Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Do you think you’ll hang up your cape?” Felton asked once the meals were set before them. They were staying in the St. Charles Hotel, taking a few days to live above their privilege, though Henry Cleveland could afford such style on a more regular basis if he had a mind to. Charles Sumner and Hilliard were both lawyers, the former more successful than the later, while Felton was a bachelor professor at Harvard just as Henry was. “Now that you’re publishing again, will you give up teaching?” Felton clarified.

  When Henry had started his serious pursuit of a writing career nearly two years earlier on the heels of Fanny Appleton’s rejection, he had expected to give up teaching as soon as he could afford to. Now that the opportunity was upon him, however, he was not so eager. “I would be a fool to turn my back on a solid career, at least this early on.”

  “But you will quit eventually,” Sumner said in that direct style that was his own. “You won’t let sentiment hold you back from your destined course.”

  “Your faith in me is well-appreciated,” Henry said with a dramatic hand to his chest that made Sumner’s mouth twitch in a rare smile. “But I’m hesitant to expect my pen to buy bread for the rest of my life.”

  “But you still hope to make a living of it, do you not?” Cleveland pressed. “What was it you said last week? That if you had one more ninny-hammered freshman ask how it could be poetry when the lines did not rhyme, you would let the college see the back of you for the last time.”

  More laughter. More jokes, which were never in short supply when it was talk of students on the table. Finally Felton brought the conversation back around to the topic at hand. “Or has teaching gotten into your blood now so you cannot see the possibility of leaving it behind?”

  “I can’t say, exactly,” Henry said, seriously pondering the comment. “I expected I would be glad to be done with the classroom—you all know my frustrations.”

  The men nodded and chortled, confirming that they were well-aware of Henry’s ongoing displeasure regarding the educational institutions of America. Whatever reticence he felt at sharing his negativity had long been set aside with these men. They all agreed with him on some level and were all hopeful of improvement, which would occur only through faculty and society supporting a higher standard until that standard became the new expectation.

  “When faced with the prospect of not teaching, I have discovered three things.” Henry sat forward in his chair and held up one finger. “First, there is no saying that Hyperion will be a success. Tonight may be the only night of acclaim.” His friends made argumentative noises, but he pushed forward and raised another finger. “Second, I enjoy my writing more when it is an outlet for my frustrations. I fear that once it is my focal point, I shall have to take up another hobby and writing will become as tiresome as teaching.”

  “Oh, don’t take us round a serious turn,” Felton said, leaning back in his chair and pulling his eyebrows together above his spectacles. “You are a poet, not a philosopher.”

  “A poet is also a philosopher,” Cleveland said mildly. Felton rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Jared Sparks faced Henry. “And the third reason, Longfellow?”

  Henry kept his expression sincere, though his words were nothing of the sort. “The students need me so very much. What on earth would they do without me?” He leaned back in his chair while letting out a dramatic breath. “I feel it both my patriotic and Christian duty to bless these tender lives, gentlemen, and I cannot deny it.”

  The men guffawed, and Henry waved the waiter over for another round of drinks. It was as fine a night as any he had ever had, and he was glad for every moment of it.

  After dinner, they decided to walk through Central Park, lit up with gaslights that reminded him of the Boston Commons, though Central Park was easily ten times the size. When they came across a man selling roses, Henry bought five and tucked one rose into the breast pocket of each man’s coat as a token of his appreciation. Sumner scowled at his flower but did not refuse the gesture since the other men took it as a compliment, though a silly one.

  The group eventually exited the far side of the park and came upon a cheese vendor pulling his cart in for the night. Henry stopped the man and asked after his collection. “Anything European?” he asked, an idea coming to mind that seemed brilliant—though so had that third glass of wine. “I would like to take a gift to some friends in Boston.”

  “Your friends are all here,” Felton said. “I’m sure you don’t have more than the four of us.”

  The men laughed.

  “If you must know, I plan to call on the Appletons when I return,” Henry said, avoiding the shared glances of his friends. They knew who he meant to call on, and he was used to their continued confusion regarding his feelings toward Fanny. “I want to make a gift to the Appletons of Hyperion, and a nice cheese will serve as a reminder of our time in Europe.”

  Someone muttered under his breath, though Henry did not press for clarification as he turned his attention to the vendor. Sumner stepped away to light his pipe while the vendor described his selection of European cheeses.

  Writing about his second European tour had been impossible without revisiting memories of the time he’d shared with the Appletons, and Fanny specifically. He saw her from time to time about Boston, of course, and she was polite, but he could feel her defenses raised against him. His acceptance of her feelings—but his hope for a change—had become so much a part of him that he didn’t often feel the passionate rushes of emotion he’d felt when she’d first returned from her tour. Rather, thoughts of Fanny had become quite ordinary, like the way his hair fell to one side or the swing of his arm when he walked.

  He loved Fanny Appleton, he would love her all the days of his life, and he believed wholeheartedly that one day she would return his feelings. And so he continued to call, continued to greet her pleasantly, continued to enjoy her company when it blessed him, but he did not pursue her with the energy he once did. At times his mind fell into hopelessness and he wished he could exorcise her from his memory, but other times—such as now—when his mind was clear and his heart light, he was glad to have such a fine woman to think of and hope for. The longing itself was sweet.

  “Now this here, sir,” the cheese man said, pulling up a rather large wedge sealed in wax, “is a Swiss cheese straight from Zurich.”

  “Zurich?” Henry repeated, flooded with happy memories of that place. He and Fanny had rowed the lake with William in Zurich; he and Fanny had spoken of his feelings regarding education in America. They had been so free and easy with one another there.

  “I’m afraid it’s rather expensive, seeing how it’s imported and all,” the vendor continued. “But it is the real thing—Swiss cheese from Switzerland. Ya can’t get much more European than that.”

  “I’ll take it.” Henry reached into his pocket for his purse. “It’s just the thing.” Surely the Appletons would love this symbol of their time together, and perhaps Fanny would recall their specific exchanges in Zurich, just as he had.

  “You bought her a cheese?” Felton said from over Henry’s shoulder while the cheese man wrapped the wedge in paper and tied it with string.

  “A cheese from Zurich,” Henry said, not the least bit chastened by Felton’s teasing. “Perhaps she will remember fondly the time we shared there, as I do.”

  “Oh, Henry,” Felton said, shaking his head and putting a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “You are a hopeless romantic.”

  The clerk handed Henry his cheese and his change, and as the men resumed their walk down the sidewalk, Henry took the opportunity to clarify Felton’s accusation. “Hopeful romantic, Felton. Ever hopeful.”

  Twenty-One

  The Dark Ladye

  Fanny looked at the wax-sealed wedge of cheese and then lifted her confused gaze to meet the laughing eyes of her cousin, Isaac Appleton Jewett, who everyone called Jewett. “Mr. Longfellow gave you a cheese?”

  Jewett shook his head and waved toward the parcel. “He gave you a c
heese. I am only the messenger, but I must say the look on your face is worth every moment this task has required of me. Is it not as rank a gift as the man who sent it?”

  Molly cleared her throat, drawing Jewett’s attention for a moment, which allowed Fanny to look back at the cheese on the table and try to make sense of the very odd gift. Had Mr. Longfellow gone mad? Who gives a gift of cheese? The other half of his gift was a copy of his new book, which Molly held in her hand, appraising the canvas cover.

  “You said he gave these items to you in New York?” Molly asked. “This morning?”

  Jewett nodded. “I was on my way to the train when I encountered Longfellow and his companions quite by chance. When he learned the two of you were removing to Pittsville soon, but that I was coming here upon my return, his companions suggested he let me take his offering to you and save him from cutting his time in New York short in order to reach you before you left.” Jewett looked at Fanny. “Perhaps he relented because he knows how tiresome his visits are after all.”

  “They are not tiresome,” Molly said, sparing Fanny from having to reply. “Mr. Longfellow is a dear man.”

  “That is not what Fanny says.” Jewett waved toward Fanny, whose cheeks were suddenly on fire. “Why, I believe she has called him a pest.”

  “I was in a snit,” Fanny defended, though she was terribly embarrassed.

  Fanny attempted to shield her older and far kinder sister from her more caustic impressions of the world. Jewett, on the other hand, was as big a tease as Tom was and often managed to goad Fanny into saying some of the most horrible things. Mr. Longfellow was unfortunately the common topic of these discussions as his public proclamation of his feelings for Fanny had caused her a great deal of embarrassment and frustration these last two years. Jewett was an easy person to vent her irritation to, since he found the professor rather pathetic, but more than once Fanny would reflect on their conversations and feel shame over something she’d said. Jewett was usually more circumspect in sharing her impressions than this, however.

  Fanny turned toward Molly. “You know I value Mr. Longfellow’s friendship, Molly, only he has caused me some hardship with how blatant he’s been regarding his affections.”

  “And he obviously values your friendship too,” Jewett said, making a dramatic gesture toward the cheese. “Equal, no doubt, to the value of this fine cheese.”

  Fanny couldn’t keep from smiling as the humor of the situation refused to be ignored. “Surely he explained himself,” she said, looking into her cousin’s face. “Surely he did not hand you a book and a cheese and say, ‘Please give this to the Appletons with my regard.’” She might not like the way Mr. Longfellow continued to hover about her as though hoping she would change her mind, but she did not think him a loon.

  Jewett shrugged. “There was something about Swiss cheese reminding him of his time with you—”

  “Me? Or our family?” Fanny broke in—it was an important distinction. “Did he not say something specific, or send a note to explain himself?”

  Jewett pulled his eyebrows together and patted his pockets. “I do think there was a note.” He stopped searching and shrugged. “Or maybe not. No note. Just the cheese and his book.” Jewett leaned in a bit and lowered his voice as though telling a secret. “I may have made your departure seem more imminent than it was in hopes of sparing you an awkward visit.”

  “If he were going to sit here as you are now and present me with a cheese, it would have been awkward indeed,” Fanny said. Yet as she thought over what Jewett had said, and looked at the odd gift on the table, she had a burst of understanding. The gift was not just cheese, it was Swiss cheese. From Switzerland. The country where they had shared so much joy. So much comfort. Her heart ached with the memory even as she berated herself for feeling such nostalgia. That was a different time and place. Too much had changed, not the least of all how she’d hurt Mr. Longfellow by rejecting his proposal nearly two years ago.

  In desperate need to prevent Molly or Jewett from suspecting her sentimentality, Fanny put out her hand for the book. Molly gave it to her, and Fanny turned it over. “The production of the book seems very fine. I am glad to see he’s moving forward with his writing. He’s told me as much, of course, when our paths cross, but one never knows if a writer will ever actually finish his works.”

  “Yes, he does seem to be making progress with his writing career. But you cannot judge a book by its cover, now can you?” Jewett winked.

  “And since we have the book in hand, we do not have to,” Molly said, sounding annoyed by the continued disparagement of the professor. “Thank you for bringing us the . . . gifts, Jewett,” she said with a pointed smile. “We shall both very much enjoy them, I daresay, and accept them in the generous spirit in which they were most certainly given.”

  “Of course, of course,” Jewett said. He stood and gave each of his cousins a kiss on the cheek, but before he pulled away from Fanny, he whispered in her ear, “Let me know what you think of the dark lady. I feel sure you might recognize her as someone we know. She appears in the second half.”

  Fanny looked at him curiously, but he did not explain, only winked before turning toward the door. “Have a safe journey to Pittsville,” he said. “I shall let you know when I might be able to come for a visit.”

  With the good-byes finished, Molly said she would take the cheese to the kitchen before she left to luncheon at a friend’s house. Fanny thanked her sister and then returned to her seat in the drawing room. She opened the book, the binding creaking in a most satisfying way, despite the fact that she was not the first to open it. Jewett had obviously read at least some of it already. Still, she was glad it still felt like a new book.

  Fanny raised the book and inhaled deeply, the clean scent of ink and paper tickling her nose. After indulging in one more breath, she lowered the book to her lap and began skimming chapter to chapter. Her gaze scanned the pages until she found the reference Jewett had pointed out to her. She backed up to the first of that chapter and began to read. A lady—spelled “layde”—in black who the main character—Flemming—met. The “dark layde’s” name was Mary Ashworth. Mr. Longfellow’s first wife was named Mary. Is that who Jewett meant when he suggested the character might reflect someone they knew? Somehow Fanny doubted it, and her anxiety to answer Jewett’s riddle coiled inside her.

  “Do not look for ghosts,” she told herself, but she feared it was not ghosts at all.

  Fanny finished the chapter and had begun the next before the first dawning of awareness lit up her mind. Flemming was in love with Miss Ashworth. Miss Ashworth? Miss Appleton? Fanny read faster, skimming passages that did not contain specific reference to Mary Ashworth but taking note of everything else said about her. Not beautiful. Read German poetry with Flemming. Would not return his affections.

  Fanny’s mind spun until she had to stop, look forward, and take a breath. “Good heavens,” she said to herself before centering her thoughts. “Please tell me you did not do this, Mr. Longfellow,” she said to the walls and curtains and sashes in the room. “Please tell me you did not put me in a book with your wife’s name as my own.”

  Twenty-Two

  Lenox

  Fanny relaxed in the Puritan rocking chair before the window of the cottage where she and Molly had been for the last few days and smiled at the rolling hills of Stockbridge county that stretched before her. “I fear I could become quite used to this,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Molly, who was on the couch, turning the pages of a magazine.

  “The country?” Molly asked, screwing up her face as she regarded an advertisement.

  “The freedom,” Fanny said with something akin to reverence in her voice.

  One improved aspect of Father’s marriage to Harriet was that he had eased up on the need to keep his daughters under his watchful eye. He’d had no qualms with them going to Pittsville for the summer to stay with family, for instance. And when they’d written to request rooms of their own, rat
her than staying under a relative’s roof or in a hotel, he simply asked that they have their Aunt Frances help them find a suitable apartment. Which she had.

  The cottage could not be more perfect and was just the respite Fanny needed from the heat and the whispers of Boston. Thinking of why Boston was whispering about Fanny caused her carefree mood to fade, and so she focused on the brilliant greens of the rolling hills outside the window. A starling swooped and darted beneath the eaves. It did no good to run away from a thing only to bring it with you.

  “Better that we enjoy the independence while it lasts,” Molly said. “I am still shocked Father allowed it at all—and until October?” She shook her head. “It’s a marvel of his trust in us.”

  “I’m sure the fact that he and Harriet have the house to themselves was a factor in his support,” Fanny said, trying not to sound dour but failing. “Which is why we may be able to convince him to let us stay.”

  “Here?” Molly asked, raising her eyebrows. “With Mr. and Mrs. Yates?”

  “Goodness, no,” Fanny said with a laugh. “I wonder, however, if Father would purchase a cottage of our own, or even build one.”

  For the time being they were lucky to have found a house arranged so that half the rooms could be rented out. Mr. and Mrs. Yates lived in the other half and provided meals and care for the carriage horses—also rented for the next few months.

  The sisters came and went as they pleased, kept their own company, and accepted their own invitations without having to manage the household entirely on their own. But Fanny was fantasizing about even greater independence. She was twenty-one, but Molly made up for Fanny’s youth with her twenty-five years, twenty-six in a few more months.

  Fanny did not point out that her sister was nearly a spinster, but only because Molly didn’t like such an accusation. She still hoped for a good match with a good man, while Fanny had become only more determined against such a thing. She’d had a number of beaus—as she and Molly referred to the young men who buzzed about them—but none of them sparked her interest, and now the publication of Mr. Longfellow’s blasted book a few months ago had made her feel like a sideshow. She blamed her growing displeasure with the opposite sex squarely on the one man who seemed determined to draw her ire.