Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “‘Well enough’ does not sound all that well, Mr. Longfellow.” She did not fully understand why she was being so bold, but then many aspects of her relationship with Mr. Longfellow were strange. “Is everything all right? Have you been ill?”

  He shook his head, avoiding the question, and looked at the package in his lap a few moments longer before holding it out to her. “I brought this for you and your family.”

  Fanny took the box from him. “Thank you,” she said. The parcel was wrapped in paper, and she tugged at the string holding it together. When she pulled back the paper, she lifted her eyebrows and stared at a very familiar presentation—a book and a wedge of cheese. It took her back to the first time she’d received such items in this very room two and a half years ago, but with Jewett as the presenter instead of Mr. Longfellow. The reminder of her conclusions from that time—of his nostalgic gift—left her speechless. She lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “This cheese is from Interlaken,” Mr. Longfellow said, with more energy than he had shown to this point. “I ordered it from a man in New York.”

  “Interlaken?” Fanny repeated, pretending she didn’t understand the significance since she had never admitted her conclusion to anyone.

  Mr. Longfellow nodded. “The last cheese I sent was from Zurich, which pleased me, but this is even more specific to very happy memories for me.”

  “The cheese represents our time in Switzerland,” Fanny said as though only now discovering the connection.

  “Of course,” Mr. Longfellow said. “We had many wonderful conversations over afternoon tea, complete with a selection of cheeses.” He scanned her careful expression. After a moment, Mr. Longfellow’s forehead wrinkled. “As I explained in my note when I sent you my first book of poetry.”

  “I’m afraid whatever note you sent did not make the journey,” Fanny said, smiling sympathetically and wishing she dared admit that she knew from the start. But it was too much risk. “Just the book and the cheese.”

  He blinked and then let out a breath. “So you received an offensive book and a confusing parcel of cheese.”

  Fanny felt her cheeks heat up with how perfectly he had articulated her feelings toward Hyperion, and then she felt even worse when his neck began to turn red with his own embarrassment. She could remedy that if she felt strong enough to resist the consequence. She leaned forward without thought and placed her hand on his knee.

  “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “I had felt sure you had sent a note, and . . . and the gift was very kind and very thoughtful.”

  Mr. Longfellow stared at her hand, causing her to pull it back, drawing with it his gaze as she straightened in her chair. “Without an explanation you must have thought I was making some kind of joke.”

  “No,” Fanny said sincerely. She had never jumped to that conclusion. His discomfort felt like a heavy beam across her shoulders, and she felt a growing desperation to be free of the responsibility. But not enough to tell him the truth. What kind of woman had she become?

  “Then you must have thought I was insane,” Mr. Longfellow said.

  Fanny did not comment on that since she had wondered if he’d lost his mind—if only for a few moments. “It was very thoughtful,” she repeated, meaning it. “As this is, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, a note of dejection in his voice.

  Mathew came to the door. “Miss Austin to see you, Miss Appleton.”

  Mr. Longfellow stood quickly, prompting Fanny to stand as well.

  “Thank you for your visit today, Mr. Longfellow, and for your kind gift.” It bothered her that he might not know she meant what she said. He was used to her polite commentary and this was no different, except that she was not simply being polite. She wanted to offer remedy she could not give.

  He bowed slightly, but she could feel his urgency to leave and it pricked her conscience.

  “I wish you many happy returns in the new year, Miss Appleton. Please give my best to your family.”

  “I will,” Fanny said. “And many happy returns to you too.”

  He bowed again and exited the room.

  Fanny watched him go and then looked at the cheese she held in one hand and the book of poetry she held in the other. She read the title—Ballads and Other Poems. It was Mr. Longfellow’s newest book, and in Fanny’s opinion, his best work to date. Tom had purchased a copy and she’d read it almost as soon as she had returned to Boston, so why hadn’t she told Mr. Longfellow she’d admired it? Why had she withheld a sincere compliment? She would have said as much to anyone else of her acquaintance under a similar circumstance—why not him?

  The sound of footsteps caused her to look up.

  Emmeline stood in the doorway of the parlor, her dark eyes framed by round spectacles. She cocked her head to the side. “Not more cheese,” she said, then let out a heavy breath.

  “And another book,” Fanny said, lifting the volume before waving her dear friend to the chair Mr. Longfellow had recently vacated. She returned to her own seat and put the book on the table. “Have you read it?”

  Emmeline shrugged and pulled off her gloves. Mathew came to the door, and Fanny ordered a fresh pot of tea.

  “I read it,” Emmeline said once they were alone again. “‘The Village Blacksmith’ was well enough, but the rest is peu de chose. What more can one expect from such a mocking-bird, though?”

  Fanny smiled, but was not comfortable with the remark, which was based on comments Fanny had made over the years. “He seemed so . . . sad, Emmeline. As though he has no joy in his life at all.”

  “He always seems that way,” Emmeline said with a dismissive wave. “If he is unhappy, it is of his own making.”

  “I fear he is unhappy because he has set his sights on a woman who does not want him.”

  Emmeline regarded Fanny a few moments. “I hope that this woman will not pretend otherwise simply to remedy his poor mood.”

  “Of course not,” Fanny said, as frustrated with her inability to put her feelings into words as she was with his inability to hide his feelings. “I just hate feeling . . . responsible, I suppose.”

  “Well, you aren’t responsible,” Emmeline said. “He is. And you received him with kindness today, which I think was generous of you after how he’s treated you. You should not waste one more minute worrying over his thoughts and feelings when he has spent nary a one pondering on yours.”

  “He explained the purpose of the cheese,” Fanny said, waving toward the wedge. “It was a thoughtful connection to our time in Switzerland.” Poetic. Romantic even.

  “Well,” Emmeline said, raising her eyebrows from behind her spectacles. “I’m glad to know he is not fit for Bedlam, but it is still cheese of all things. Cheese, Fanny.”

  Mathew delivered a fresh pot of tea, and Fanny considered telling Emmeline of the day she and Mr. Longfellow had bought cheese in Zurich, how she’d watched him converse with the shop owner and felt such admiration. She had found him so interesting then, full of ideas and opinions that had dazzled her. He’d told her that she had a quick mind, that she was smart and capable. To think of that memory and then picture him as he’d been today left her feeling even heavier. Perhaps her rejection wasn’t simply that she didn’t want him. Maybe she knew she didn’t deserve him.

  “Now,” Emmeline said, “enough about the prof. Tell me all about the dress you shall wear to the Rangeys’ party tonight—every splendid detail. I do so love New Year’s celebrations, they seem to set the tone for the entire year.”

  Thirty-One

  Valley of the Soul

  The wind was bracing as Henry stepped out of the house onto Beacon Street, the smirking expression on Miss Emmeline Austin’s face hovering in his memory. No doubt she and Fanny would laugh over his pathetic visit as they likely had his other calls over the years. As much as he wanted to think Fanny above such gossip, he knew of her sharp tongue and hated to think of it turned on him. He could not bear the thought.

  Henry pu
lled his shoulders toward his ears, hunching against the cold, and stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets as he descended the front steps and turned on the cobbled sidewalk. He had planned to make other New Year visits in Beacon Hill, to Samuel Appleton and his wife and the Andrew Norton family specifically, but had chosen Nathan Appleton’s house to be his first call so he wouldn’t be carrying the parcel around to the other homes.

  He had reconsidered the visit entirely when he realized only Fanny was home, but Mrs. Craigie’s words—spoken when his mind was clearer than it was today—had come back to him, and he decided not to avoid the meeting.

  Once again, things had gone horribly wrong instead of the way he had pictured in his mind.

  Henry groaned into his scarf as Fanny’s words rang back to him: “Whatever note you sent did not make the journey.”

  Isaac Jewett had presented her with a book and a Swiss cheese all those years ago with no explanation for either item, no shared experience that would draw the significance together in her mind. Fanny had said she did not think his gift of cheese was a joke, but he’d seen the relief in her eyes when he’d explained the purpose. Her relief spoke volumes of how confused the Appletons must have been, how confused they must have thought he was to have sent it. And that was before she’d actually read Hyperion and seen herself in its pages. Why hadn’t Tom ever told him of the confusion? Why had Henry come again today after never having heard how the first gift was received?

  Henry had gone to Portland for Christmas, enjoyed his family, and returned to Cambridge determined to see Fanny again and present the Appletons with his newest book. It made no sense now, but he supposed the renewing spirit of Christmas had left him drunk and once again overly hopeful. It was the wrong decision. He should give Fanny the distance she obviously wanted rather than continually put himself before her. Each meeting seemed more awkward than the last.

  “You are a fool,” he said into his scarf. Why had he gone? What did he hope to gain?

  Hope was wearing him out. That he was at a low part in his own mind made it all the worse. Christmas with his family had helped, but he’d come back to a gray Boston, an upcoming term, and now a visit that assured him Fanny Appleton thought him a fool. An idiot. An old, broken man with no merit at all.

  I must give it up, he said to himself, hunkering even further against the wind. Mrs. Craigie had hoped he would find happiness. If he did not give Fanny up, would he waste the rest of his life? Was there any point to living at all if he pinned all his hopes on a fantasy that was only getting further and further away from him?

  He could not bring himself to make the other calls now. He was too overwrought, too embarrassed and low to be good company. Was he ever good company for anyone? He was tired of himself, and he felt sure his friends were weary of his moods as well. All of them were too busy to find time for the evenings they had all once enjoyed so much. Sumner and Tom were abroad more often than they were in Boston. The other men had responsibilities—courtship for Felton, a family for Cleveland. Sparks’s aspirations toward school administration kept him busy. Henry could not ignore the possibility, however, that his friends were avoiding his company. And why not?

  His publisher wanted another book, but Henry had written very little in the last few months. He could not seem to concentrate, and when he did, only words of pain and sorrow and longing filled the pages. At times he felt as though he were suffocating in a misery that seemed to creep over him from all sides.

  Some part of him had thought seeing Fanny today would draw him up from the depths, like a light in the shadows, but he wondered now what made him even hope for such a thing. After Hyperion? He growled deep in his throat and wished he might go home, crawl into bed, and let sleep take him forever. The alternative—the life he lived day in and day out—was devoid of joy and meaning.

  Fanny Appleton’s image remained ethereal, like a spirit hovering just out of reach. The more he moved toward her, the faster she retreated. There was nothing solid for him to pin his hopes on, no reason at all for him to expect any return of feeling from her. Yet he kept visiting. Kept hoping. Kept making himself a nuisance to her and her family.

  Snow began to fall, lightly at first, but nearly blinding by the time Henry reached Craigie Castle, his feet frozen. He took the back stairs and did not remove his wet coat until he reached his room. He was angry and tired and disillusioned to the point that all he could do was sit in front of the fire and let every miserable aspect of his life promenade through his mind.

  What was it all for?

  Why was he here?

  What was the purpose of so much unhappiness?

  Over and over his thoughts went back to Fanny and Mrs. Craigie’s parting advice until he felt sure he would go mad. “I must be finished with her,” he said to the crackling flames. “I must accept what is and chase her from my thoughts.” He felt tears rise in his eyes. “Oh, dear God, draw this poison from my veins. Free me of my path to purgatory and bathe me with Thy light and glory.” The tears began to fall, and he did not try to stop them. “Spare me,” he whispered. “Save me. Let me go.”

  Thirty-Two

  New Eyes

  It was late, and Fanny had already retired to her room when she remembered Mr. Longfellow’s book. She’d left it in the drawing room after his visit earlier in the week and every night had wished she’d brought it to bed so that she might read his poems as her mind let go of the daily cares.

  For a few moments she argued with herself as to whether or not it was worth a return to the drawing room in the dark before giving in. She picked up the lamp from beside her bed. She walked carefully and quietly downstairs and then turned up the lamp once she was in the drawing room.

  She checked the table where she felt sure she had left it, but it wasn’t there. For the next few minutes, she skirted the room in case her memory was wrong, but after looking through the whole room she was forced to admit that the book was gone. She frowned in the darkness and was contemplating where else the book could be when the squeak of a door hinge made her jump. She nearly dropped the lamp.

  “Miss Appleton?”

  Fanny put a hand to her chest. “Mathews,” she said with relief. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “You didn’t wake me, ma’am,” he said. His coat was not square on his shoulders and one pant leg was tucked into his sock. He’d obviously heard someone up and about and hurried to dress in order to find what was the matter. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Fanny said. “Only I am looking for a book I left here a few days ago.” She cast another glance around the room as if the book may have suddenly appeared.

  “Was it Mr. Longfellow’s book, by chance?”

  “Yes, a book of poetry.”

  “Mrs. Appleton was reading it this evening, ma’am. I believe she took it to bed with her.”

  Harriet had returned that evening from her holiday visit with her sister; she’d had dinner with Fanny before Fanny went to Emmeline’s to play bridge with some other friends. “Oh, well, I’m glad to know it’s in safekeeping.” She smiled and moved toward the door. “I apologize again for waking you.”

  “No apology necessary,” Mathews said as he held the door for her. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, thank you. Good night.”

  It was nearly lunchtime when Fanny went upstairs to the nursery. She knocked on the door and then let herself in. As soon as Fanny realized Harriet was nursing little Harriet she stopped, embarrassed. “I beg your pardon,” she said, backing out the way she’d come.

  “You may come in, Fanny,” Harriet said. “I am almost finished.”

  Still mortified to have intruded on such a private moment, Fanny came into the room and moved immediately toward William, who was making a tower of blocks. She kept her back to Harriet and the baby while she played with her brother for a few minutes.

  When Harriett said she was finished, Fanny turned without getting up from where she sat on the fl
oor. Harriet put the baby over her shoulder and began patting the tiny back.

  “Can I help you with something, Fanny?”

  “I just wondered if you were finished with Mr. Longfellow’s book.”

  “Oh,” Harriet said. “I’m sorry, I had thought you had already read it.”

  “I have,” Fanny said, wishing she didn’t sound so guilty. “But Tom took his copy with him. Mr. Longfellow brought a new one for the family, only I left it in the drawing room and Mathews said you had picked it up.”

  “I wouldn’t have if I’d known you’d wanted it.”

  The baby’s body suddenly bounced in connection with a burp that seemed too loud to come from such a tiny thing. Harriet chuckled and Fanny smiled. “Would you like to hold her?” Harriet asked, gently lifting the infant from where she rested so perfectly against her shoulder.

  “Certainly,” Fanny said. She rose from the floor and sat in a chair near Harriet’s rocking chair. Harriet laid the baby on her lap and wrapped the baby in a blanket so only her face peeked out. Then she handed the bundle to Fanny, who was rather well practiced with baby-holding these days. The baby molded into her arms, and Fanny curled round her, tapping her perfect chin, complete with a divot in the center like Father and Tom had. She began gently swaying, and little Harriet’s eyes closed.

  “Would you like me to fetch the book?” Harriet asked.

  Fanny noted how content her stepmother looked, though her eyes were tired. She thought of all the nursemaids she’d seen in England, how attentive they were to their charges, freeing up the mothers to rest, visit with friends, and pursue their own interests. Harriet’s interests, however, were her children, and although it appeared to be a taxing endeavor, there was no doubt Harriet adored the responsibility and her children thrived beneath her attention.

  William—soon to be two years old—seeming to realize his mother’s lap was free, pushed himself up from his blocks and toddled to her with his arms raised. Harriet smiled and lifted him into her lap before she began rocking gently back and forth, stroking his hair.