Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (31 page)

When Harriett said she was finished, Fanny turned without getting up from where she sat on the floor. 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.

“You’re a wonderful mother,” Fanny said, surprising herself.

Harriet looked up, seeming as surprised to hear the compliment as Fanny was to say it. “Why, thank you, Fanny. What a kind thing to say.”

The mood of the room seemed to unlock Fanny’s usually guarded demeanor with her stepmother. She looked into the face of her little sister when she spoke so as to avoid any scrutinizing look Harriet might direct her way. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” she asked carefully. “Motherhood, I mean.”

“Yes and no, I suppose,” Harriet said. The gentle creaks of the rocking chair were comforting, adding to the soothing atmosphere of the room. “I’m not sure it’s possible to comprehend the investment of such a thing, but it’s equally impossible to describe the joy of it.”

Though she didn’t say the words, Fanny felt sure Harriet heard them.
Please try to describe it.

Harriet smiled and looked at William, who was settled against her, his eyes closed as though heading toward the oblivion of sleep.

Harriet began talking about the difficulties—not enough time, questioning herself, and feeling run ragged from lack of sleep. She missed her friends and the endless days where she could choose all her activities. It was lonely, she said, and exhausting, and some nights she would go to bed and cry herself to sleep for any number of things that had not gone right that day.

Fanny was rather horrified. Why would anyone want such a thing? Why hadn’t Harriet hired a nurse to do the work for her so she wasn’t so miserable?

But then Harriet began to talk about the reflection of Father in her children’s faces, the absolute adoration in their eyes when they saw her, and what she called a spiritual calling that reminded her of how eternally connected they all were. She talked about feeling them move within her for the first time, the fear that all would not go well, and the ecstasy of holding a child—flesh of her flesh—in her arms.

She spoke of other nights when she didn’t fall asleep in tears, where she felt filled with a sense of purpose, where knowing how needed she was by these children who could not do without her made every regret seem paltry and inconsequential.

“Perhaps it was a good thing I didn’t know the whole of the splendor before William was placed in my arms, otherwise I may have gone to great lengths to achieve it any way I could.” She smiled. “As it is, my blissful ignorance allowed me to wait until your father came along. I am grateful every day that my children have such a man to guide them through this life. I feel as though I found a great treasure in him, and because of him all the bounty of earth and heaven is available for me.”

Fanny had never—not once—heard her stepmother talk so openly and was mesmerized not only by the words but also by Harriet’s sincerity. Fanny was reminded of the day Harriet had married her father, of the tears Fanny had spent most of the day holding back, of the resentment and embarrassment she’d felt. She did not feel those things any more save for the memory that she once had had them. If not for that marriage, there would be no little William or little Harriet. Fanny could not imagine life without them.

“That is a beautiful testimony,” Fanny said.

Harriet smiled and looked to her namesake still nestled in Fanny’s arms. “You’re very good with children, you know. Not too soft but not too hard either.”

Fanny chuckled. “There are not many people who would say I am soft at all.”

“You are with Ronald, and with your brother and sister. You connect with them, and they feel that you love them.”

Fanny met her stepmother’s eyes with a questioning look.

“It’s true,” Harriet said, still rocking back and forth. William was asleep on her lap, and Fanny wondered if Harriet would hold him for the duration of his nap. “I think it’s because they know they can trust you. You watch out for them, but you are kind—a perfect combination of security and love.”

“I’ve never had much time around children until these last few years,” Fanny admitted. “I do find time with them more enjoyable than I would have expected. So many women seem to continue life after having children the way they did before. As though their children are of little consequence, especially when they are young.” She shook her head. “To listen to me you would think I spend a great deal of time with them when I do not.” She gave an embarrassed shrug. “It’s not as if I am a caretaker of any kind. I simply get to play with them on my own schedule. That is hardly the investment a mother would make.”

“Do you want to have children, Fanny?”

The question surprised her, and she looked down at the baby in her arms. The instant answer that came to mind was that without a husband it was not worth considering, but in that moment she knew she very much wanted children. She wanted to feel what Harriet had described; she wanted that kind of connection and sense of purpose. But she was hesitant to let the fantasy take root when she felt such little control over her future.

“Not every woman is meant to be a mother,” Fanny said. “I believe God does not expect it from every woman, nor should every woman feel it is the only road to happiness.”

“I agree,” Harriet said, again surprising Fanny. She thought her stepmother might argue the point. “But for many women, motherhood
is
that very road.”

Fanny nodded as though they were agreeing, though she was unsure that they were. She felt anxious about the direction the conversation had taken and unsure what to say. Most women she knew viewed their role and position as the only one worth pursuing, shoring up their own confidence by making it seem it was the only way to find true happiness.

“There is one other point I would like to make,” Harriet said.

Fanny felt herself tense. She did not like it when people made points with her. As though they were delivering a reprimand. She looked at Harriet with controlled expectation.

“God can help you find the path that is uniquely yours,” Harriet said. “I was older than you are when I decided to ask the Lord what he wanted of me. I served, of course, and helped others, especially my family. I was content with my life of independence and society. But in my study of the Bible, I began to feel that I was not on the course God wanted for me. I began to feel as though I was not doing my duty as a Christian woman.

“I spoke to Dr. Channing about my concerns, and he encouraged me to undertake a search of God’s plan for me—just me, not a general ledger that gave every person the same map to follow, but the journey set apart for my feet alone. So I did, and in time, that journey led me to your father and these little ones.” She jostled William in her lap and nodded at little Harriet in Fanny’s arms. “Sitting here today, I have no doubt that this is exactly the course I should have taken, but the path was not laid out to me until I asked to see it. Perhaps God is unable to show us our way until we prove to Him that we truly want to follow it.”

Fanny felt the truth of Harriet’s words in her heart just as she had felt other truth from time to time. Strong enough that she could not deny it, but soft enough to know she was not forced to believe. But she
did
believe. Harriet’s words resonated with her and gave her a great deal to think about.

If God had a path for Fanny Appleton, just for her, would it not be in her best interest to find it? She was about to ask how, exactly, one would search for such understanding when Harriet stood from the rocking chair and gently carried William to a pallet set in the corner of the nursery. She pulled a blanket over her sleeping son.

“I’ll fetch you Mr. Longfellow’s book, Fanny,” she said. “And then I will stop bending your ear. I do go on sometimes.”

She left the room and a few minutes later returned and traded Fanny the book for the baby.

“Thank you,” Fanny said, feeling conspicuous as she stood there with the book in the middle of the nursery. She took the book to her room, though she didn’t intend to read it until that night. But then she noticed a pink tassel of silk hanging out of the pages.

She opened the book to the page Harriet marked and read the title of the poem that began on that page—“The Bridge.” Fanny recognized the poem. It was about a man finding solace on a bridge, but as she read it again, she saw the man as Mr. Longfellow and the bridge as the West Bridge that connected Boston to Cambridge. She had not been particularly struck by the poem the first time she’d read it, but the words sounded different to her now as images and memories swam through her mind, connecting to real people and places.

And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

Have you missed something?
The same gentle softness she’d felt in the nursery seemed to ask the question. She lowered herself into the chair beside her bed and felt anxiety flutter in her chest that she could not explain.

Fanny turned to the front of the book, planning to read from the first page to the last without the prejudices she had long since held around herself when anything regarding Mr. Longfellow came too close. In the very front of the book was an inscription written in Mr. Longfellow’s elegant hand. It was not written to anyone in particular, not to “The Appleton Family” or even to her specifically, but somehow she knew it was meant for her.

Forever and Forever
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1842

Have you missed something?
the voice said again. Fanny didn’t know the answer. She turned to the first page of the book she suspected she had not understood as she ought and began to read with new eyes.

Thirty-Three

The Water Cure

“Germany?” Sumner said, scowling from across the table.

If Henry didn’t know his friend so well he would assume his friend was angry. “Near Boppard. There is an old convent there that applies the treatment. I feel it the best hope of regaining my health. Dickens mentioned the place to me during his visit, and while I admit he may have meant it in jest, I have looked into the procedure and found that it does seem to have merit.”

Sumner’s eyebrows remained drawn together. “And you were awarded leave?”

Henry nodded. “I received the notice just yesterday. Felton had already agreed to take over my supervisory duties if the leave was granted.”

“How long?”

“Six months. I leave in May, and I wanted to be sure I told you myself.”

Sumner huffed and sat back in his chair, turning to look at the darkened windows of the pub where they had met for drinks. “What is this treatment? You say Dickens mentioned it in jest?”