Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (26 page)

Fanny returned to the letter and read about her new nephew, Ronald Mackintosh, who had been born on Molly’s birthday. A Scotsman like his father, he was healthy and fat and “always hungry.”

Fanny wondered at a line about the difficulties with his birth, but Molly did not expound, and Fanny knew enough about childbirth to know it was never without hardship. She hoped Molly was improving and immediately began wondering when she might make a trip to England to meet her nephew. She would not be encroaching now that there was a child. Rather, she would be helping her sister while soaking up the magic of her new nephew.

There was little keeping her in Boston as more and more friends married or sought their fortunes in other cities or even other continents. Everyone seemed on the move—everyone but Fanny.

After Molly’s letter, Fanny immediately began to pen her response, using her most flowery words to share with her sister how truly happy she was for her and Robert. She expressed how eager she was to meet her “Cockney nephew” and wished them every happiness.

By the time she finished the letter, it was time to prepare for the lecture. Fanny moved to her vanity and repaired her hair for the event.

Richard Henry Dana was a fine poet, and Fanny found his commentaries fascinating as they distracted her from all the ugly politics that bogged down her mind. Locofocoism, abolitionism, and Harrisonism had become the topic of nearly every dinner party and drawing room. Fanny had had enough of it. Literature was a much kinder place to center her attention, and Mr. Dana provided a welcome playground for her thoughts. She had just placed her new hat upon her head when Mathew announced that Jewett had arrived with his carriage.

Fanny pinned her hat into place and hurried down to the foyer where her cousin bowed elegantly over her hand. He complimented her new hat when she preened and posed for him, and they spoke of all manner of things during dinner at Jewett’s favorite pub as well as on the ride to Cambridge, where the driver let them off in front of the lecture hall.

It was cold, and Fanny was glad she’d worn her wool petticoat and thicker boots. The doors to the hall were open, and Jewett walked behind her with his hand at her back so they would not lose one another in the stream of attendees filtering in.

“I do think you are quite outnumbered,” Jewett said from behind her. “I haven’t seen another woman here yet.”

“Truly?” Fanny was relieved when they reached the hall and she could pick out half a dozen colored hats and coats amid the determinedly black and gray sea of men’s clothing. She was glad not to be the sole representative of her sex and a little proud that she was one of only a handful of women reaching beyond what was expected of them. She liked to think she and her scholarly sisters in attendance tonight were doing their part to prove that a woman’s mind was equal to that of a man’s.

Jewett found two seats only a few rows from the front and led Fanny toward them. She took her seat and unwrapped the scarf from her neck. She had nearly settled into her seat when a familiar form on the platform at the front of the room made her pause.

She had not seen Mr. Longfellow for months, not since Tom’s birthday party in March. She hadn’t sought out Mr. Longfellow’s company that night, but during a brief encounter with him toward the end of the night, he had recommended that she might like to read Macaulay’s essay on Milton. He knew of her love of Milton from their time in Germany. She had thanked him for the recommendation and then thought little of it until Newport, where she happened to find a copy of the
Edinburgh Review,
which had featured the essay back in 1825.

Even standing with the periodical in hand, she’d hesitated; she wanted no more connection to Mr. Longfellow than that of an acquaintance and was proud of herself for having overcome the most intense reactions toward
Hyperion
to allow even that. To read what he’d recommended—obviously referencing their connection in Europe so many years ago—made her feel as though she were inviting him in somehow. She nearly ignored the essay completely, but then her love of Milton swayed her and she gave in.

She’d found Macaulay’s insights quite fascinating, enough that she’d considered for one crazy moment writing Mr. Longfellow her thoughts. There were not many people of her acquaintance with whom she could discuss literature at depth. The idea to write him was dismissed as soon as it had come, of course, but seeing him now renewed her wish that their friendship had been sustained. She would like to have discussions with him without worrying she would give him the wrong impression. It was too bad he had ruined whatever chances they had for
that
kind of friendship. It had been over a year since
Hyperion
had made her a topic of gossips and speculators, and though the fervor had died down, the impressions had not.

“Ah, your beau is here,” Jewett said as he unbuttoned his coat. He nodded toward Longfellow conversing comfortably with Mr. Dana as they waited for the lecture to begin. Jewett gave her a sideways look. “Please don’t tell me that’s the true reason we are here.”

“As though I would cross the river for him,” Fanny said, then winced at how rude it was. Why was it so easy for her to be caustic with Jewett?

“Better to throw yourself into it,” Jewett said with a merry grin. He put his hands together and pantomimed diving into the very river he referenced.

Fanny could not keep from smiling, despite how terribly inappropriate his comment was, but she shook her head. “You are bringing out the worst in me.” She lifted her chin. “And I am trying very hard to appear as dignified as my company.”

Jewett looked around the audience—the hall was nearly full—and then back at her. “If dignified means tattered coats and ill-fitting hats, then I suppose I shall have to agree. I feel like a rose among thorns. It was a waste to wear my new shoes.” He lifted his pant leg so she could see his new leather shoes, shined to a gleam. It was the second time he’d drawn her attention to them. The first time was in the carriage ride, and then, like now, she rolled her eyes at his vanity.

“If you are the rose, what am I?” she asked, acting affronted. As though he would be noticed before she would.

Jewett shrugged. “You’re the one who called the company distinguished.”

She was phrasing an appropriate response when the sound of someone clearing his throat drew her attention, along with the attention of the audience.

Mr. Longfellow stood at the podium, awaiting the crowd to quiet down so that he might, apparently, begin the lecture. While he waited, he scanned the crowd rather languidly until he saw her. His gaze instantly stopped for one count. Two. Three. She felt her face heating up as people around her began turning to see what had captured the attention of the man on the stand.

Finally, Mr. Longfellow seemed to collect himself and looked up, but his demeanor, which had been comfortable before, was now rigid and tense.

Fanny sunk lower in her chair. She heard someone behind her whisper her name to someone else.

“Oh, from the book?” came the whispered reply.

Fanny closed her eyes, mortified. Would
Hyperion
ever go away? She was slinking even lower in her chair when Jewett put his hand on her arm and leaned toward her.

“Don’t give them reason to think less of you,” he whispered. “Your embarrassment will only give them permission to think ill.”

She nodded and straightened in her chair, lifting her chin and keeping her eyes on Mr. Longfellow as though it did not take every bit of her focus to appear unaffected. He did not look at her again, skipping over her when he took in different portions of the room.

She was glad he did not risk noticing her again, but she could see that his own neck was red and could tell by the way he fumbled through his introduction that her presence had unnerved him. She hated causing him discomfort but was also irritated that he was putting a blemish over what was supposed to be a very fine evening. He had not been present at Mr. Dana’s last lecture. She hoped he didn’t think she’d come to see him.

“ . . . and so it is my pleasure to introduce you to the estimable Mr. Richard Henry Dana.”

Fanny applauded with the crowd while Mr. Longfellow and Mr. Dana traded places at the podium. Fanny was soon captured by Mr. Dana’s beautiful interpretations of culture and history. She was glad she had come, despite the initial discomfort. At one point she shifted her attention from the podium and saw that Mr. Longfellow was not there. She took a longer look, focusing on each face on the stand until she was certain he was not among the other faculty members.

He hadn’t left because of her, had he?

She chided herself for the wave of guilt that washed over her. Mr. Longfellow could have left for any number of reasons, why should she flatter herself into thinking she was the cause? He was a busy man—a professor, a writer—and he was responsible, in part, for the growing support of the public lectures that were becoming more and more common at the college.

He’d spoken of his vision of this very thing in Switzerland, she remembered. And here was a lecture hall packed with all manner of people drawn to the campus to listen to a great mind. It was progressive, and she was here because of his vision. But he was not, and it bothered her.

Fanny kept her chin up but hoped her presence hadn’t chased him away. Then she wondered at her regret if it had.

Twenty-Seven

To England

Fanny stood on the deck of the ship, using every bit of restraint to keep from jumping over the railing onto shore. They had been docked for nearly thirty minutes, but the gangplank had not yet been lowered to allow the passengers to disembark.

“Oh, Tom, my heart is about to burst from my chest!” Fanny said. It had taken two weeks to cross the Atlantic by way of the new Cunarder, SS
Columbia
, and now they were delayed in getting off the ship.

Tom laughed and shook his head. “You are eighteen years old all over again and seeing Europe for the first time.”

“I feel almost as giddy now as I did then.” She scanned the crowd for a familiar face. She did not know if Molly would be able to come to the pier to collect them, but Robert would be there. To see him would mean seeing Molly was close at hand and Fanny could hardly wait. “I cannot believe it has been a year.”

“A year and two months, to be exact,” Tom said. “But now—”

He was cut off by the bell announcing that the passengers could now leave the ship. Tom grabbed Fanny’s hand and used his larger frame to push his way into the line, which moved agonizingly slowly. It was ironic that the combined enthusiasm to be off the ship slowed the very attainment of the goal.

Finally, Fanny’s feet hit the wooden dock, and she could have kissed it. Not because the voyage had been miserable—crossing by steamship was remarkably fast and smooth—but because she was here. And Molly was here. And she could not wait to see her sister and Ronald, who was seven months old already.

Tom led Fanny to an area somewhat removed from the crowded portion of the dock and told her to wait while he found a lackey for their trunks. She could watch for Robert but was forbidden to leave the place Tom left her in for fear they would get separated. Fanny agreed and told him for the hundredth time how much she appreciated his help. She could never have come to England alone, and Father could certainly not leave his young family to come with her.

It took nearly an hour before Tom had retrieved their luggage, and still Robert had not appeared. Fanny had Molly’s address, and they had just decided to hire a hackney to take them to the cottage when they heard Tom’s name called out in that endearing brogue that could only belong to their dear brother-in-law.

It was a joyful reunion when Robert reached them, then it was back to the business of having the lackey bring their trunks to Robert’s carriage and get all the passengers and trunks situated. Finally, after what felt like half a day, the three of them were in the open carriage as it bumped and hopped down the road toward the cottage located just off Regent Park, something Molly was quite proud of.