Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (5 page)

Fanny closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, playing through their conversation in her mind again. What she would not give to start the evening over and be better than she’d been.
Oh, why couldn’t there have been music and dancing tonight?
She was not to be trusted in company that did not distract her from the ache in her heart. She raised her hands to her face in hopes to keep the tears at bay. They would not change anything, after all.

Five

Confessions

The evening did not improve much after Miss Frances’s departure, and Henry regretted again accepting the dinner invitation. After a polite period of time, Mr. Appleton invited his other daughter to leave the men to their brandy. She seemed eager to follow her sister from the room. The maid entered and began clearing the dishes.

Mr. Appleton turned to Henry. “I am very sorry for this evening, Mr. Longfellow, and especially for Fanny hounding you. I assure you she possesses better manners than you saw on display, and I can only think that the strain of William’s illness is taking a toll.”

“You owe me no apology,” Henry said, shaking his head. “And neither does she. I should have been forthcoming.”

“It was my fault,” Tom said, accepting the glass of brandy from the footman. “If Fanny were simply a silly girl with flippant thoughts and thin attention we would have been successful, but I should have known better. Despite her petulance this evening, the girl is far too smart for her own good.”

Henry did not know what to say. To agree with them would insult the young woman, and he didn’t fault her for noticing the choppy attempts at avoidance—rather, the fact that she noticed was to her credit. She was young and energetic, but well-spoken and self-possessed too.

“I am also very sorry for your struggles,” Mr. Appleton said with enough curiosity in his voice that it would be rude for Henry not to explain. For the second time that evening, Henry recalled the painful events of the last year and accepted a stranger’s condolences. It was exhausting to revisit the pain—not that he was ever away from it completely. They had invited him in hopes of lifting the mood, and he had done exactly the opposite.

“I think,” Mr. Appleton said after Henry finished, “that the lot of us make quite a group. All of us touched by sorrow, each of us trying to lose ourselves, or perhaps heal ourselves, in the diversion of Europe. I find it odd that we might meet with one another at all, don’t you, Mr. Longfellow?”

“It is rather strange,” Henry said, though he had little energy to sustain his wonder.

“My dear wife was a God-fearing woman,” Mr. Appleton continued. “And she would say that it is not mere coincidence, but that our paths were meant to cross exactly like this. What do you think of that, Mr. Longfellow?”

“If I am to be completely honest,” Henry said, “I do not put much stock into theories such as fate and Karma. I believe in God, and I believe there is purpose to our existence, but I am unsure of how much attention He might give to such things as people meeting in a foreign land.” He looked at his host. “I do not mean to argue your point, nor take away from your wife’s faith, I only mean to say that if such things as
this
happen for a purpose, then I must say that
all
things happen for a purpose, and I see no purpose in the suffering we have experienced—not yours, not mine. Not your children’s.”

Yet another silence followed his words, and Henry mentally chastised himself for his honesty.

“Perhaps you are right,” Mr. Appleton said. “Perhaps things happen for no particular reason and we are left to make of them what we will. To our betterment or our detriment, depending on our choice in the matter.”

“I mean no offense, sir, but who would choose to make something work toward their detriment?”

“Those who punish themselves unnecessarily.” He spoke so fast and with such certainty that Henry’s muscles tightened and released almost in the same instant. Mr. Appleton spoke as though he knew Henry blamed himself for Mary’s death, but how could he? Henry could barely articulate such thoughts to himself, and he certainly would never tell anyone for fear they would offer hollow platitudes and weak justifications. Or worse, agree that if he had not brought her to Europe she would still be alive and well.

“Mr. Longfellow, would you join us for tea tomorrow?” Mr. Appleton asked.

Henry was shocked. Why on earth would they want him to come back? Was not one ruined evening enough to convince them that his company was to be avoided? He was prepared to make a quick retreat. The idea of making another attempt of friendship with these people—Miss Frances Appleton especially—only spurred him to want an escape that much more. And yet Mr. Appleton had issued the invitation and, as had been the case earlier, Henry felt unable to refuse it.

“If you should like me to attend, I shall attend.” It was the most feeble answer Henry had ever made to anything in his life.

“Tomorrow, then,” Mr. Appleton said with a nod and a smile. “Come to our rooms at four o’clock.”

After a restless night, Henry spent the morning and early afternoon with Mr. Gurmand and his fabulously diverting collection of Swiss and German literature. Henry purchased a few volumes he had learned of in Heidelberg and made plans to come back the next day. Once he left Mr. Gurmand’s company, though, his mind returned to the Appletons.

Henry had accepted Mr. Appleton’s invitation to tea out of politeness, but the more he thought on it, the more grateful he felt for the second chance to make a new impression. The green of the mountain meadows and the grandness of the rocky cliffs above him seemed to empower him so that, when he returned to his rooms, he chose his dress carefully to shore up his confidence: the claret long coat—nipped in at the waist in the European style—and gray trousers tucked into knee-high boots.

At precisely four o’clock, he knocked at the door of the Appleton’s apartments. But a moment later, when the servant showed him into the parlor where only Miss Frances Appleton was in attendance, his confidence fled.

“Good day to you, Mr. Longfellow,” she said, giving him a quick curtsy. “Do come in.” Then she smiled, softening her face into an expression that renewed his hope in redemption.

Her dark hair was curled beside her face and pulled up in the back. She wore a light blue dress featuring the European style of a lowered waistline and a fuller skirt. He noted how the modern style defined a woman’s figure better than the higher waist of previous decades before he felt the horror of having noticed a woman’s figure at all.

She held his eyes, and he feared she could see the heat creeping up his neck. He tried to think of something appropriate to say.

Tom’s voice from behind spared them both. “Mr. Longfellow, good to see you.”

Relieved, Henry turned immediately from Miss Frances’s intent look and greeted Tom, who had that jovial grin on his face that Henry suspected was part of the man’s wardrobe. “I do hope Fanny took this chance of private conference to apologize for her boorish behavior last night.”

Both Henry and Miss Frances were silent, which was answer enough for Tom. He laughed and then shook his head at his sister. “I swear, Fanny, you are a trial.”

“And you are a brute,” she said, her tone thick with irritation and embarrassment.

“As I said last night, she owes me no apology,” Henry said, smiling at her so she might know the sincerity of his words. Her grateful smile caused a rush of energy to course through him. “I am the one who brought such discomfort, so it is her forgiveness I should be seeking.”

“That is not necessary,” she said, looking down demurely. “I expect that all shall be well between us from now on.”

“As I would hope.” Henry feared that between last night and this afternoon, she had been told of his misfortune and pitied him for it.

She met his eye, and they held one another’s gaze for a breath, then she stepped forward. “We are having tea in the back parlor as it provides a better view of the lake,” she said over her shoulder, obviously expecting the men to follow her.

Henry fell in step beside Tom and pulled at his coat nervously, hoping he did not look like too much of a dandy. That hadn’t been his intent, but he felt out of place next to Tom, who dressed as an elite Bostonian would—long black coat, navy trousers beneath which peeked the top of well-polished shoes.

“Fanny has promised to be on her best behavior,” Tom said quietly enough that Henry expected his sister could not hear. “She was rather mortified when she learned the whole of it last night.”

So Henry was right in that she knew. Would he have an entire room full of pity when they reached the back sitting area? “Does the whole family know?”

“They do,” Tom said apologetically. “I felt it only fair after my poor attempts to avoid it ended so badly.”

“And what do they think?” Henry said, trying not to sound vulnerable. “Do they think me a bear for not returning with Mary’s casket?”

Tom stopped in the middle of the hallway and held Henry back as Miss Frances passed through the doorway ahead of them.

Henry met the other man’s eye, braced for his judgment. When he felt his own recrimination so severely, it was not difficult to assume everyone else felt the same.

“Goodness no,” Tom said, sounding surprised that Henry should consider such a thing. “We have heard of such situations before. After investing so much into a tour of this scale, one cannot so easily turn back. We are sorry for your pain, that is all. You are in good company, Longfellow, I assure you of that.”

It took a moment for the sincerity of his words to seep into Henry’s mind and heart but when they did he was deeply touched. He had Miss Crowninshield’s support, which he appreciated, but to be among people so determined to include him and put his mind at ease was the greatest charity he could imagine receiving.

“Thank you,” Henry said, wishing he knew what else to say. For a man who loved words, he had a difficult time finding the right ones sometimes.

Tom grinned. “Don’t thank me too much just yet,” he said, leaning close and putting his hand beside his mouth in an exaggerated attempt to block their conversation from exactly no one—they were alone in the hall. “William is hoping you might be willing to talk poetry with him. He is a great lover of verse written in the Romantic languages, and when I told him what an accomplished linguist you were and of the focus of your study these last months, well, his eyes lit up as they haven’t in many weeks. He is hoping you might have some translations to share with him.”

“Much of my tour has been concentrated on the translation of such works,” Henry said, invigorated to have someone interested in his current work. “I would be pleased to speak with him. I have been quite fascinated with Novalis and Uhland of late—though perhaps they are too sorrowful.”

“Isn’t all poetry sorrowful?” Tom gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “If it shall entertain William, and you don’t mind, it shall be very welcome.”

Henry smiled. Oh, but Tom’s lighthearted manner was refreshing after so many dismal months stuck in his own mind. Henry followed Tom through the doorway to where the rest of the Appleton family waited.

Mr. Appleton rose from his seat beside William and crossed the room to shake hands in greeting. Miss Molly was pouring the tea while Miss Frances placed a selection of sweets and savories on the small plates.

Miss Frances looked up at him and, though he could not call her a great beauty, she was very striking—to the point he felt sure he could draw her when he was alone. He noted the graceful lines of her neck and collarbone and the way she moved with confident elegance. He noticed too much. Too soon.

“Do sit down,” Mr. Appleton said, reclaiming his chair.

“How do you take your tea, Mr. Longfellow?” Miss Molly asked.

“Cream only, please,” he said. Tom had taken the seat on the far end, leaving Henry no choice but to take the only other empty chair—directly beside Miss Frances. It was the last place he felt he should be sitting as unwelcome notice and unrestrained thoughts cycled through his barbaric mind.