Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (30 page)

“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 pulled 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.