Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (2 page)

The family went to Switzerland in hopes that the mountain air would bring William relief. They had been in Switzerland several days, however, and little improvement had followed.

“He says he feels better, but he has eaten little.”

“Perhaps he will take some broth when he awakens,” Fanny said.

“Perhaps,” Molly said, but her fear hung unspoken between them. What would they do if William’s condition worsened? What if he died as their brother Charles had not quite a year ago, and their own mother a year and a half before that, when Fanny was just fifteen? For a brief moment Fanny wondered how any of them could still have hope of recovery when one after another of their loved ones fell prey to the dreadful disease. What was the point of hope at all?

“You must get out of those wet things,” Molly interrupted, saving Fanny from the dark road of her thoughts. “I shall order some broth for William and see that tea is ready by four o’clock. I do not think I will join you, however. I fear my headache has not improved.”

“I am sorry you were worried for me
and
in such discomfort,” Fanny said, frowning. She should have been more compassionate for her sister who suffered while she had allowed the rapture of the Thun valley to carry her away, if only for a few minutes. She vowed to be better.

“It is no matter now,” Molly said, though she raised a hand to her head. “I shall rest awhile and hope to join you all for dinner. Father said he and Tom would be back in time for tea. I shall leave you to explain my absence.”

“You are very good,” Fanny said, giving her sister a grateful smile before casting one more glance toward their sleeping cousin.

Perhaps hope of recovery
is
a foolish thing,
she thought as she climbed the stairs in search of a dry dress and a more optimistic perspective, but did not a hopeful countenance comfort those who were afflicted? Did it not allow their failing days to progress more peaceably when those about them seemed unaware of the impending doom? Would it not do anything but increase William’s pain if his family mourned him already?

And he might
not
die,
Fanny reminded herself. They were in Switzerland, where the air was cleaner than any other in the world and the water more pure.
If ever there has been reason for hope, it is here, and I shan’t deny William such a thing.

At a quarter to four o’clock, Fanny returned to the main level of the chateau dressed in her favorite London day dress of pink linen; it would be the envy of all her friends once she returned to Boston. The Appleton girls had loved Paris, making themselves drunk on the art, shopping, and opera. From there they traveled to Italy and the more classical style Fanny adored. By now, nine months into their journey, most of the clothing Fanny had brought with her for the tour had been sent back to Boston. She had a European wardrobe and a broader view of the world than ever before.

If Father had not enjoyed indulging his daughters, Fanny would feel badly for allowing him such generosity, but a new light had entered their father’s eyes during this trip. Removed from the loss of his wife and son, Father had indulged his mind in culture, theater, art, and the company of people he admired. His energy had returned, his mind had quickened, and he approached each new portion of their journey with renewed enthusiasm. He seemed alive once again. Spoiling his daughters was simply another way he was returning to the man Fanny remembered from her youth.

If not for William’s recent decline, this trip would have been a dream, and Fanny was reminded of her hope as she entered the parlor. William was sitting on the settee, but had a rug over his lap and seemed to be leaning against the piece of furniture to better support himself. He smiled when he saw her, as he always did, and waved her into the room. On the table beside him was a mug Fanny assumed had held broth. She was relieved to see it empty. He needed nourishment to get his strength back.

“Ah, dear cousin,” he said, patting the cushion beside him. “It is about time you came to keep me company. Tell me what you saw today. Paint it for me in such rich color that it is though I were there too.”

The request stung Fanny’s chest—it was not fair that he should be in such a beautiful place as this and confined to the views from the windows—but she remembered her earlier determination to not add to his burden and so she ignored the sting and did as he asked, using every beautiful word she could think of to let him see through her eyes and feel through her skin the impressions of the day. William was two years older than Fanny—the same age as her brother Charles, now buried in Boston. Would William live to turn twenty-one? She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on her telling.

At some point William closed his eyes, and Fanny feared he had fallen asleep until she paused in her narrative and he lifted a thin hand to wave her to continue. She was finishing an exaggerated version of her run to the chalet when the front door of the house opened and she heard the boisterous voices of Tom—her older brother by nearly six years—and Father. William opened his eyes, and Fanny rose from her place.

“What bulls they are,” she said with a smile to her cousin before moving forward to greet the men.

William laughed at Fanny’s joke, but his mirth turned to a cough, and he was soon pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. Fanny returned to the settee, took his free hand in both of hers, and blinked back the tears building up behind her eyes. He was in such pain, his body was wracked with it, and yet there was nothing they could do other than administer the laudanum that allowed him rest and hold his hand to provide a measure of comfort.

By the time William recovered from the fit—his body spent—Tom and Father had entered the parlor, sharing worried glances between them. An uncomfortable silence greeted them. William opened red and pained eyes. He attempted a smile even as he slumped back against the settee.

Fanny tried to think of some way to distract them all from what had happened but worry prevented her from finding a topic.

“A card, Uncle Nathan,” William said between ragged breaths, providing the distraction himself. Perhaps too well as Fanny had no idea what he was talking about.

“A card?” Father repeated, as confused as his daughter.

“By the door,” William said, then paused to catch his breath. “A man called while you were out. . . . Burns took his card. It’s on the table, just there.”

Tom crossed to the small table near the doorway and picked up the card.

“Henry Wadsworth Longfellow of Portland, Maine,” Tom read out loud as he returned to his chair and handed the calling card to Father.

Father took it and held it at arm’s length; he often commented on the burden of old eyes. “Longfellow,” Father mused. “How do I know that name?”

“He wrote
Outré Mer,
” Fanny said with a frown. “I hope he does not call on us, he sounds like very dull company.” In every city they visited, they had been called on by any number of politicians, distant acquaintances, or friends of friends. For the most part it was enjoyable to meet new people and have women willing to chaperone her and Molly through the cities. But a venerable writer—for Mr. Longfellow was certainly an old man—sounded not the least bit diverting. Fanny much preferred dancing, music, and adventurous stories that would lift her from the ever-increasing doom that licked at her heels. Not old men and pipe smoke.

“Not even a year in Europe and look at what a snob you have become,” Tom said, raising his eyebrows. “Did you not like the book?”

The maid brought the tea tray in and placed it on the table set in the center of the room.

“I liked it well enough,” Fanny admitted, almost despite herself. She had read
Outré Mer
in preparation for this very trip as the book was a collection of prose sketches from a European tour the author had taken some years earlier. Mr. Longfellow’s name had not been listed on the work, but there were not so many Americans publishing books for their identities to remain a secret.

Mr. Longfellow was a professor of some kind with an apparent appreciation of Spanish women Fanny did not find impressive. Beyond that and his writing she knew nothing of the man, which meant he was not part of the same social circles as her family—Maine or otherwise. She would already be acquainted with him if he were of their same level. It was her experience that people within her own social class were far more respectful of her father, whereas those with something to gain by being known by him put great effort into being noticed.

Fanny poured the tea while she justified her feelings regarding the visit of Mr. Longfellow, or anyone else for that matter. “I have simply enjoyed the peace of Switzerland and am not eager to entertain a stranger.” She imagined an old man wanting to pontificate on literature with her father, who did not know that topic as well as he liked to think he did. And moreover, why would a professor of literature seek out her father’s attention in the first place? The literary types were not usually so determined to connect with the wealthy industrialist. In fact, did they not see wealth and society as beneath the notice of their more
sophisticated
minds?

“Why are you smiling?” Tom said, accepting the cup and saucer she handed him.

“No matter,” Fanny said, embarrassed by her private thoughts. She dropped the smile and refocused on her duties.

“I am not opposed to a visit,” Father said after replacing his cup on the saucer. “Did he say where he is staying, William?”

“I don’t believe so,” William said. He had taken a sip of tea when Fanny first handed him the cup, but now the saucer rested in his lap, and Fanny worried he lacked the strength to hold it up.

“It would not be hard to find him in a village as small as this,” Tom said. “I shall undertake the task if you would like, Father.”

Fanny let out a sigh, then felt caught when she realized her response had drawn her brother and father’s attention. “I’m sorry,” Fanny said, sincerely sorry for being petulant. “I should not have complained. Molly and I would be most happy to welcome Mr. Longfellow if you would like to make his acquaintance.”

Father sipped his tea, then lowered the cup and shook his head. “Upon greater thought, we leave for Interlaken soon, and it would be difficult to accommodate him before we go. But I thank you for the offer to find him, Tom. Besides, if this Mr. Longfellow is on a tour then our paths shall cross again. Fanny has the right of it, I think.”

Tom snorted and Fanny looked sharply at him. “What?” she said, not wanting his censure even as she realized she likely deserved it.

“Oh nothing,
Lady Frances,
” Tom said with a lilting voice. “Only that I am
so
very glad that
your
comforts shall come before everyone else’s.”

Fanny felt her neck heat up. “I did not ask that my comfort should—”

Tom cut her off with a laugh, followed by a wink. It seemed she had been on the losing end of his joking nature all her life. She narrowed her eyes at him and then turned pointedly to her father and asked what they had done while they were out.

The conversation swirled around the room until William leaned forward and attempted to put his nearly full cup of tea on the table. There was not have enough table beneath the saucer when he released it and the cup tumbled to the floor, spilling tea all over his lap rug as well as the carpet.

“Oh, I am sorry,” he said as Fanny hurried to retrieve the cup.

“It is no matter,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “The cup did not break, and tea is easy enough to clean up.” She turned toward the door. “Burns!” she called. A moment later the hired man appeared in the doorway, and she asked him to send the maid with a cloth.

The reminder of William’s frailty ushered awkward silence into the room. Fanny set about clearing the tea tray to spare her from the halting attempts at conversation between Tom and Father. Once the maid had cleaned up the spilled tea and left, William cleared his throat.

“Uncle Nathan.”

Fanny could hear the gravity in William’s voice. He lifted his chin and fixed his eyes on the patriarch in a display of confidence. “I should like to speak with you in private, please.”

Fanny’s heart caught in her chest, and she met Tom’s eyes only to see her own fear reflected there. When they had asked—fairly begged—William to come on this trip, he had agreed only under the condition that, should he become a burden on the rest of the party, Father would support an early return for himself alone. As William’s health had continued to fail these last weeks, Fanny had worried about him asking for such a council. He was not a burden. He was family. Fanny could not keep her tears at bay but tried to hide them from the others.

No one spoke for several seconds, until Father nodded. “If you wish to speak to me in private, William, I would accommodate it.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” William said, staring at the tea stain on the carpet.

Tom stood from his chair. “Let’s remove to the upstairs sitting room, Fanny. You can tell me your thoughts of
Outré Mer
.”