Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Good day to you, Mr. Longfellow,” she said, giving him a quick curtsy. “Do come in.” Then she smiled, softening her face into an expression that renewed his hope in redemption.

  Her dark hair was curled beside her face and pulled up in the back. She wore a light blue dress featuring the European style of a lowered waistline and a fuller skirt. He noted how the modern style defined a woman’s figure better than the higher waist of previous decades before he felt the horror of having noticed a woman’s figure at all.

  She held his eyes, and he feared she could see the heat creeping up his neck. He tried to think of something appropriate to say.

  Tom’s voice from behind spared them both. “Mr. Longfellow, good to see you.”

  Relieved, Henry turned immediately from Miss Frances’s intent look and greeted Tom, who had that jovial grin on his face that Henry suspected was part of the man’s wardrobe. “I do hope Fanny took this chance of private conference to apologize for her boorish behavior last night.”

  Both Henry and Miss Frances were silent, which was answer enough for Tom. He laughed and then shook his head at his sister. “I swear, Fanny, you are a trial.”

  “And you are a brute,” she said, her tone thick with irritation and embarrassment.

  “As I said last night, she owes me no apology,” Henry said, smiling at her so she might know the sincerity of his words. Her grateful smile caused a rush of energy to course through him. “I am the one who brought such discomfort, so it is her forgiveness I should be seeking.”

  “That is not necessary,” she said, looking down demurely. “I expect that all shall be well between us from now on.”

  “As I would hope.” Henry feared that between last night and this afternoon, she had been told of his misfortune and pitied him for it.

  She met his eye, and they held one another’s gaze for a breath, then she stepped forward. “We are having tea in the back parlor as it provides a better view of the lake,” she said over her shoulder, obviously expecting the men to follow her.

  Henry fell in step beside Tom and pulled at his coat nervously, hoping he did not look like too much of a dandy. That hadn’t been his intent, but he felt out of place next to Tom, who dressed as an elite Bostonian would—long black coat, navy trousers beneath which peeked the top of well-polished shoes.

  “Fanny has promised to be on her best behavior,” Tom said quietly enough that Henry expected his sister could not hear. “She was rather mortified when she learned the whole of it last night.”

  So Henry was right in that she knew. Would he have an entire room full of pity when they reached the back sitting area? “Does the whole family know?”

  “They do,” Tom said apologetically. “I felt it only fair after my poor attempts to avoid it ended so badly.”

  “And what do they think?” Henry said, trying not to sound vulnerable. “Do they think me a bear for not returning with Mary’s casket?”

  Tom stopped in the middle of the hallway and held Henry back as Miss Frances passed through the doorway ahead of them.

  Henry met the other man’s eye, braced for his judgment. When he felt his own recrimination so severely, it was not difficult to assume everyone else felt the same.

  “Goodness no,” Tom said, sounding surprised that Henry should consider such a thing. “We have heard of such situations before. After investing so much into a tour of this scale, one cannot so easily turn back. We are sorry for your pain, that is all. You are in good company, Longfellow, I assure you of that.”

  It took a moment for the sincerity of his words to seep into Henry’s mind and heart but when they did he was deeply touched. He had Miss Crowninshield’s support, which he appreciated, but to be among people so determined to include him and put his mind at ease was the greatest charity he could imagine receiving.

  “Thank you,” Henry said, wishing he knew what else to say. For a man who loved words, he had a difficult time finding the right ones sometimes.

  Tom grinned. “Don’t thank me too much just yet,” he said, leaning close and putting his hand beside his mouth in an exaggerated attempt to block their conversation from exactly no one—they were alone in the hall. “William is hoping you might be willing to talk poetry with him. He is a great lover of verse written in the Romantic languages, and when I told him what an accomplished linguist you were and of the focus of your study these last months, well, his eyes lit up as they haven’t in many weeks. He is hoping you might have some translations to share with him.”

  “Much of my tour has been concentrated on the translation of such works,” Henry said, invigorated to have someone interested in his current work. “I would be pleased to speak with him. I have been quite fascinated with Novalis and Uhland of late—though perhaps they are too sorrowful.”

  “Isn’t all poetry sorrowful?” Tom gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “If it shall entertain William, and you don’t mind, it shall be very welcome.”

  Henry smiled. Oh, but Tom’s lighthearted manner was refreshing after so many dismal months stuck in his own mind. Henry followed Tom through the doorway to where the rest of the Appleton family waited.

  Mr. Appleton rose from his seat beside William and crossed the room to shake hands in greeting. Miss Molly was pouring the tea while Miss Frances placed a selection of sweets and savories on the small plates.

  Miss Frances looked up at him and, though he could not call her a great beauty, she was very striking—to the point he felt sure he could draw her when he was alone. He noted the graceful lines of her neck and collarbone and the way she moved with confident elegance. He noticed too much. Too soon.

  “Do sit down,” Mr. Appleton said, reclaiming his chair.

  “How do you take your tea, Mr. Longfellow?” Miss Molly asked.

  “Cream only, please,” he said. Tom had taken the seat on the far end, leaving Henry no choice but to take the only other empty chair—directly beside Miss Frances. It was the last place he felt he should be sitting as unwelcome notice and unrestrained thoughts cycled through his barbaric mind.

  He tried not to watch Miss Frances’s elegant fingers as she prepared the plates. Perhaps his notice of so many details about this woman was another sign of his weak and fractured mind. He was going mad, that was it, mad and devilish.

  “Well, cousin William,” Tom said as he crossed one foot over his other knee, “Mr. Longfellow has just now told me that he is as equally besotted as you with the Romantic poems of Germany. Now how is that for a stroke of luck, I ask you?”

  Henry appreciated the permission to turn his attention to William. Mournful poetry in a foreign tongue was precisely the distraction he needed. It would remind him of his purpose and his pain, and help him push aside what he feared was an outright attraction for the young woman beside him.

  “Liest du Deutsch?” William asked, surprising a smile out of Henry. The young man looked better today than he had the night before

  “Yes, I read German,” Henry said. “Du auch?”

  “Ich spreche es nur schlecht.”

  “Your grasp of the language does not sound poor to me,” Henry said.

  William shrugged good-naturedly. “I can make my tongue and ear use it, but I cannot seem to train my eye.”

  “Which is often the case for my students,” Henry said, grateful for a new topic that would take his thoughts in a more comfortable direction. “Even when they can say the words, once you ask them what they’ve said or expect them to understand what you say in reply, they blink at you like cattle. Your grasp is much better than I am used to.”

  “Father says you teach modern languages at Bowdoin College,” Miss Molly said, drawing Henry’s attention. Though her features were a bit finer than her sister’s, they did not invigorate him the way Miss Frances’s did. Blast his eyes for the whole of this notice! She handed him his cup.

  “Modern languages,” Miss Frances said, causing him to tense. Why she should strike him with such intensity he could not understand. “
As opposed to classic languages, I assume, such as Greek and Latin?”

  “Exactly,” Henry said, only daring a glance in her direction. “When I move on to Harvard, I shall be teaching Spanish, French, Italian, and German.”

  “You speak all of these languages?” Miss Molly asked.

  “I seem to have an ability with language,” Henry said, not wanting to sound arrogant.

  Miss Frances spoke again. “I have heard it said that the purpose behind learning foreign languages is to expand one’s capacity to learn all manner of things, a kind of exercise for the brain that strengthens the intellect.”

  “That is the prevailing theory,” Henry said. “Though I feel there is greater benefit than merely the preparation for other education. I believe that language—and the literature produced through it—is of intrinsic benefit for its own merit. The purpose of my tour has been to explore the literature of the European nations.”

  “More than just the four languages you teach?” Miss Molly asked.

  “I find language of any kind a fascinating study,” Henry explained. “I have embraced every one I’ve encountered and have certainly found great benefit in each.”

  “How many different languages do you speak, Mr. Longfellow?” Mr. Appleton asked.

  Henry shifted his attention to the patriarch. “I am only fluent in those I will teach, but I can get along well enough with Portuguese, Danish, Finnish, Russian, and of course Greek and Latin. I have thus far collected books written in twelve different languages, and I hope to soon be able to read every one of them.”

  “You enjoy reading and speaking in other languages?” Miss Molly asked, her tone doubtful.

  “Very much so,” Henry said, unable to suppress a smile at the joy he found in language. “I find other nations and cultures fascinating. Understanding their language—where the words come from and how they play on a native ear—is like transporting oneself through time and place.”

  “My word, that is an impressive list,” William said. “I hereby relinquish my title as the most linguistic of the company. I took inordinate pride in my ability with German and French. That’s the real reason they brought me, you know. I speak French better than the lot of them.” He waved a thin hand at the company seated around the room.

  “We did not bring you to serve as an interpreter,” Miss Frances said, folding her hands in her lap and looking at her cousin with wide eyes. “For you to suggest such a thing is very wrong, William.”

  “Exactly right,” Tom broke in. “We brought you so that you could share in the tending of my silly sisters, of course. Besides, Father and I can get by on our French, so I do not thank you for the insult.”

  “You are quite terrible, Tom,” Miss Frances said, but her eyes were merry. “In both your teasing of William and your French.”

  “I agree,” Miss Molly cut in. “You’ll make William feel sad and, besides, Fanny and I speak some French.”

  “I think you mean that you and Fanny remember your early lessons enough to pepper your letters with a French word here and there, but it is hardly considered speaking.”

  William stopped the conversation with another sentence only Henry could understand. “Ehrlich gesagt, sie sind wunderbare Leute und haben seit einer langen Zeit nicht so gelacht. Du bist genau in dem perfekten moment angekommen.” Essentially he relayed the goodness of his family and thanked Henry for being the cause for their good humor.

  Henry was humbled by the cousin’s compliment and inclined his head in gratitude.

  “You had better not talk behind our backs right in front of us,” Miss Frances said, turning her playful scowl to her cousin. “That would be bad manners of you indeed.”

  “I would never do such a thing,” William said, winking at his cousin.

  Her scowl turned to a smile, and she turned to hand Henry his plate.

  When he took it from her hand, his thumb brushed the underside of her fingers and the warmth he felt in response had nothing to do with the tea. She met his eye for a moment, but not long enough for him to know if she had felt the same sensation.

  It is simply because you have been around so few women these months, he told himself as he faced forward again. Perhaps it was best to be seated beside her so that he would not catch her eye so often. It was the Natural Man in him, that was all, nothing more. Nothing that should cause him undue anxiety. Rather, he should focus on the group as a whole, and the men more specifically, and not give primitive reactions to the fairer sex more notice than such reflexes deserved.

  Firm in his resolve, when Mr. Appleton asked about the German universities Henry had visited during the winter, Henry was quick to delve into the great writers of that country. With an audience willing, if not eager, for the distraction offered by his studies, how could anything else compete for his attention?

  Six

  Zurich, Switzerland

  Fanny gripped the handrail separating her from Lake Zurich and leaned forward until the sound of voices behind them competed with the lapping of the water on the shore. “I miss Interlaken,” she said to Molly, who stood beside her.

  “You do not like Zurich?” Molly said in surprise. “But you commented on all the fine shops and entertainment.”

  “And I do enjoy those things. It is different, though. That is all I mean.” She looked over her shoulder at the bustling streets behind them. Zurich was near enough to the German border that it attracted a great deal of travelers, to say nothing of the city’s own population.

  Fanny thought of the trees and the mountains and the clear air of Interlaken. She also thought of the walks she’d taken with Mr. Longfellow, and the discussions of literature and poetry that had opened her mind to so many new writers and ideas. She turned back to Molly. “Did you not love the respite of the Alps?”

  Molly shrugged. “I like the shops here in Zurich. And the art.”

  “Yes, the art is splendid.” Tomorrow the sisters would take a class with a renowned painter who would help them with their own oil painting of the Alps.

  It was beautiful in Zurich, and there was something satisfying about having greater society. It wasn’t until they had left the smaller villages that Fanny had realized how much she enjoyed the mountain passes. Her sketchbook was filled with the things she’d seen, but she wished she could go back, hold to the comfort of that time—and William’s health, which had been better there—and enjoy the feeling of isolation she’d found walking the foothill paths. It had been a different kind of freedom and independence than she had known before, one where she set her own schedule and spent as much time reading and thinking as she wanted. It was also cooler there, while the heat of Zurich in August caused her dress to stick to her skin.

  “I think what you mean is that you miss the attention of Mr. Longfellow,” Molly said with a teasing grin as she bumped her shoulder into her sister’s. “He is not sharing every meal with us every day here in Zurich.”

  “He has his studies,” Fanny said in an even tone, though she did not meet her sister’s eye. Her feelings regarding Mr. Longfellow were complex, and she was of no mind to attempt to explain them to Molly. That Molly had mentioned any undue notice on Fanny’s part, however, spurred her to further defend herself. “And besides, I do not miss his company in the least. He does not even dance.”

  It was disappointing that Mr. Longfellow seemed only to enjoy long talks or walks. He was steady and comforting to be sure, but a girl of eighteen years enjoyed music and parties now and again. Mr. Longfellow did not, and he would sit with the old men in the corner rather than join in the frivolity of the young people.

  Sometimes she felt him watching her, and it would wash over her like warm honey—if he would dance with her, be frivolous and free, perhaps she could feel a different kind of connection. By the end of an evening where he spent the time in discussions with other men, she would be irritated and peevish, but then they would have a conversation about some detail he’d noted regarding Coleridge or Milton and her opinion of Mr. L
ongfellow would rise again.

  Molly laughed. “I think you fancy him.”

  Fanny shook her head, refusing to let such an idea stay long in her sister’s mind even if she herself had wondered at it. “I do not.”

  “‘Oh, do translate this poem for me, Mr. Longfellow,’” Molly said in a high-pitched voice, blinking her eyes quickly. “‘And, pray, share with me your thoughts on the context of this verse.’”

  Fanny laughed at the ridiculous exaggeration. “If I ever spoke like that, I’d have thrown myself in Lake Thun.” She turned back to Lake Zurich, much bigger than Thun had been and not nearly as clear and pristine. “Besides, it is was William’s company he sought out more than mine.”

  Mention of their cousin put an end to Molly’s light mood, and the sisters stared across the lake together, lost in their own thoughts. Fanny wished she’d brought her sketchpad for their walk today. She wished she had something to busy her hands and mind so her thoughts would not run so wild.

  “Is William going to die here in Zurich, do you think?” Molly asked. “He is so very ill.” By now the truth was known: William would die in Europe; no one doubted it. The Zurich doctor who attended him two days ago felt that William’s passing could take place at any time, but certainly within the month.

  William was skin on bones, and his voice was a whisper when he dared speak at all. Too often conversation left him in coughing fits that bloodied his handkerchief and exhausted his body for hours afterward. His days consisted of rest—often with the help of opium draughts—and attempts to eat a little more than he did the day before.

  Yesterday, Mr. Longfellow had taken a break from his studies to row the lake with Fanny, William, and Tom. He’d shared the translation of Uhland’s poem “Das Schloss am Meer,” and William had basked in the sunshine and splendid words. It had been a delightful afternoon, the type that could lull people into believing that all was well with the world. Tom and Mr. Longfellow nearly had to carry William back to the family’s rooms, however, and realizing that the day on the lake was likely to be William’s last outing left a pall over the memory.