There it was again—baggage she had not meant to bring unpacking itself and sliding into her cupboards and cracks. She pushed up from the chair and turned to her sister, forcing a wide smile on her face. “Let’s get together a party for an afternoon picnic,” she said. “We could go to town and extend personal invitations and then walk up to the glen. It’s a lovely day, and we have time to make arrangements. I’m sure Mrs. Butler would come, and we could request a recitation—Shakespeare or something.”
Molly looked up. “I thought you were too tired for such entertainment today. That’s what you said last night when I suggested we put together a luncheon.”
“I don’t want a luncheon indoors—shut away from the glorious day.” Fanny turned back to the window. She hadn’t wanted a picnic either, until she realized what poor company her thoughts were. “I want to be outside, with the breeze and the birds and the—”
“Rain?” Molly said.
The clouds in the east were indeed moving in, but Fanny was not deterred. “It might not rain,” she said. “And if it did, we could simply bring the party indoors.”
“And have a luncheon?” Molly shut her magazine and gave her sister a rueful look. “I’m teasing you, of course. I think it sounds lovely.”
Fanny hurried toward the door that connected their rooms with the Yates’. “I’ll have Mr. Yates get the carriage ready,” she said brightly.
Thank goodness Molly had agreed to the diversion. They had been in Western Massachusetts for three weeks and still she could not keep her thoughts from straying to the frustrations of Mr. Longfellow and “Mary Ashworth.”
When she’d first read the book, she tried to take comfort in the fact that only she and her closest family and friends would draw the conclusion that Mary Ashworth was to Paul Flemming what Fanny Appleton was to Henry Longfellow. That had shortly proven to be an optimistic hope.
It felt as if everyone in Boston had made the same conclusion until Fanny could hardly bear to leave the house for fear some acquaintance would stop her on the street to ask her thoughts on the matter, or make a joke.
To Fanny, the comparison was not a joke, it was an insult, and whatever feelings of kindness and friendship she had retained toward Mr. Longfellow had been carried away by the stream of her humiliation. Publicly, of course, she pooh-poohed the entire situation, laughed it off, and acted as though she were flattered by the attention. Internally, however, she twisted and writhed against the embarrassment and anger she felt toward Mr. Longfellow. She’d tried so hard to remain friends after his ill-fated proposal—which he had also made public fodder for the gossips to dissect and share among themselves.
“See if Mrs. Yates also has time to help us put together a meal,” Molly said, causing Fanny to start, her hand still on the door handle. Molly cocked her head. “Fanny?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, bringing herself back from the past. She hoped this picnic would spare her mind the continual repetition of her situation. “I’ll ask her.” She disappeared into the shared portion of the house, determined—again—to keep her mind focused on the distraction rather than on the reasons she needed the distraction in the first place.
Twenty-Three
Mary Ashworth
“Mary Ashworth is not Fanny,” Henry said. “Hyperion is fiction.”
He and Tom Appleton had met for dinner at a restaurant along the wharf and, after a bit of small talk, Tom had asked Henry about Mary Ashworth from Hyperion, which had been out for two months.
“Fiction about a man who loses a dear friend, goes to Europe to recover, and meets a woman with whom he recites poetry?” Tom smiled and raised his eyebrows. “A man who loses his heart to a dark ladye who will not have him, and so he decides to live a solitary life?”
Henry looked down at his chowder. He could feel heat in his neck and chest and took a deep breath to calm himself. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked him if Mary was a veiled version of Fanny—or unveiled, according to some. It was not the first time he had denied it, but this was Fanny’s brother. Though Henry’s protests when the comments were first directed his way were insistent, Henry himself had begun to wonder. If not for his own study of literature and the way an author’s heart and experience tended to seep into the pages—with or without his notice—he could better argue his point. But he knew it was impossible for an artist of any medium not to personally influence his work, and so many people had suspected a connection between Mary Ashworth and Fanny Appleton that he feared Tom was right.
“I did not intend the story to be a reflection of your sister,” Henry offered. Or did he? Henry’s frustration with his feelings for Fanny had found their way into some of his poetry. Had he poured those same frustrations into the novel and then hid the truth of it from himself? Sometimes his mind felt as fractured as his heart, and he could not make sense of anything. He had hoped Hyperion would give him greater purpose and focus, but the reviews had not been as good as he’d hoped, and his publisher was hinting at money trouble that might delay Henry’s first royalty payment.
Tom waved a hand through the air. “Oh, don’t go throwing around ‘your sister’ and whatnot, I am not here to shame you, nor am I asking for any great confession, but you cannot blame me for asking.”
Henry met his friend’s jovial gaze. “You’re not angry?”
Tom laughed and scooped up a spoonful of his soup. “Very few things make me angry, Henry, you know that. And I think Fanny could use a little introspection, if you don’t mind my saying so. If this story helps her see herself more clearly, then it is for her good.”
Henry took another bite of his soup, picturing Fanny in his mind and wincing internally over the embarrassment she must feel. “Is she very angry, then?”
“Oh, yes,” Tom said, a laugh in his voice. He took a sip of his beer. “But she pretends as though she finds the whole thing silly and unworthy of discussion. Of course, that only prods me to introduce the topic into conversation any chance I can, which vexes her to the extreme.” He put a hand to his chest. “As her older brother, however, I feel that part of my responsibility is to vex her whenever possible. I am determined to do it well.”
Henry’s heart sank even more, and he wished, as he rarely did, that Tom was capable of a serious conversation. Was Fanny truly angry? At him? Was she hurt? Had Henry destroyed what little friendship was left between them? She’d been on summer holiday since he’d sent the gift of the book to her through her cousin, Jewett, and Henry had not seen her in all the months since.
“Do not take it so hard,” Tom said. He smiled with sympathy instead of amusement.
Henry hated feeling pathetic in his friend’s company.
“I read the book, and I quite liked it. If similarities between Mary Ashworth and Fanny exist, she should take it as a compliment—and perhaps a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Fanny should give greater acknowledgment to your feelings for her, Longfellow. I am disappointed she has treated you as she has, and I hope she will come to a place where she will be capable of returning feelings she attempts to talk herself out of.”
Henry’s heart leaped in his chest, and he sat up straight. “Her feelings?”
“I would not go so far as to say she loves you. I’m unsure she is capable of such a thing right now, but there is something there. Be it attraction or connection or whatever, you strike her in a way that no other man does.”
“Do not give me false hope,” Henry said, laying down his spoon with trembling fingers. “You are a good friend to me, Tom, but you do me no favors to encourage me toward barren fields.”
“I do nothing of the sort,” Tom said, leaning in and fixing Henry with a serious look. “She does not know her own heart and mind—she’s been wounded. Between the loss of people she loves and her romantic interests that have soured, she protects herself with a critical tongue and busy action. I believe her feelings are not so different from your own, only they are as yet unrecognized, and she does not t
rust herself enough to truly consider them.”
“You are teasing me,” Henry said, shaking his head. “What good are feelings unrecognized? It is a kind way to say she holds no regard.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “There are plenty of men for whom she holds no regard, and there are some she is sweet about, but there are very few who can draw passion from her heart of stone, and I am certain you, as a man of poetry, know that passion is not always properly attributed.”
Henry picked up his spoon. “Enough. You are simply giving me greater grief. What you mean to say is that she is passionately against me, and while I appreciate you stating that her passion could be for the future good should it turn to more optimistic intent, I do not feel such hope. I do not want conflict, with Fanny less than anyone.” He paused, considered his words, and then looked across the table at his friend. “Will you tell her that I did not intend to reflect her? That I am sorry to have caused her embarrassment?”
The amusement returned to Tom’s face. “Sure I will.”
The way Tom gave his word worried Henry. He felt as if he may have inadvertently thrown Fanny to the wolves a second time.
“Is the book doing well?” Tom asked. “Are you pleased with its progress so far?”
Henry was grateful for the change in subject. “The reviews have not been all that complimentary, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve read them,” Tom said with a nod. “But Poe cannot be trusted to give you a crumb of encouragement, and I am much more interested in public opinion, which seems to like the book. I think a man could take the book as a travel guide through Europe, so rich is the description and setting.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, immensely lifted by Tom’s compliments. “I’m sure it sounds arrogant for me to say, but I take great pride in the book—never mind the critics.”
“There are always plenty willing to point out flaws,” Tom said. “It’s better to pay them no heed. And you have another book coming out soon, do you not? Poetry?”
“Yes,” Henry said, unable to hide his smile. To have two books published in a single year was an accomplishment, and in two fields to boot. Even with the disappointments surrounding Hyperion, he was hopeful he was moving toward a writing career that he had wanted since he was a very young man. “And I have high hopes for it.”
Tom asked detailed questions about distribution, reviews, and the foreign rights. It was easy to talk with Tom, who was not the least bit threatened by Henry’s success. Tom had confessed he had once dreamed of being a poet, but he seemed to have determined since then that he had little need to make a career of any kind. He’d already opened and closed his legal practice, and he preferred to travel, appreciate art, and avoid marriage—a full time job if ever there was one.
The server cleared the empty dishes and both men requested a plate of cheese and fruit. After the server left, Tom leaned back in his chair and smiled widely. “So you’ve done it then. You are the newest American writer. You’ve broken the bonds of European culture and brought a voice to our own victories.”
“You flatter me,” Henry said, but he was unable to contain a smile. “I am certainly nowhere near ready to give up teaching, but I am encouraged. Should sales do well here and abroad, and if I am able to follow up with additional works, I may very well be able to make a career of my pen one day.”
“That is remarkable,” Tom said.
“I could not have done it without the support of my friends. You, Sumner, Felton, Cleveland, and Sparks have been unfailing in your encouragement. You have lifted me when I’ve fallen low and given me reason to continue forward.”
Despite the recognition of his many blessings, however, the last few weeks had begun to turn gray and curled at the edges. The pattern was familiar to Henry, too familiar, and he longed for sleep and wine and mournful literature that somehow made him feel less alone. Thus far he had avoided the worst of the depression, but the cloaked figure lurked around the corners, beating him with its blunted fists on nights that were particularly long and weary.
“I’m glad indeed to have such credit,” Tom said. “And very happy for your success. Jewett and I are heading up to Lenox in a few days to see how Fanny and Molly are faring. They’ve rented rooms for the summer there while Father and Harriet stay in Nahant.” He paused and his eyes twinkled. “May I share your success with Fanny? I’m quite certain she does not know you have another book being published this year.”
Henry had never told anyone that part of his reason for pursuing publication was to make a life for himself that might be more appealing to Fanny. His face heated up, and he was glad for the appearance of their server with the dessert plates. After the disastrous connection so many people had made between his book and Fanny, it seemed unwise to hope anything would show him in a better light.
And yet, despite the discouragement following his hasty proposal in the parlor on Beacon Street, and the awkwardness of the meetings that had taken place since, the hope Henry felt never went away. Not entirely. It certainly was low tonight, hearing that she was upset with him about Hyperion, but it was still there.
On the dark days, he would think of how lost Fanny was to him, of how worthless his days were without her. And yet somewhere in the corner of his mind was that flame of hope, pushing him on, drawing him out, keeping him active. He could not explain it, and so he simply accepted it as proof that someday, somehow, she would find a place for him in her heart.
Twenty-Four
A Letter from Home
Fanny’s face burned hot as she stared across the breakfast table at her brother, wondering how she could miss Tom so much when he was absent and be so vexed with him when he was near. Why had he discussed her with Mr. Longfellow at all?
“I, for one, am glad to hear of Mr. Longfellow’s success,” Molly said while spreading jam on her toast. Mrs. Yates had provided a very nice meal for the sisters and their guests, Tom and Jewett, who had come for a visit. The men were staying at the hotel in Lenox, but it was not so far from the sisters’ rented rooms that a morning visit was cumbersome.
“To claim Hyperion a success might be doing it too brown,” Jewett said, raising one eyebrow. “Have you not read the reviews?” He winked at Fanny, causing her to blush again but for another reason. Once again, Fanny had not been circumspect in sharing her thoughts with Jewett and wished she had guarded her tongue. She wondered how many people he’d shared her lashings with and wished she were not so quick to temper.
There was a tapping at the door that separated their rooms from those of Mr. and Mrs. Yates. Molly stood to open it.
“Mr. Yates brought the post from town a bit ago,” Mrs. Yates said, handing over a small stack of letters. “Thought you might like to see them over breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Molly said. She took the letters and returned to the table where she set the letters beside her plate and picked up where the conversation had left off. “I think Mr. Poe was exceptionally rude. You know, I heard he’s been particular in his criticism of Mr. Longfellow. Some suspect his irritation is not only based on literary interests.”
“Poe is a singularly miserable man,” Tom said, returning to his eggs. “The point is that Henry wasn’t writing about Fanny in his book. We can lay that suspicion to rest.”
When he looked at Fanny, however, he did not seem as though he were intending to lay it to rest. Rather he was baiting her, and she could feel herself rising to it even as she told herself not to. Nothing would irritate her brother more than if she refused to spar with him. Only she could not help herself. Perhaps because of her embarrassment, perhaps because of her own guilty conscience regarding her venting to Jewett, perhaps because everyone else seemed to see this as such a small thing when, in fact, it was not small at all to her.
She took a breath to steady herself before she spoke. “Surely you cannot ignore that this book is the perfect revenge for Mr. Longfellow to make upon me. Why would he admit as much?”
“Revenge?” Molly and Tom sai
d at the same time, both of them looking at Fanny in surprise. Jewett took a bite of his ham.
“Yes, revenge,” she said, encouraged to defend her position. “Because I rejected his proposal, he has created a caricature of me and put it on display so as to embarrass me. Does he not woo Mary Ashworth with German poetry and say she is not handsome? Does he not have Mary dismiss Mr. Flemming just as I dismissed Mr. Longfellow himself?”
“You are very handsome,” Jewett said. He winked again when Fanny gave him a curdling look.
Fanny put down her fork. “I know what I am, and I have never been a great beauty. I am not protesting for the sake of my vanity.”
“Then what are you protesting?” Tom asked.
She almost believed he was sincere. “I have been wronged.”
Tom snorted, and Fanny narrowed her eyes at him. She turned to Jewett and Molly. “Mr. Longfellow was most improper in his proposal to me, and then he has gone about town telling everyone the whole of it. A week has not gone by in Boston where someone does not make some sly comment about having seen him or his having asked after me—and that was before this blasted book was released.”
“Mind your language,” Molly said, taking a sip of her tea.
Fanny clenched her jaw a moment before she could speak again. Cutting into Molly would only weaken her argument. “He should not have made my rejection public. He should have afforded me respect then, and he should not have mimicked me in his book now.”
“He says any similarity was unintentional,” Tom said. “And I truly feel he was genuine in his claim.”
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