Has it truly been a year? he asked himself. Henry wished he weren’t nervous about renewing the acquaintance, then again he would be an idiot not to be.
Now that he was a resident of Cambridge, Henry better understood the Appleton family’s place in society and how it contrasted with his own. Not only was Nathan Appleton one of the wealthiest men in New England, he was also politically active, a faithful member of the Federal Street Church, and respected to the point of devotion among many. He and his partners had actually founded the town of Lowell when they brought the modern-age of textile production to the area and an entire settlement grew around it.
Beyond that, Nathan Appleton stood as proof that the entire premise of the United States worked. That the son of a church deacon could change his circumstances justified the fight for their independence from Britain, who still marginalized their citizens based on the society of their birth.
Being part of a new nation, however, did not remove the distinction of class between its citizens. Born or earned, one’s situation prescribed their society. That Henry had ever been included in the Appletons’ circle—even abroad where the choice of company was so limited—was a thing to be appreciated. The Appletons were kind and accepting, and Henry doubted they would purposely reject him now that the tour was over, but he would not be a part of their social circle unless they wanted him to be.
While awaiting the Appletons’ return from Europe, he had become acquainted with additional members of their family, specifically William Appleton and his wife, with whom he shared a mutual friend. Mr. and Mrs. Appleton were polite and accepting, giving him hope of further acquaintance when Nathan Appleton and his family returned.
Which is why Henry had been excited to receive Tom Appleton’s note two days earlier, requesting they take a meal together and become reacquainted. Henry was glad for the opportunity, but anxious too. It was not Tom’s friendship alone that Henry hoped for. Miss Frances Appleton was returned to Boston as well, and though Fanny would not be joining them for dinner, she would surely know of it.
Henry had spent the last year coming to terms with his interest in Fanny and knew that the opportunity to renew his acquaintance with Fanny would be determined in part by how well he and Tom got on tonight. The awareness made him feel disingenuous regarding his excitement to see Tom again, which served only to increase his anxiety.
Movement outside the window caught his attention, and Henry focused on the handsome carriage that stopped in front of the house. The coachman jumped down from his seat and opened the door so Tom could step out. Tom said something to the driver and then moved up the walkway that led to the front doors of Craigie House. Henry felt a dash of pride as he watched Tom’s eyes take in the splendor of the house. Tom saw Henry through the window and lifted a hand. Henry raised his as well and hurried to meet his friend at the door.
Henry expected a handshake of greeting and so was surprised when Tom pulled him into a quick embrace, slapping Henry on the back. “Oh, it is good to see you again, Longfellow,” Tom said, smiling as wide as the moon.
“Good to see you as well, Tom. I cannot tell you how happy I felt when I received your note. Do come in, dinner will be served shortly. We have the dining room to ourselves tonight, which is a happy accident to be sure.”
Henry led Tom into the dining room to the right where the two men sat on the plush chairs at the far end of the hand-carved table. The table could accommodate twelve but rarely did since Mrs. Craigie, the woman who owned the house, often kept to herself for meals, and the other tenants often had their evening meal elsewhere. Miss Sarah Lowell, the only female tenant, was out tonight as well.
“So how fares the Maine-land boy exiled to Cambridge-town?” Tom asked, reclining against the back of the chair.
“Well enough,” Henry said, not wanting to expound on his complaints too early in the renewal of friendship. “The society is excellent, and I have made good friends here.”
“Oh, I agree, society does not get better than Boston.” He lifted his eyes to look around the room, complete with heavy velvet drapes and well-crafted furniture. “What a fine house. Built by that Redcoat-lover Vassall, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Henry said. The history of the house was part of what had drawn him here. Another attractive factor was that Henry felt Craigie House looked like an Italian villa. “After Vassal fled in ’74, the house was occupied by the Marblehead regiment. It even housed General Washington and his family for nearly a year.”
Tom grinned throughout Henry’s explanation, prompting Henry to remember that Tom had grown up only a few miles away. “I’m sure you know better than I the history of the place.”
“Likely not,” Tom said, shaking his head. “It is one house of legacy in a place fairly dripping with it. I did know Washington stayed here before it was sold, of course, but where else would he stay but the finest house on Tory Row?” Tom gestured toward the front of the house. “And with such a view of the Charles River to boot?”
“Yes, it was surely fit for a president,” Henry confirmed, turning the familiar phrase of “fit for a king” to one more appropriate in a free nation. “In fact my rooms are the very rooms Washington himself stayed in. I sleep where he slept and work in what was his sitting room.”
“Well then, I fully expect you to raise up an army and overthrow some nation’s repressive control within the year.”
“If only that were not so near my situation,” Henry said, a rueful laugh in his voice. “I am attempting to overthrow the antiquated regime of Harvard College and usher in a new age of linguistic merit. Alas, I am not the general Washington was and fear I may have to surrender.”
Tom’s smile remained, confirming Henry’s trust that he was a safe confidante. It seemed Tom took few things seriously enough to be offended.
“What sort of attitude is that?” Tom asked as Miriam—the serving girl of Craigie House—brought in their dinner plates. Tom pulled back so the plate of lamb and roasted squash could be set before him, but did not stop speaking. “Where would our nation be if the forward thinkers of our grandfathers’ generation had felt the fight was not worthy of engagement? I say, stay the course, Longfellow. Dig in, and fight to the death to liberate the imprisoned minds of our New England youth!”
Henry laughed out loud, then sobered enough to thank Miriam and request a red wine to go with the evening’s lamb. “You are a breath of fresh air, my friend. Now, tell me of the rest of your time in Europe. What portions did you like best?”
Throughout their meal—and the bottle of wine—they spoke of the second half of the Appleton tour. Tom’s interest had focused on the people, entertainment, and food as much as the literature and culture, but he was a natural storyteller and Henry felt transported back to the places he dearly loved. Tom mentioned Fanny with the same level of inclusion he mentioned Molly or his father, and Henry had to keep himself from asking about her specifically. What did she think of Germany? Did she ever think of the man who had wanted to serve as the family’s guide there?
It was nearly ten o’clock, the hours disappearing easily into the late summer night, when Miriam came to tell them that Tom’s carriage had returned for him.
“You must come to dinner on Beacon Street,” Tom said to Henry. “I shall need to see when we might have you, but I know we all look forward to seeing you again.”
“I would very much enjoy seeing the rest of your family as well,” Henry said, hoping he didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “How is everyone adjusting back to Boston life? How is Fanny faring?”
Tom’s smile held, but he cocked his head to the side. “Fanny?” he repeated. “When did you begin addressing her as Fanny?”
Henry felt his neck turn hot at the slip. The wine had loosened his tongue and mind to the point that his usual reserve was in repose. “My apologies,” he stuttered, trying to find a way to explain himself. “I fear that my memories of your family are so well that I have fallen into too much familiarity.”
&n
bsp; “Fanny is faring well,” Tom said after another moment, still scrutinizing his friend with uncomfortable attention and his ever-present smile. “She and Molly are setting the household to rights. The servants became sloppy and idle in our absence, I’m afraid. And then my father ordered some reconstruction that had my sisters quite at odds with him. They did not like the changes as much as Father thought they would.” He rolled his eyes.
Henry turned his wineglass on the table. “I imagine the line of suitors ready to greet them must extend the length of Beacon Street.” Even as he spoke he reprimanded himself for his transparency.
“The length of Beacon Street is a fair comparison,” Tom said. “I believe Fanny alone has received one or two cards every day since our return. Molly has already secured a beau.”
Henry swallowed. He’d expected Fanny would have her pick of gentlemen, but the confirmation was difficult to hear.
“Unfortunately for the hopeful lads hanging about Fanny, she is rather opposed to marriage at present. I can’t say I blame her,” Tom said with a shrug. “Why anyone should want to saddle themselves with matrimony I cannot imagine. For my part, I would never want to narrow my focus to such a degree as one woman day in and day out.” He let out a breath, seemingly ignorant to Henry’s growing discomfort of the topic. “What of travel? What of keeping one’s own schedule and pursuing one’s own interests?” He shook his head. “Perhaps she and I are Appletons who are not the type to marry—too independent and set upon our own course.”
Henry could not tell if Tom was trying to discourage his interest in Fanny specifically or simply share information. Regardless, the words fell heavy.
“I am sorry, Longfellow,” Tom said suddenly. “I did not mean to be insulting.”
Insulting? It took a moment before Henry realized Tom was likely thinking about Henry’s marriage to Mary. It felt like it had been ages, rather than not quite two years since her passing.
“I am not insulted,” Henry said, shaking his head. “But I fear you and I differ quite a lot on that matter. There is a comfort to matrimony that is very inviting to me.”
“One can find such comfort without clamping an iron around one’s leg.” Tom winked.
Henry shook his head at Tom’s implication. “I am speaking of the companionship, of the shared pain and pleasures, to say nothing of children and legacy. I have lived both sides, and while I can acknowledge the appeal of independence, I shall always come down on the side of a life shared with someone you love and admire.”
Tom’s smile grew thoughtful, then it turned into a grin and he shook his head. “I must stand my ground. There is nothing marriage can offer that would be worth the sacrifice. I shall leave it for better men such as you, Henry, to populate future generations and extol the virtuous promise.” He drank the last of his wine in one swallow, then set the glass on the table and smacked his lips. “I shall send ’round that dinner invitation, Longfellow, and eagerly anticipate the event. I would caution you to refer to Fanny as Miss Fanny, however, especially in my father’s company.” He winked again, and Henry felt his face flush. If not for Tom’s continued smile, Henry would fear he had overstepped his bounds.
Henry walked with Tom to the street. “It was wonderful to see you again,” he said, clasping Tom’s hand in good-bye. “Thank you for coming this evening.”
“The pleasure was mine, I assure you,” Tom said with a quick nod. “All the best to you, Longfellow. We shall meet again soon.”
Twelve
39 Beacon Street
It was nearly a week before the invitation to dinner on Beacon Street arrived and another week before the event at the Appletons’ mansion in Beacon Hill. Henry sent his acceptance right away, eager to renew his acquaintance with all the Appletons, but Fanny especially. Knowing she was back in Boston had spurred his affections forward, and he could not wait to see her again.
On the night of the dinner, Henry arranged for his émigré assistant to oversee his students’ language recitations for the evening, and then set off on foot from Brattle Street, across the Boston Bridge, to Beacon Hill. He didn’t mind a long walk, and the mid-September night was pleasant. He reached the house and took a deep breath before knocking on the imposing front door. His eyes traveled up the three levels of the house, taking in the bow windows and the front door framed by an ornate Doric portico. Even being accustomed to the grand style of Craigie Castle, Henry found this house intimidating.
A butler wearing a black uniform opened the door. He showed Henry into the parlor where Tom waited. The men exchanged greetings and had been visiting for a few minutes when Henry heard movement from the direction of the doorway. He turned, and his breath caught to see Fanny walking toward him. The smile on her face warmed him to his toes.
“Mr. Longfellow,” she said as she approached, her hands clasped in front of her. She stopped a few feet away and curtsied, prompting him to bow in greeting. When their eyes met, his chest grew hot. It had been a year since they had last seen one another and yet he felt sure that her features were more developed and that her carriage reflected greater self-assurance and poise. Even her hair was styled in such a way that bespoke a maturity he did not remember from their time in Europe. He realized she was speaking only after she’d said something he did not hear. “ . . . in Cambridge?”
“I beg your pardon,” Henry said, shaking himself back to the present. “What did you ask?”
She smiled, somewhat indulgently. “I asked how you have liked your time in Cambridge.”
“Oh, I like it just fine,” he stammered. “Just fine indeed. I have a fine boardinghouse and fine rooms.” He paused for breath and to cut the word “fine” from his current vocabulary. “You look very well, Faaaa—Miss Fanny. I am very glad to see you again.”
“As I am to see you,” she said, giving him a strange look before turning toward the doorway. “Molly is on her way down, and Father sent a note that he would be along as soon as he finished a matter of business. Shall we retire to the dining room? Dinner is ready, and I should hate for it to grow cold.”
The men agreed, and the three of them moved to the dining hall, a splendid room with thick curtains, silk wall coverings, and a marble hearth. Henry could feel his nerves increasing. He was out of his element and feared everyone knew it. Molly joined them just as they were seated and the conversation soon began regarding the second half of the family’s European tour. Henry had heard some of the accounting from Tom but was glad to hear the women’s impressions about this piece of art and that specific site. Dinner was served—fish in a lemon sauce with asparagus and parsnips—excellent, of course.
Henry had just taken a bite when Fanny turned her attention to him.
“Voulez-vous plus de vin, Monsieur Longfellow?”
“I would, thank—” He stopped when he realized Fanny had asked if he wanted more wine in French. He stared at her with wide eyes, questioning whether he had heard her correctly.
Molly was the first to laugh, followed by Tom. Even Fanny put a hand to her mouth to hide her laughter at his reaction.
“You learned French?” he said, thrilled to the point where he could feel the smile on his face stretching to his ears.
“Oui, oui,” Molly said, pulling his attention to her for a moment. “Papa a insisté.”
“But we are very glad Father did insist,” Fanny said. “It was immensely helpful for the second half of our tour, and it allowed greater exploration for both of us even outside of France, I daresay.”
“Wonderful,” Henry said, nodding eagerly. “Of any language you can speak in Europe, French is the most useful.”
“We knew you would be impressed, Mr. Longfellow,” Molly said, glancing toward her sister. “Fanny and I have been so excited to show you.”
“Well, now I must test you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He looked around the room for a subject. His gaze settled on his dinner. “What is on this plate?”
Fanny and Molly exchanged a confident look, and the
n Molly told him exactly what was on the plate. Henry laughed—the sound was strange to his ears—and then asked them to describe what Tom was wearing. Fanny took on the challenge, and though one of her conjunctions was not exactly right, he was quite impressed.
“Here is the final test,” Henry said, raising one finger. “Can you read it and know what you have read?”
The sisters shared another glance, and then Molly got up from the table to retrieve a book from the buffet. They had anticipated him. She held it up to him so he could see it was a book of Racine’s work, then she opened to a marked page, cleared her throat, and read the first few lines of what Henry recognized as part of the play Bérénice.
When Molly came to a stopping point, she explained the passage—a lament of time lost—and handed the book to Fanny who read a few more lines and then provided a translation, not just a summary. She did very well finding the English words to convey the heart of the French.
He asked her to read more and she did, transfixing Henry as the words washed over and around and through him. Henry could have listened to her read all night long, and though the play she was reading from was a great tragedy, he did not know when his heart had felt so light. When Fanny finished, all was silent for a few moments.
“I am speechless,” he said, his eyes still on Fanny until she began to look uncomfortable. She glanced at her sister as though in supplication. Henry reluctantly moved his attention to Molly before he continued. “You have both put such effort into this learning.”
“We did,” Molly said, returning to her meal with a pleased air. “After our first few lessons, Fanny and I agreed to only speak French to one another.”
“Which was beyond irritating,” Tom said. “They sounded terrible when they first began—like pigeons fighting over a crust of bread.”
“You said we did very well,” Fanny said to her brother as she put down her knife and fork in protest.
“I simply did not want to hurt your feelings,” Tom said with a wink.
Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) Page 9
