of a pugilist. “I feel that, in light of your cousin’s illness, I might not be good company for your family. I worry my situation will only add to the sorrow.”
Mr. Appleton blinked at him, then his face softened into sympathy. “How recent was your loss, Mr. Longfellow?”
Henry looked away so as not to be embarrassed by the other man’s pity. “Nine months,” he said, and then, sensing Mr. Appleton’s sincerity, Henry told him the whole of it, attempting to keep his sorrow at bay long enough to relate the story. “So you see, my feelings might be so tender that I am the wrong choice for your dinner party tonight. I am sorry.”
“You are not the wrong choice for our party,” Mr. Appleton said with a shake of his head. “I am truly sorry for your loss. We have lost my mother and older brother these past few years; I believe that is why William’s decline has struck us all so deeply. Europe has been a good diversion from our grief until these last weeks when his illness has advanced. There is nothing you could do or say that would deepen the burden we carry.” He paused as though considering his words. “Just a few days ago, in Thun, William and my father discussed his situation. William agreed to this trip only if we promised to let him return to Boston if his health turned. He believes—and I cannot help but agree with him, though I hate to do so—that he is not well enough to sustain the return voyage. He has asked that we allow him to stay so that he might die within the great adventure of his young life. My father has agreed to his wishes, and though we will be slowing our journey to spare him too much travel, he hopes to reach Schaffhausen where he might be close to his Protestant roots.”
Henry blinked and swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am sorry, Mr. Appleton.”
“As am I for you,” Mr. Appleton said with a nod. “I do not wish to burden you with our struggles, but my father was perfectly sincere when he said another voice at the table would be a welcome diversion. I have no wish to rekindle your pain, or cast a pall over the evening, so if you are agreeable, I will help keep the conversation from such things that would be painful. In exchange, I would appreciate your help on keeping up the conversation. You could tell us about your book, perhaps, and your first tour if this one is too difficult to mention. There is no need for any of us to delve into painful memories—for one night at least. Is that acceptable to you or would you rather I give your regrets?”
Though a part of Henry felt guilty essentially ignoring the hole in his heart for an evening, there was enough relief at not having to explore the pain with strangers that Henry had little hesitation. “I would be pleased to attend such an evening as you have described, Mr. Appleton. Thank you for your compassion and kindness.”
The grin returned to Mr. Appleton’s face. “Perhaps wait until the end of the evening to thank me. Our plan might not work, but I shall give it my very best.”
“As will I,” Henry confirmed.
Tom turned to the stairs and Henry followed him up. When they reached the landing, Tom stopped. “I have one more favor to ask.”
Henry raised his eyebrows in expectation.
“Will you please call me Tom? I prefer to be called Tom in most situations—it suits me—and with so many Appletons in the company, I shall have a headache if you attempt to address all of us properly.”
It was unconventional to address another man by his Christian name, but it hardly seemed something to argue. “You may call me . . . Henry, then, I suppose.”
Tom cocked his head to the side and smiled. “I shall call you Longfellow. I would not want to make you uncomfortable. And, as you are a writer and professor, I should refer to you as due your situation.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, glad for Tom’s respect.
Four
First Impressions
“As I said, don’t thank me yet,” Tom said. “I must warn you that my sisters are a spoiled pair and wish to be dancing tonight, even though there is no such entertainment available as it’s Sunday. I hope they won’t take their disappointment out on us.”
Fanny regarded the man at the other end of the table and wondered what it was exactly that was bothering her. There was a nervousness about him that caused Fanny to feel unsettled in his company. In an attempt to discover the source of his discomfort, she’d watched him all through dinner—which she worried was increasing his anxiety. Tom and Father had already informed her that Mr. Longfellow was not an old man, as she’d first expected, but she had not considered that he would be handsome. Though he was rather too thin for the bold features of his face—a firm jaw, bright blue eyes, distinguished nose, full lips, and strong chin—it was not his physical attributes that had her on edge. She was well-acquainted with many handsome men and confident in their presence. It was something else. Something she could not quite identify.
Perhaps the fact that they had been talking about Outré Mer all evening was part of her mood—she had hoped for more energetic entertainment—but the discussion was interesting. She had given her review of the book and asked him questions, which he answered with ease. He was not arrogant about the attention given to his work, in fact at times he seemed almost embarrassed by it, but Tom was intent to stay on the topic.
Maybe that was the true cause of her discomfort. Tom was not acting like himself, and Fanny didn’t understand why. William had joined them for a brief time, but had already retired to his room. Molly seemed to be trying hard to hide her boredom.
“What of your current tour, Mr. Longfellow?” Fanny asked, interrupting what felt like a needlessly long description of his impression of Germany ten years ago. “How long have you been in Europe for this tour?”
When Mr. Longfellow did not answer right away, Fanny looked to Tom, who was uncomfortable, and then to her father, who was as expectant of the answer as she was.
“He has been touring for just over a year, have you not, Longfellow?” Tom said, turning his full attention to Mr. Longfellow, who looked as though he’d forgotten his own name.
“Can he not answer for himself?” Fanny asked, spurred forward by the reaction of both men, though she kept her smile polite. She did not want to appear cross. “And why does he call you Tom? Did not the two of you only meet today?”
“I asked him to call me Tom—you know how I hate being called ‘Mr. Appleton’ in informal settings. Don’t be peevish.”
She held her brother’s eyes a moment, then turned her gaze to Mr. Longfellow, undeterred. How could his tour a decade earlier be more interesting than what he’d seen and done in the more recent past? “How long have you been on this tour, Mr. Longfellow? When did you leave Maine?”
Mr. Longfellow blinked before he spoke. “I have been in Europe for fifteen months,” he said in a slow, calculated tone. “I shall be returning to Cambridge in a few months to accept a position at Harvard College as the Smith Professor.”
“And how have you enjoyed this tour?” Fanny pressed, though there was some niggling within her, warning her to retreat from this line of questioning. She argued with herself but did not give up. “Has it been so dreadful that it is not worth speaking of? Is there nothing of this trip you would like to tell us? Were you in Paris already? Did you enjoy the opera?”
“Oh, Fanny, leave him be,” Tom said, attempting to keep his tone light but not succeeding entirely. There was a warning in his voice. “I am interested in his first tour, and in his book.”
Tom’s defense only drew out her curiosity. “Which we have had a very interesting discussion about already—so much so that I would love to hear how Europe has changed in the last decade
. Did you not invite Mr. Longfellow here for conversation, and should not that conversation be—”
“Fanny,” Father said, cutting her off. “You are being rude to our guest.”
Fanny turned her attention to her plate, embarrassed at having been called out by her father—something that happened rarely, even when she deserved it. The room was silent long enough for her to take a breath and remember her manners. “I’m sorry, Father. I did not mean to be rude.”
An awkward silence descended as Fanny’s cheeks burned.
“To answer your question, Miss Frances,” Mr. Longfellow said after a few miserable seconds had passed. “Yes, much of my tour this time has been quite dreadful. I told your brother the whole of my situation prior to dinner because I feared I would not be good company. He offered to help avoid difficult topics. I am sorry for the discomfort the avoidance has caused, however, and that the conversation is not so diverting.”
Fanny closed her eyes as the humiliation in her face and stomach burned hotter. Knowing what had been irritating her—he had been hiding something and was therefore being careful—did not make her feel better. She had embarrassed him, her father, and herself by being so intent. Why could she not keep her thoughts to herself as a young lady was taught to do? Why did she take it upon herself to fix everything and, in the process, not fix anything at all? Not William. Not this awkward dinner.
The room was still quiet, and she sensed everyone was waiting for her. She met Mr. Longfellow’s eyes from across the long table. She noted again that he was a handsome man, yet now she could see the pain in his eyes and the shadows beneath them. For a moment she wanted to know the cause of his pain—and then she stopped such wondering.
Fanny did not know precisely what Father and William had discussed in the parlor in Thun. She had asked for details, and her father had refused her—which may have added to her surly mood when she felt left out of another conversation tonight—but she could sense the heaviness of whatever the discussion had been, and her heart felt bruised within her chest. There was no room for her to bear anyone else’s pain, and so as quickly as she wondered what dreadful things had befallen Mr. Longfellow, she wanted to hear nothing at all.
Her inability to bear her own misery had driven her to seek out dancing and music in which to pass the time. She could forget the troubles that nipped at her when the energy was high. Evenings like this, calm and conversational, were not nearly as distracting. But that was not Mr. Longfellow’s fault, and she hated to know that she’d added to the difficulty he’d already experienced on this trip. Should she not be lifting the burdens of the people she met rather than adding to them?
“I am sorry, Mr. Longfellow, for pressing you, and for the difficulties you have faced. I was out of place to be so direct, and I pray your forgiveness.” She meant every word and hoped he would know it.
“You owe me no apology, Miss Frances.” For a moment the softness of his words held her like a cord, and she found she could not take her gaze from his. In some way she could not understand, she felt . . . seen as she had never been seen before. It was strangely flattering, but also made her feel vulnerable—something she could ill afford to feel. She forced her gaze to her father, who regarded her with concern.
“Father, might I be excused? I fear I am too fatigued to be good company tonight.”
“Of course, my dear,” he said with a nod.
“I certainly wish you the best, Mr. Longfellow,” Fanny said formally as she stood from the table and put her napkin on her chair.
“As I do for you, Miss Frances.”
She curtsied slightly but did not meet his eyes again as she left the room and hurried for the chamber she shared with Molly. She hated how she had behaved this evening. She hated even more the idea that Mr. Longfellow might depart as quickly as possible in light of her treatment of him and then she would never have the chance to redeem herself. She could not stand the thought that he would return to Boston, where their paths may likely cross again, and he would remember her as a sharp-tongued harpy who would not allow a man an evening’s peace.
Fanny closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, playing through their conversation in her mind again. What she would not give to start the evening over and be better than she’d been. Oh, why couldn’t there have been music and dancing tonight? She was not to be trusted in company that did not distract her from the ache in her heart. She raised her hands to her face in hopes to keep the tears at bay. They would not change anything, after all.
Five
Confessions
The evening did not improve much after Miss Frances’s departure, and Henry regretted again accepting the dinner invitation. After a polite period of time, Mr. Appleton invited his other daughter to leave the men to their brandy. She seemed eager to follow her sister from the room. The maid entered and began clearing the dishes.
Mr. Appleton turned to Henry. “I am very sorry for this evening, Mr. Longfellow, and especially for Fanny hounding you. I assure you she possesses better manners than you saw on display, and I can only think that the strain of William’s illness is taking a toll.”
“You owe me no apology,” Henry said, shaking his head. “And neither does she. I should have been forthcoming.”
“It was my fault,” Tom said, accepting the glass of brandy from the footman. “If Fanny were simply a silly girl with flippant thoughts and thin attention we would have been successful, but I should have known better. Despite her petulance this evening, the girl is far too smart for her own good.”
Henry did not know what to say. To agree with them would insult the young woman, and he didn’t fault her for noticing the choppy attempts at avoidance—rather, the fact that she noticed was to her credit. She was young and energetic, but well-spoken and self-possessed too.
“I am also very sorry for your struggles,” Mr. Appleton said with enough curiosity in his voice that it would be rude for Henry not to explain. For the second time that evening, Henry recalled the painful events of the last year and accepted a stranger’s condolences. It was exhausting to revisit the pain—not that he was ever away from it completely. They had invited him in hopes of lifting the mood, and he had done exactly the opposite.
“I think,” Mr. Appleton said after Henry finished, “that the lot of us make quite a group. All of us touched by sorrow, each of us trying to lose ourselves, or perhaps heal ourselves, in the diversion of Europe. I find it odd that we might meet with one another at all, don’t you, Mr. Longfellow?”
“It is rather strange,” Henry said, though he had little energy to sustain his wonder.
“My dear wife was a God-fearing woman,” Mr. Appleton continued. “And she would say that it is not mere coincidence, but that our paths were meant to cross exactly like this. What do you think of that, Mr. Longfellow?”
“If I am to be completely honest,” Henry said, “I do not put much stock into theories such as fate and Karma. I believe in God, and I believe there is purpose to our existence, but I am unsure of how much attention He might give to such things as people meeting in a foreign land.” He looked at his host. “I do not mean to argue your point, nor take away from your wife’s faith, I only mean to say that if such things as this happen for a purpose, then I must say that all things happen for a purpose, and I see no purpose in the suffering we have experienced—not yours, not mine. Not your children’s.”
Yet another silence followed his words, and Henry mentally chastised himself for his honesty.
“Perhaps you are right,” Mr. Appleton said. “Perhaps things happen for no particular reason and we are left to make of them what we will. To our betterment or our detriment, depending on our choice in the matter.”
“I mean no offense, sir, but who would choose to make something work toward their detriment?”
“Those who punish themselves unnecessarily.” He spoke so fast and with such certainty that Henry’s muscles tightened and released almost in the same instant. Mr. Appleton spoke as though h
e knew Henry blamed himself for Mary’s death, but how could he? Henry could barely articulate such thoughts to himself, and he certainly would never tell anyone for fear they would offer hollow platitudes and weak justifications. Or worse, agree that if he had not brought her to Europe she would still be alive and well.
“Mr. Longfellow, would you join us for tea tomorrow?” Mr. Appleton asked.
Henry was shocked. Why on earth would they want him to come back? Was not one ruined evening enough to convince them that his company was to be avoided? He was prepared to make a quick retreat. The idea of making another attempt of friendship with these people—Miss Frances Appleton especially—only spurred him to want an escape that much more. And yet Mr. Appleton had issued the invitation and, as had been the case earlier, Henry felt unable to refuse it.
“If you should like me to attend, I shall attend.” It was the most feeble answer Henry had ever made to anything in his life.
“Tomorrow, then,” Mr. Appleton said with a nod and a smile. “Come to our rooms at four o’clock.”
After a restless night, Henry spent the morning and early afternoon with Mr. Gurmand and his fabulously diverting collection of Swiss and German literature. Henry purchased a few volumes he had learned of in Heidelberg and made plans to come back the next day. Once he left Mr. Gurmand’s company, though, his mind returned to the Appletons.
Henry had accepted Mr. Appleton’s invitation to tea out of politeness, but the more he thought on it, the more grateful he felt for the second chance to make a new impression. The green of the mountain meadows and the grandness of the rocky cliffs above him seemed to empower him so that, when he returned to his rooms, he chose his dress carefully to shore up his confidence: the claret long coat—nipped in at the waist in the European style—and gray trousers tucked into knee-high boots.
At precisely four o’clock, he knocked at the door of the Appleton’s apartments. But a moment later, when the servant showed him into the parlor where only Miss Frances Appleton was in attendance, his confidence fled.
Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) Page 3
