Still, he would not give in to it. He was made of firmer stuff and had not reacted like a lovesick puppy since his return from Germany almost six months ago. He faced Fanny, who looked at him with wide brown eyes and a smile that seemed genuinely glad to see him, though he could not trust himself to properly deduce such a thing. He had been wrong so many times before, and he was determined to live beyond the fantasies he had fed himself with all these years.
“Good evening, Miss Fanny,” Henry said, bowing slightly. “You look lovely this evening.” She wore a blue gown, and her hair was perfectly styled. He had seen her only in passing since his return from Germany, but he’d become convinced he had overcome the power of her hold on him. Now that she was before him, however, he was not so certain.
“You have now survived another New England winter. Are you still as glad to be returned to us?”
Us? A collective pronoun would not be his undoing, but his determination to have no reaction to her began to wobble at the inclusionary word. He tried to shore up his confidence and smiled at her politely. “I am always glad to come home.”
She turned her head to the side slightly. “More glad than to have remained in your beloved Germany?”
He could not help but laugh. It had been too long since she had spoken to him with such casual friendship. He ached for it. “I’m afraid it’s reflective of how very boring I am. That even despite my love of Europe—and Germany specifically, as you say—nowhere is quite as comfortable as New England.”
“Did you miss us very much then?”
Us again. What does she mean by that? He stared at her, and she did not look away or try to occupy herself with some distraction or another. What did her attentiveness mean? Could it be that she’d missed him? He’d no sooner thought it than he asked himself why he should not ask her that directly. He’d made his decision regarding her and had no reason to be afraid of saying something wrong. It seemed, in fact, that the more he had tried to say the right thing in the past, the more it had worked against him.
“Did you miss me?” He had never been so direct with her—at least not since his proposal all those years ago. Her cheeks turned instantly pink, and the sight quite took his breath away.
She glanced down and turned the cup of punch in her hand. “In fact, I did, Mr. Longfellow.” She looked back at him. “More than I would have supposed.”
Henry was rendered speechless. The silence lasted several seconds, until another guest interrupted them to ask after Henry’s upcoming lecture series. Fanny lingered for a time, listening to his answer, but then a woman led her away. Henry remained engaged in his conversation but did not lose his awareness of where Fanny was in the room. She’d missed him! Did she have any idea what such a statement did to his composure? That flickering flame of hope he had nurtured over the years began to burn brighter. It was all he could do to remain attentive to the conversation at hand.
The night wore on, and Henry genuinely enjoyed the company. Eventually the attendees began to thin, and Henry took the opportunity to find Fanny, eager—though not unreasonably so, he hoped—to continue their conversation. She had responded to him differently tonight, but he had misinterpreted things so many times before that he did not trust himself. He wanted to speak with her again.
He found her talking with an older couple, but as soon as he approached, she excused herself from the conversation and faced him fully. They were in a room filled with people, and yet at that moment, Henry felt as though they were entirely alone. He had the instant desire to brush his knuckles against her cheek, but he put his hand in his pocket instead. He would not fall victim to such temptation.
“I was rather rude earlier,” he said, causing her to lift her eyebrows in surprise. “You asked after my time in Germany and I did not ask after your time here in Boston. Did you travel for the autumn or winter?”
“I spent some time in Pittsville and New York,” Fanny said. “It is always good to spend time with family, but I must admit I miss Molly very much when I travel.”
“She and Mr. Mackintosh are abroad again?”
“Yes. Robert secured a post in England.”
“I understand Tom has found his place in Europe as well?”
Fanny laughed and shook her head indulgently. “Tom has informed us that he expects to make his career as a world traveler.” She shrugged. “I’m unsure what kind of salary that pays, but he seems to manage somehow, and strangely, I cannot picture him doing anything different.”
“He is becoming quite a wit,” Henry said. “He is well-known in England for his commentary on politics and culture, as I understand it.”
“Well, then, he’s done it,” Fanny said, seemingly proud of her brother. “Though I hope he comes home often enough that we don’t forget the look of him.”
“He leaves for England next month, does he not?” Henry said. He looked around, but Tom was not in sight. “We had dinner a few weeks ago, and I believe that was his intention.”
“Yes, in a few weeks’ time,” Fanny said. “It will be lonely without him. I can only hope that good friends will help fill the time.”
She held his eyes, and for a moment Henry could not breathe. Did she mean . . .
A woman came up beside them to bid Fanny farewell. When they were alone again, Fanny faced Henry but did not continue on the same topic. “Could I trouble you for a favor, Mr. Longfellow?”
“Certainly.”
“I wonder if you might walk me home. Perhaps our conversation would be less interrupted if you could. Tom is embroiled in a game of cards.” She nodded toward the back of the house. “He will likely not extricate himself for some time. I’m sure he would not argue your walking me.”
Henry was not about to argue and sent word with Mr. Norton that he and Fanny were leaving. They fetched their outer clothes, his traditional black wool coat and her fine velvet cape, and stepped out into the chilly night. Her house on Beacon Street was only a few blocks away, and the cobbled sidewalks were just wide enough for them to walk side by side. He offered his arm and she took it.
“It is cool tonight,” Fanny said. “Though I suppose it is rather mild for April.”
“I suppose it is,” Henry said, struggling to focus on anything other than her nearness. If this were a game of some kind, if her attention was not sincere, he might very well throw himself into the Charles River come morning.
“Now, tell me of Germany and your time in Europe,” Fanny said.
He entertained her with the details of his time in Germany, including the hot blankets he was wrapped in each morning and the cold baths he suffered through again and again. Fanny laughed, spurring him toward even more candor and humor.
When they turned on Beacon Street, she surprised him again by asking if he would walk the Commons with her. They were soon walking beneath the newly budded trees that in a few weeks’ time would create a canopy. For the time being, the two of them were alone in the Common. It was late and the air chilled, but the gaslights glowed and the company was unmatched in Henry’s opinion. They were walking as lovers would, and though he tried not to think of such a thing, the warmth of her beside him and the effect of her laugh upon his heart could not be ignored. It was the way he had always imagined it could be, but it was no longer a possibility. It was happening in the present. Just when he’d given up hope.
When the conversation dwindled into a comfortable silence, he stopped in the middle of the walkway and faced her. They did not speak for a few seconds as she gazed up at him with an expression of openness and, dare he say it, admiration? The thought came to Henry’s mind that perhaps she was waiting for him now just as he had been waiting for her all these years.
“Miss Appleton,” he said softly, not wanting to shatter the dream he found himself in. “May I be candid with you?”
“Of course you may, Mr. Longfellow,” she said. “I hope that you would.”
“You are different tonight—different than you have ever been towards me and I am unsure
how to react.”
She glanced away but only for a moment. “I am different,” she said. “But it is not only tonight. I have been waiting to see you, wanting to see you, for some time. You may find this silly, but I have been praying for a chance to speak with you, and tonight, when I saw you at the party, I felt sure that God had answered my prayer.”
Her words both thrilled him and put him on the defensive. “I have not stopped aging, you know, and I am still a widowed man. At the risk of offending you, I must tell you that I cannot bear to be trifled with. I conquered some part of myself in Germany, denounced some demons you might say, but I have promised not to inflict misery upon myself.” He felt he should say something else, he didn’t want her to think he saw her as misery, but his words failed him.
Fanny raised a hand to place it against his cheek. Instant heat fired through his veins at the intimate touch. “How I regret that you know the very worst of me,” she said softly. Her breath clouded before her face like a veil only to dissipate into the night a moment later. “How difficult it must be to trust me now.”
He reached up and took her hand, bringing it to his lips where he pressed a kiss. He wished he could tell her all the things his heart was saying. He lowered her hand but did not release it. She stared back at him, the light of the gaslights behind him flickering in her eyes.
“I have been reading your works,” she said. “You have such beauty in your heart, Mr. Longfellow, such depth and passion. I wonder why I could not see it before, or perhaps why it did not touch me as it has these last months.”
Months? The word proved that her attitude tonight was not a sudden one. “Perhaps it was because of your own wounds,” he said, thinking of what Tom had once said about the losses Fanny had suffered.
Instant tears sprang to her eyes, confirming that he was correct, at least in part. Had she already known her reasons, or had he unknowingly revealed something that spoke truth to her heart?
“Such wounds have not prevented me from hurting others,” she said. “Hurting you, I believe.”
He said nothing. This was no time for accusations, but he would not be dishonest either. It had been more than six years—six long years—that he had waited for her to return his feelings. Such a wait was painful, but looking at her now, he wondered if it weren’t also necessary. He was a better man than he used to be, and she a woman more aware of her own heart and mind. He could not share his life with a woman less than that. Dare he hope that this change in her was forecasting a future for them?
“Do you think you can ever forgive me for being so cold to you, for treating your affections so lightly?”
“I have no need to forgive you, Miss Appleton.”
“Fanny,” she cut in. “You’ve stopped calling me that.”
“You never gave me invitation,” Henry said. “That I would take upon myself such familiarity is an example of my arrogance. In regards to you, I have always been impetuous in ways that my age and wisdom should have prevented.”
“And I took it as poorly as a girl could,” Fanny said. “But I am a grown woman now.”
His awareness of such truth raised an ache that was not as familiar as it once was. He had made good progress in suppressing the physical attraction he felt toward her, but her confirmation of fact was more than he could hold back. “Yes, a beautiful woman.”
Her cheeks colored again, but she did not look away. “Perhaps more handsome than beautiful.”
Had her tone been anything other than teasing he would have been embarrassed to have the sentiment shared in Hyperion directed back at him. Perhaps he could dare to believe that, in rereading his words, her opinion of that book had changed.
“I am not as foolish as I once was,” she said. “And I sincerely hope I have not frightened you away entirely.”
Had Henry not thought she had done that very thing? Just yesterday when he’d thought of her, he had reminded himself that she was nothing but a source of aggravation. He had needed such protection; the heart could not bleed itself dry, after all.
“Am I to interpret this conversation between us as an invitation to renew my attention to you, Miss . . . Fanny? Properly this time?”
“I was a silly girl to chastise you the way I did when you have done nothing but compliment me with your regard. I can only hope that the benefit of my actions was to place me on a path that led me to greater understanding, though the journey has been a slow one. I do not believe I was ready then, Mr. Longfellow.”
“But you are ready now?”
Her smile grew and she nodded.
A tremor of fear rushed through him. What had prompted such a change of heart? Was he a fool to trust it? Falling back to his better judgment, he took a step back and gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it and putting out his arm once more. He could not erase the smile from his face, and he did not want to, but neither did he want to act rashly. He needed to think on what had transpired between them, dissect and quantify the insight he had gained, before he allowed his heart to take flight.
“Perhaps I had best see you home,” he said softly.
Thirty-Seven
Vain Regrets
Fanny looked into Mr. Longfellow’s face, illuminated by the gaslights of the Commons, and wished she could read his thoughts. She couldn’t blame him for being hesitant, after so many years of keeping him at a distance, but she hoped he could feel what she felt and know what she knew.
She had been nervous about seeing him again. He’d been back from Germany almost six months, and she had begun to wonder if the opportunity for them to talk would ever come. What if she still felt uneasy in his company? What if she could love him from afar but not up close? And yet, as soon as she’d made the decision to cross the room and talk with him, those fears had lifted. He was the same man who wrote poems of such depth, tenderness, and passion. The discomfort between them was gone, and the realization was invigorating—only she did not know how to make sure he understood the change. Short of seducing him into understanding, however, she did not know what might do the job. And she was not yet desperate enough to resort to feminine wiles.
“Perhaps you should see me home,” she said in response to his suggestion. It would be good to have some time with her thoughts, to review this night and become comfortable with the changes in their relationship. Likely he would need that same time. She could only hope that once they parted company, he would not talk himself out of the good that had transpired between them.
How they would proceed was out of her hands, and she knew it. The entire time they had known one another could testify against her, but she hoped with all her heart that tonight would be enough to overcome the past. They turned toward Beacon Street and walked in silence.
The front door opened when they reached the steps, telling her that Mathews had been waiting for her return. Would Mr. Longfellow forgive her all the things she’d said and the thoughts she’d had about him not being good enough for her? Would he forget that she had once called him old and thrown his love for Mary Potter in his face? She wished she could convince him that her intent tonight was worthy of his trust. Her only hope was that the feeling she’d had so often that he could see through her, beyond her moods and her masks and her challenges, would help him see and feel her sincerity tonight.
“Good night, Miss Fanny,” he said. He bent over her hand and kissed the back of it in such a way to ignite the very fire she both feared and longed for. Through reading Mr. Longfellow’s poetry with new eyes and a fresh heart, she had come to understand his passion. She felt quite wicked to want to explore that passion further. He straightened and fixed her with a gaze that made her feel more wicked still.
“Good night, Mr. Longfellow.”
“Henry,” he said. “I would be very pleased if you would call me Henry.”
“Well, then, good night, Henry.”
His name was sweet on her lips. He released her hand, but he was still standing on the sidewalk when she reached the front door and glan
ced over her shoulder. She smiled before she entered the house, and Mathews closed the door.
The household was quiet—small children meant that the family did not entertain late anymore—and so she made her way carefully up the stairs where her maid awaited her. Fanny could not get the evening out of her mind and reviewed the events over and over again as her hair was unpinned and she readied herself for bed. Where could she have spoken better? What exactly did Mr. Long—Henry—say and how did he say it? She could not misconstrue that he was open to her change of heart, but her fears were not entirely satisfied either.
What will happen next? she wondered as she burrowed beneath the covers, grateful that her maid had set a water bottle there early enough to warm the sheets.
“What if I am too late?” she asked the dark and empty room. She wished Molly were there to talk to. It seemed so long ago that they had been able to take one another’s presence for granted, and although Fanny had become used to the distance between them, tonight of all nights she longed for her sister’s encouragement. Molly would feel Fanny was doing the right thing, wouldn’t she? She could help Fanny believe that she was not too late.
Molly was not there to say such things, however, and Fanny was left with only her own company and seven years’ worth of memories of pushing Henry away. Over and over again. She wondered now what she had been afraid of, why it had seemed so necessary to keep him at a distance. Why had she been so certain he could never make her happy?
“What if I have lost my chance entirely?”
Thirty-Eight
Personal Easter
Henry sat at his writing desk, looking over the field that seemed to dribble into the Charles River. The water looked inviting, and the day was quite fine for early May. Perhaps he could find a friend up for some rowing. It was not typical for sport to call to him, but he had been living on nervous energy ever since writing Fanny the letter. The letter. Just thinking of it prompted him to jump to his feet and pace the floor where perhaps General Washington had once paced. But Washington had Martha at his side; she’d come to him in this very house and attended him though he was leading an army. What a lucky man Washington was to have such a woman.
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