Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Fanny sighed. The argument was going nowhere, and she was sounding like a ninny. “Do you think I am reflected in Mary Ashworth, Tom?”

  When he did not answer right away, she turned to Jewett, then Molly. “Tell me truly, do you think Mr. Longfellow—on purpose or not—reflected me in his book?”

  Everyone was silent, awkward amid the serious turn to the meal. Molly flipped through the stack of letters beside her plate by way of distraction. Fanny turned her full attention to Tom. He was the most likely to be honest since sparing her feelings was never his priority.

  “Well?” she asked, cocking her head and keeping her focus on her brother. “Do you?”

  “There are . . . similarities,” Tom admitted.

  His cautious tone irritated her all the more, but she knew how to force the truth from him. “Don’t be a nincompoop. Do you or don’t you think that the professor put me in his book?”

  “Alright, then. Yes,” Tom said. “I think you have nearly trod that man’s heart into the ground, and whether intended or not, he attempted to exorcise his heartache through writing a mean-spirited woman who turns down a good-hearted man for no other reason than she sees him as beneath her.”

  Fanny was unsure if the sound of someone sucking in a breath was her or Molly or Jewett. Regardless, she stared at her brother who refused to apologize. The silence was numbing.

  Fanny stood, threw her napkin in her chair, and ran from the room to the bedchamber. She locked the door before throwing herself on the bed as though she were some adolescent girl. She wanted to cry and rage, but the numbness Tom’s words had brought on kept her from displaying her emotions. She buried her face in the quilt while Tom’s words marched through her head like tin soldiers. Exorcise his heartache. Mean-spirited woman. Good-hearted man.

  She clenched her eyes shut and turned her head so she didn’t suffocate. Mr. Longfellow was a good-hearted man. She had never said otherwise, but that did not justify the embarrassment he had caused her. Not just with the book, but his continued attention and the fact that everyone in Boston seemed to know it. He was the one who proposed to her unexpectedly, without a proper courtship. He had not been a gentleman in his regard for her. If he had, he would not have wanted to cause her discomfort.

  “For no other reason than she sees him as beneath her.”

  Fanny’s stomach burned. Was that true? Was the primary reason for her rejection of the professor based upon her unwillingness to lower herself to his class?

  She felt both embarrassed and defensive of the possibility, but then she wondered if it mattered what she thought if everyone else believed she was a spoiled rich girl looking down on a college professor. Did people think she was so afraid of not having fine clothes or nice carriages that she kept her heart locked to him?

  Were they right?

  Was it so wrong to want comfort?

  Was she willing to give up every other happiness for that comfort?

  How could she love a man who treated her so poorly?

  Had he treated her poorly?

  Could she love any man at all?

  It seemed the men who drew her interest did not return it, and the man who was so blatantly interested in her, quite frankly, frightened her. He was so intent. So seemingly unaffected by her feelings regarding his. The moment in the dining room in Interlaken, when he had looked at her and made her feel so . . . noticed had only been the first time he’d done so, and the more time and clarity that grew between those experiences and the present, the more uncomfortable she was with the level of his notice. Who was he to understand her? And did he, really? He’d created a character made up of her and his dead wife. How was that anything less than objectionable? When she had rejected his proposal, she had stated that very fear—that he was looking to replace Mary Potter Longfellow. And now this?

  These were thoughts she could share with no one, but they boiled inside of her and begged her to determine which part of Hyperion was most hurtful. That he’d reflected Fanny in the character of Mary Ashworth, or that he’d reflected Mary Potter as well? Did he see any distinction between the two? Did she even matter for her own merit?

  Never far from her objections and irritation was the notice she took of him. The gentleness that was now at odds with what she saw as an attack against her, the keen mind she admired, and the affection she had felt toward him at times. Those things were tainted now, or so she thought, but now and again they would rise up and she would wonder if she had bungled this entire situation, not him. If she had opened her heart, would things be different? But it was too late for that. She did not want a man who would treat her as Mr. Longfellow had. She was entitled to her feelings.

  Fanny had locked the main door to her room but hadn’t remembered to secure the door that joined Molly’s bedchamber to her own until she heard the hinges squeak. She was still sprawled over the bed and silently cursed Molly’s entrance. She did not want to discuss this with Molly, her sister who’d been left so wounded by John Peterton that she had stopped speaking of marriage all together, even though Fanny knew Molly wanted it more than ever. And here was her younger sister, in hysterics because a man was too attentive to her, too sincere, too determined.

  Fanny pushed herself off the bed before Molly could sit beside her or stroke her hair. She didn’t want comfort—wasn’t sure she deserved it. If only she could be like Tom and catch a ship to Europe and hide until everything had faded away. If only she had such control of her destiny.

  Fanny came to her feet and tried to smile at her sister, who was not smiling back. Her expression was so serious, Fanny instinctively asked, “Are you all right, Molly?”

  Molly sat on the edge of Fanny’s bed and waved toward the chair beside it. “I think you should sit down. There’s something I need to tell you, and I fear you will not like it.”

  “Did Mr. Longfellow publish another book?” Fanny said, still immersed in her ire but attempting to lighten it.

  “I’m serious, Fanny.”

  Her expression was serious. Fanny sat, put her hands in her lap, and prepared herself.

  Molly took a breath. “After you left the breakfast room, I opened a letter from Father.”

  “What has happened?” Fanny asked. Was someone ill, or worse yet, had they lost someone else they dearly loved?

  Molly looked confused a moment, then shook her head. “Nothing has happened. Well, not exactly. He had news.”

  “What news?” Fanny asked cautiously.

  Molly smiled, albeit weakly. “He is going to be a father again. In January, they suspect. They held off telling anyone until they knew all was well with, well, with Harriet and the . . . the baby.”

  Fanny blinked and leaned back in the chair.

  “He said he had hoped to tell us in person, but it doesn’t look as though they will be leaving Boston any time soon, now that they have returned from Nahant. At Harriet’s age, you know, they have to be careful. He hopes, however, that we will share in his joy and return in October as planned to help Harriet in her final months of confinement.”

  Fanny looked at the braided rug beside her bed. A new wife. Now a new family.

  “You are happy for them, are you not, Fanny?”

  “Of course I am,” Fanny said, looking up at her sister. “Do you think I am so heartless as to not be joyful for such a thing?”

  “You did not approve of the marriage.”

  “No, I did not,” Fanny said with a sad smile. “But Father is happy, and Harriet is a good companion for him.”

  The news made her thoughts even more complex. Her father had come to life with Harriett at his side. Though she struggled to find the words to explain it, Fanny could see that he still loved her mother, still missed her even. But he was happier than he had been for many years, and Fanny was genuinely glad of that. She no longer felt the same resentment toward Harriet that she did in the beginning, or feel that her mother had been replaced. Rather, she saw her father being given another chance at joy. And Harriett had been
given the chance to be loved and, now, to have a family of her own.

  So why did it all make Fanny’s heart ache? Why was their happiness painful for her at times?

  Molly moved her gaze to the side. “A child between them will displace us even further.”

  Fanny was surprised to hear such a thing from Molly, who had tried so hard to be cheerful and accommodating of their stepmother. The sisters had spent the majority of their time since the wedding traveling. Between the awkwardness of a new woman running the household and Mr. Longfellow’s book, Boston had become uncomfortable. As grown women, they were entitled to such freedoms, but the fact was that the house on Beacon Street felt less and less their home.

  “Fate does seem to be pushing us toward more independence, doesn’t it?” Fanny said.

  “It does seem that way, only our options are limited.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Fanny said, scraping for the positive. “We have means of independence, and Father is progressive. If we wanted to set up our own residence, for instance, I feel sure Father would support it—after the baby is born, of course.”

  “Oh, I disagree,” Molly said, her voice strong as she shook her head. “He might be progressive in some ways, but not enough to release his daughters into the world alone.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Fanny took a deep breath and let it out as she reached for her sister’s hands. “We shall be fine, you and I, and a baby is always a wonderful thing. I believe that is where our attention should be focused, on the good news this brings.”

  “Never mind the bruising?” Molly asked.

  Fanny smiled. “Never mind the bruising. We have each other, and for that I am grateful.”

  Molly’s brow puckered for a moment, as though something about Fanny’s comment concerned her, but she repaired it quickly, and Fanny chose not to ask for an explanation.

  “Indeed,” Molly said with a smile. “We shall always have each other.”

  Fanny rose from her chair. “My, this has been a trying morning. I do hope the day’s diversions are fine enough to make up for all this heavy talk. What is the agenda?”

  “I believe Mr. Mackintosh will be calling this morning,” Molly said.

  Fanny looked over her shoulder, struck by the nervous tone in her sister’s voice. “The Irishman?” While they had had any number of gentleman callers these last months, Fanny had found Mr. Mackintosh’s company rather dry.

  “He’s Scottish,” Molly corrected her sister, picking at a loose stitch on the quilt.

  Fanny watched her sister another moment and then turned to the window so Molly wouldn’t see her concern. Had Mr. Mackintosh drawn her sister’s interest?

  Don’t look for ghosts, she chided herself and then thought of Mary Potter Longfellow. Was Fanny trying to see ghosts where there were none? Had Mr. Longfellow properly mourned Mary Potter to the point that, like Father, he could love again? As whole and complete as ever? Harriet was not threatened by the fact that Nathan had loved before. In fact, she had told Aunt Sam that it encouraged her, proved to her that he was faithful and capable of loving her just as well as he’d loved Fanny’s mother.

  It frustrated Fanny how easily her thoughts turned to Mr. Longfellow. More than ever, she did not want his attention, so why must he invade her thoughts? She suspected the reason was due to how often he seemed to bring out the worst in her. From the very first night they had met, it seemed she was always putting her foot in her mouth or reacting in ways that embarrassed her later. Yet her poor behavior never seemed to dissuade him. It was irritating . . . but was there not something appealing about it?

  How many times had Fanny reflected on the people in her life and felt as though they didn’t really know her? She knew how to behave, how to react, how to carry and present herself. Even with Molly—her dearest friend—she was cautious about sharing certain thoughts and feelings she had for fear of disappointing her sister. Mr. Longfellow, however, seemed as accepting of Fanny’s flaws as of her virtues.

  “Fanny? Did you hear me?”

  Fanny turned back to Molly. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said that we should return to Tom and Jewett,” Molly said from the doorway. “We should put this morning behind us. Tom is simply defending his friend.”

  Fanny wanted to ask why he could not defend his sister, but the fight had gone out of her. Maybe she did deserve Mr. Longfellow’s censure. Or perhaps he truly did not mean to reflect her and was as embarrassed by the connection as she was. Either way, looking for ghosts was exhausting and she was tired of the effort.

  “Give me another minute to collect myself,” Fanny said. “Then I will join you.”

  Molly exited the room through the adjoining door.

  Fanny looked out the window over the fields and hills. She thought of Mr. Longfellow writing by lamplight at the end of the day when his teaching responsibilities were done. She thought of her father penning a note to his daughters, hoping they would share his happiness. She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. “Help me find peace,” she whispered in desperate prayer as emotion stung her eyelids.

  Twenty-Five

  Mrs. Mackintosh

  Fanny adjusted the slight train of Molly’s simple muslin wedding gown and glanced up to find her sister watching her in the mirror. Fanny looked back to the dress, nervous for reasons that shouldn’t matter and hesitant for the type of heart-to-heart that was requisite for a day such as this.

  “You are happy for me, aren’t you, Fanny?”

  “Of course I am happy for you,” Fanny said as though the alternative were completely ridiculous. “I could not wish a better man for you than Robert Mackintosh.”

  “You did not like him so much in the beginning.”

  Fanny stared at the pristine fabric for a moment before placing her hands on her sister’s shoulders from behind and meeting Molly’s eyes in the mirror. Today was Molly’s wedding day, a day that would forever serve as a marker for her life, and Fanny’s efforts in behalf of the celebration that would follow would count for nothing if her sister did not feel as though they had connected as they had always connected during life-changing events before.

  “I will admit I did not enjoy his company all that much in the beginning,” Fanny said, though this was hardly a surprise to Molly. She had been distressed at the idea that Fanny had not liked the man who Molly liked very much. “I found him arrogant and stuffy, but once you gave your heart to him, and he gave his to you, I came to view him in another way. I am sincerely grateful such a man has earned your love. I could not have parted from you for anything less than that.”

  Molly’s eyes filled with tears. “You mean it truly?”

  Fanny wrapped her arms around Molly’s shoulders and gave her a tight hug from behind. “With all my heart, dear sister.” They embraced a few seconds longer before Fanny released Molly. She stood beside her so they could look at one another side by side in the looking glass. Molly looked angelic in her high-waisted white gown, simple and elegant, just like her, while Fanny had chosen a lavender dress with the lower waist and fuller skirt of the current fashion.

  Fanny thought of their dual portrait painted by Isabey when they had been in Italy nearly four years ago, of how well he had captured them. Fanny wished they could have another portrait done of the two of them today—older, wiser, and one of them meeting her destiny.

  “You deserve every good thing, Molly,” Fanny said softly. “And I could not be happier for you than I am in this. It is everything you have ever wanted, and my heart is full to bursting for the joy of it.”

  Molly responded with a watery smile and a few dabs of her handkerchief. “I wish we weren’t going so far away from one another.”

  The reminder made Fanny’s heart thump in her chest, but she was careful not to show the reaction she felt every time she was reminded of the distance soon to come between the sisters; they had never been parted before.

  “You are to be married to an internation
al diplomat, Molly. Far away is part of the bargain.” Worried her attempt at a joke sounded severe, Fanny faced her sister and took both of her hands. “Perhaps it is for the best that you will go abroad,” she said, though she did not necessarily believe her own words. Molly’s eyebrows pulled together, prompting Fanny to continue. “We have been as close as any two people for all of our lives, and I’m not sure I could let you go enough to find your way with Robert if you were still in Boston. I would be on your doorstep every day, beside you at every meal, and continually entreating you to attend me in this thing or that.” She laughed at the image of it. “Poor Robert would be beside himself.”

  “But how will I get on alone?” Molly said in a near whisper. “I have never had to run a household on my own. What if I am not equal to it?”

  For an instant Fanny wondered why Molly hadn’t thought about that weeks ago, when Robert had first proposed marriage. “You have cold feet, Molly. There is absolutely no reason why you should question your abilities. You will learn the way of it as every woman does.”

  It would help that Robert would not have a grand house, not like 39 Beacon Street. He was an envoy and would spend his career traveling between a variety of posts and living in whatever accommodations could be found. There would not be a great many servants to manage or society to entertain, not like it had been for Molly in Boston. Fanny did not think of the changes in a disparaging way, rather she believed Molly would find great comfort in a simpler life. Yet one more reason why Robert seemed the perfect man for her.

  “I hope I will be equal to it,” Molly said. She turned back to the mirror and seemed to take a deep breath while squaring her shoulders. She took in her reflection, without Fanny beside her this time.

  Fanny stepped to the dresser and picked up the simple wedding bouquet of myrtle and lilies from the tray where it rested. She handed the bouquet to Molly, who held it in both hands and regarded herself in the mirror.

  “I’m getting married,” she said as though speaking to herself. “I shall be Mrs. Mackintosh.”