Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)
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Forever and Forever
Josi S. Kilpack
© 2016 Josi S. Kilpack.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.
© 2016 Josi S. Kilpack
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at permissions@shadow mountain.com. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.
Visit us at ShadowMountain.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kilpack, Josi S., author.
Forever and forever : the courtship of Henry Longfellow and Fanny Appleton / Josi S. Kilpack.
pages cm
Summary: “Based on the true love story of poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Boston socialite Fanny Appleton, this novel chronicles their seven-year courtship through Europe and Boston” —Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-62972-142-2 (paperbound)
1. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 1807–1882—Fiction. 2. Courtship—United States—History—19th century—Fiction. 3. Longfellow, Fanny Appleton, 1817–1861—Fiction. 4. Boston (Mass.), setting. I. Title.
PS3561.I412F667 2016
813'.54—dc232015030576
Printed in the United States of America
Edwards Brothers Malloy, Ann Arbor, MI
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Other Proper Romance Novels
Lord Fenton’s Folly by Josi S. Kilpack
A Heart Revealed by Josi S. Kilpack
My Fair Gentleman by Nancy Campbell Allen
Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson
Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
Longing for Home by Sarah M. Eden
Longing for Home, vol. 2: Hope Springs by Sarah M. Eden
Other Books by Josi S. Kilpack
The Sadie Hoffmiller Culinary Mystery Series:
Lemon Tart, English Trifle, Devil’s Food Cake, Key Lime Pie,
Blackberry Crumble, Pumpkin Roll, Banana Split,
Tres Leches Cupcakes, Baked Alaska, Rocky Road, Fortune Cookie,
Wedding Cake, Sadie’s Little Black Recipe Book
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
1836 Europe
Thun, Switzerland
Interlaken, Switzerland
Tom Appleton
First Impressions
Confessions
Zurich, Switzerland
Schaffhausen
Strasburg, France
Reunion
1837 Massachusetts
Home
Renewed Acquaintance
39 Beacon Street
Uncomfortable Attention
Language Lessons
An Open Heart
A Broken Heart
Rejection
Pathways
1839 Boston & Cambridge
Mrs. Appleton
Hopeful Romantic
The Dark Ladye
Lenox
Mary Ashworth
A Letter from Home
Mrs. Mackintosh
1840 Boston & Cambridge
A Scholar
1841 London, England
To England
Mrs. Craigie
A Changing Heart
1842 Boston & Cambridge
A New Year
Valley of the Soul
New Eyes
The Water Cure
New Life
Shifting Wind
1843 Boston & Cambridge
New Beginnings
Vain Regrets
Personal Easter
Chapter Notes
Timeline
Bibliography
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
In 1861, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote “Paul Revere’s Ride,” which has since become many people’s reference point to an event that ushered in the Revolutionary War and resulted in America’s freedom from British rule. Longfellow was the grandson of Revolutionary soldiers from both sides of his family tree and a great patriot in his own right.
He knew that Revere was not the only rider who set off to warn the colonist troops and that Revere himself was captured at Lexington on his way to Concord. Longfellow’s goal in his narrative poem was not to give a perfectly accurate historical account of the event, but rather to keep the story from becoming myth. He also wanted to remind readers of the importance of patriotism, even as the United States faced events that would shortly lead to the Civil War.
In writing the love story between Henry and Fanny Longfellow, I have used the same license as Longfellow. The public details regarding their courtship—as relayed through biographers, letters, and journals—are minimal, and I have attempted to flesh out the facts enough to bring Henry and Fanny to life again.
It is my hope that you will read this novel knowing it is a creation based on impressions made upon me through my study of fact and crafted through possibility. This story is not meant to be a biography or detailed accounting, but rather a sketch of two people who lived, and struggled, and ultimately loved one another enough to find great happiness together.
If, after reading this novel, you feel drawn to see a broader scope of Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow, please consult the bibliography, which lists the nonfiction resources I explored in creating the framework for this story. There are also Chapter Notes at the end of the book that outline specific details of fact and fiction.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
—From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “A Psalm of Life,” 1839
One
Thun, Switzerland
The increasing rain made Frances Gold Appleton—Fanny, to her friends and family—quicken her step. She looked up from beneath the brim of her bonnet long enough to measure the distance left between her feet and the door of the chalet where her family had been staying for the last five days. Fifteen yards. Ten. Six. Four. Two.
She burst through the door and shut it behind her quickly, leaving the rain to wash the already clean Swiss streets and clear the already clear Swiss air. With her back against the heavy wooden door, Fanny took a breath and smiled. Her exertion had left her skin tingling and her heart racing.
Fanny’s older sister, Mary—though everyone called her Molly—stepped out from the parlor. “How was your walk?” she asked. “You were longer than I expected.”
Fanny untied the ribbons of her bonnet, now soaked through, and smiled at her sister. “I watched the most impressive storm roll in,” she said. “And simply could not tear myself away.” The storm had swallowed the Bernese Alps as the clouds descended into the Thun valley and then crawled upon the silvery lake toward the red-roofed village as though it were a cat creeping toward its prey. That Fanny had waited too long
to turn toward the chalet, however—not wanting to miss a moment of nature’s show upon the most excellent of canvases—was her responsibility. “I’m sorry if I worried you, Molly.”
Molly nodded her forgiveness and then glanced through the parlor doorway, causing Fanny to realize her lateness was not all that had raised Molly’s anxiety.
“Is William no better, then?” Fanny lowered her voice even though she could see that their cousin William—he was like a brother to them all—was asleep on the lounge. His face was gray, and his increasing frailness was reflected in his thin face and hands.
At first, the demands of traveling seemed to be well with him—just as the family had hoped when they had invited him to join their Grand Tour. Such European trips were once reserved for young men just like William, but now they were accessible for any family wealthy enough to spare the expense. Fanny’s father, Nathan Appleton, had generously included William in the hope that Europe would be kinder to his frail health than Boston had been these last years. William had done well on the sea voyage, and he’d enjoyed France and Italy with almost the same energy as any of the rest of them. But he’d caught an influenza in Florence that left him with a cough that triggered the Appletons’ anxiety. Consumption, the doctor said a few weeks later. The diagnosis had felt like bullets.
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.