Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Mr. Longfellow chuckled and shook his head. “Not in the least. Do you feel that your mental ability is less than, for instance, Tom’s?”

  She was silenced again. Did she agree that Tom was superior to her in intellect? He was more educated, having studied law at Harvard. But Mr. Longfellow knew that. He was not asking after formal education but mental ability. Having never considered such a thing made it impossible for Fanny to answer with only a moment’s notice.

  She was reminded of some facts, however. Tom did not read as Fanny did, and they often had conversations regarding history and philosophy where she felt she could best him—despite that fact that her formal education had ended years earlier than his. Did that not speak to equal ability to learn?

  Tom would never agree to such a thing—she was certain of that—nor any man of her acquaintance. Except, perhaps, Mr. Longfellow, who was watching her as though he could read her thoughts.

  Before she could form an appropriate answer, Mr. Longfellow asked another question. “Might I ask you, Miss Fanny, who taught you to read?”

  “I attended school,” Fanny said. “As any other girl of my station is able.”

  “Yes, until the age of ten or twelve, I expect.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  Fanny nodded, slightly embarrassed since he obviously saw that as lacking, but she did not take offense. How could she when he was paying her, and her sex as a whole, such a compliment of potential?

  “And before that, who taught you your letters? Who taught you to read those first words?”

  “My mother,” Fanny said, feeling the warm prick of her heart that she always felt when she thought of her mother who had loved her family and spent so many years ill. Fanny had clear memories of lying beside Mama in bed and listening to her mother’s voice say the letters and sounds of a word then waiting for Fanny to repeat it. The memory was so vivid that she could smell the lavender of her mother’s perfume and feel the softness of the sheets and blankets tangled around her restless feet.

  “As did mine,” Mr. Longfellow said with a nod. “I had schooling beginning when I was three years old, but it was on my mother’s lap that I was first read to, and it was to my mother’s ear that I first sounded out the words she wrote down on the slate for me to learn. My mother took the Protestant principles of educating one’s children quite seriously and was herself a well-read woman. I am not surprised that you learned from your mother just as I did mine because they both understood the power of ideas and the importance the written word. However, how could our mothers have taught us if they themselves had not been taught by their own mothers?”

  He scarcely waited for a reply before moving forward, caught up in his excitement. “How many women right now are raising children in upper New York or in the wilds of the American frontier and are unable to teach their children to read and write? How can children of such mothers know enough to even hope for more opportunity than what their mothers have received? Boy or girl.”

  “Not every occupation requires reading and writing,” Fanny said, engaged in the debate though she wasn’t truly trying to argue. “A farmer, for instance, or a blacksmith. The frontier is being harnessed by men and women who work with their hands, not with their minds.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Longfellow said, raising his finger and pointing at the sky. “Does not everyone use their mind? Should not every man and woman be able to read the Bible, regardless of his or her occupation? Was that not Martin Luther’s very aim? I think of the understanding and insight I gained from reading Paradise Lost.”

  Fanny nodded; they had indeed shared resounding discussions of Milton’s epic poem.

  Mr. Longfellow continued, “Should not every man and woman be able to access such perspective so that they too might be edified regarding the formation of the world and humanity? Should not every man and woman be able to record their thoughts and impressions of the world in a journal for future generations to learn from? Should not every child be able to print their own name and read the printing of their parents?”

  His eyes were nearly dancing, and Fanny found his energy rather intoxicating. “The frontier will always be the frontier—wild and without order—until lawyers and doctors and people of political minds join those farmers and blacksmiths in forming communities. There must be law and expectations of conduct. It will take education for such things to be enacted and understood for the good of us all.” He shook his head. “I must adamantly propose that all of society would improve if each member could read and write and learn for himself. Once such abilities are in place, the individuals can ponder on cultures and history, look for the pattern of things and plan so as to avoid the pitfalls that have caused such tragedies in the world.

  “With basic education comes the ability to think, and a mind that thinks is a mind that improves upon itself. I would suggest that a farmer would be a better one if he could read the latest literature on soil and botany. I would say that a blacksmith will make a better kettle if he can read up on the science between the different metals he works in his forge. Everyone would have greater potential if they had the ability to learn—man or woman, black or white.”

  Oh dear, is Mr. Longfellow an abolitionist? Fanny’s father had been an advocate for the fair treatment of slaves during his time in Congress, and Fanny herself had opinions regarding the dark-skinned men and women upon whom much of America’s economy depended, but being an abolitionist was not a position to be taken lightly. Her father was a pioneer in the textile industry, which profited directly from the free labor of the cotton plantations in the south. Because of her family’s relationship to the institution she did not often let her mind follow the sympathies of her heart. She hoped Mr. Longfellow would be equally tactful around her father, but she did not know how to broach the subject.

  “You are a very singular man,” Fanny finally said, smiling to let him know she did not mean it as an insult. “I have never heard such a vision. I am quite unsure what to make of it.”

  He looked away as though embarrassed by his fiery speech. “Indeed my opinions are quite singular far too often. Forgive my preaching.”

  “Not at all,” Fanny said as they resumed walking. “You have given me a great deal to think about. To be labeled a bluestocking is a fear of many young women who enjoy literature, you know. Your ideas would make bluestockings of my entire sex.”

  “Using one’s mind should not come with a disparaging label,” Mr. Longfellow said. “Rather it should be something to be commended, something a woman should take pride in. A woman such as yourself is a shining example of the potential women have within our society. I feel our country would improve by leaps and bounds incomprehensible to our current expectations if we would give women the same opportunities now available to men and encourage them to see their value both individually and to our country as a whole.”

  “And yet the beginning of this discussion was sparked by your disappointment in what men are currently offered in our American colleges.”

  “I would say that at present a diploma from an American university is not much more than a reflection of a man’s status in society and a tribute to the discipline he showed in attending to his studies. While those studies certainly expand a man’s mind and vision, for the majority of those who graduate, the greatest benefit will be the connections they have made to other students.”

  “Oh, but you are severe,” Fanny said, shaking her head at his candor. At the same time, she knew that the connections Tom had made while attending Harvard were the part of his education he valued most.

  “I am honest,” Mr. Longfellow said, shrugging. “Having spent a great deal of time in classrooms—both as a student and a teacher—I can honestly attribute the majority of my learning to that which I have sought out on my own, much of it done at university campuses in Europe. I should very much like to bring greater opportunities to Harvard and structure teaching in a way that the students truly learn the subjects, not just recite lessons. I feel a great many wome
n—like yourself—would benefit from such study. Perhaps they would even appreciate it more than some of these spoiled young men who simply see their collegiate years as a time of independence rather than edification.”

  They reached the hotel where the Appletons were staying, and Mr. Longfellow hurried the last few steps to open the door for Fanny. She thanked him, feeling a bit shy as she passed him to enter the foyer. They walked in silence to the base of the stairs that led to the Appleton rooms.

  “Thank you for such a fascinating discussion, Mr. Longfellow,” Fanny said as they began climbing the stairs side by side. She wanted to ask him what made him see her as above women in general but could not form the question in a way that she felt reflected the very intelligence he had spoken of.

  Mr. Longfellow smiled, and she noted what a handsome man he was, especially when his features softened. He would have no difficulty in finding another wife if he chose to. The flash of envy and regret she felt took Fanny off guard. And worried her. Mr. Longfellow was too old for her and, besides, Fanny was devoted to her father. Without her mother to care for the household, it was Molly’s and Fanny’s responsibility.

  Mr. Longfellow interrupted her thoughts. “Thank you for letting me bend your ear, Miss Fanny, and I hope I did not come across too strongly. I’m afraid that when I feel passion for something I am quite difficult to dissuade.”

  For the second time, Fanny felt a twinge of envy for the possible future Mrs. Longfellow, but the topic of this jealousy caused her cheeks to heat up. It was one thing to admire the fact that he would treat his wife with equality, quite another to ponder on his passion for the woman. Had he felt such passion for his first wife, dead these long months? Did he miss her the way Father missed Mama? Did he cry for her when he felt no one was watching?

  Fanny looked at the floor, rather horrified by her thoughts and the emotions they brought up in her chest, including jealously for the former and possible future Mrs. Longfellow. “It was of great interest to me, I assure you.”

  They reached the top of the stairs, and she faced him, realized she didn’t know what to say, and moved forward again, staying one step ahead of him while her mind raced.

  She felt as though a covering had been pulled away from something that few people were allowed to see. It was exciting, but unnerving, too. What would she do with all he had told her? How would it change her, and did she want to be changed?

  Seven

  Schaffhausen

  Fanny crept into the room of the rented house in Schaffhausen where Tom sat with William, who was sleeping. She sat on the settee next to her brother, who was reading an expired copy of The Boston Statesman. That morning their father had retrieved the mail that had been waiting for the family at a posting station. They had spent the morning getting caught up with family and friends, as well as the current events of their city, though the events were not so current. The correspondences were from almost three months ago, but still they were pieces of home that all of them were glad to indulge in.

  Fanny watched William’s withered chest rise with a rattle and fall with a gasp for several seconds before she spoke, giving Tom time to fold the paper. “Did he eat anything at all?”

  “A few bites of bread,” Tom said. “Now that we have reached Schaffhausen, I don’t think he will indulge us so much.”

  Fanny suspected that what William had eaten the last week or so had only been to appease them, not because he had any desire to prolong his life. They had arrived in Schaffhausen yesterday afternoon with heavy hearts. There was no longer anything to keep William from giving into the failing of his body.

  Tom put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “We shall be alright,” he said with the brotherly wisdom that was not his nature. “He shall join the others he loved so much in this life. He shall be at peace, and his earthly struggles will be over.”

  Fanny nodded but could not speak. Believing in a life after this one—a life free of pain and sorrow—was certainly a balm for her aching soul, but it did not take away the regret at losing her dear cousin. One more piece of her history taken from her and buried in the ground. She did not want another empty place in her heart that would ache for someone loved and lost.

  The sound of someone in the doorway caught her attention, and she and Tom looked to the servant standing there. Adelè had been with them since Havre and would remain with them until the completion of their journey, along with a cook, a footman, and a valet for the men.

  Adelè kept her head bent and her eyes on a spot on the floor a few feet in front of her. “Mr. Longfellow is awaiting you in the front parlor, Mr. Tom, Miss Frances.”

  Fanny had not heard the bell, but perhaps in light of William’s condition, Mr. Longfellow had knocked lightly enough to get the attention of the servants rather than disturb the household.

  Their father had wasted no expense in their lodging for this stay and had rented a three-level house with servants’ quarters and two parlors filled with exotic collectibles. It was finer than the other rentals they’d had on their trip and not far from a Protestant church their father had communicated with while they were still in Zurich.

  As Fanny and Tom made their way to the front parlor—the company parlor, as Fanny thought of it—she wondered why Mr. Longfellow had included her in the request. Their private conversation in Zurich had led to Fanny feeling a connection to him, and she had wished for more private conversations that had not come. As he had been lodged some distance from their hotel, and her days had been filled with packing, traveling, and unpacking it was not surprising. She hoped that Germany would provide more opportunity, but William would be gone by then, and she could never think on that for long.

  “Longfellow,” Tom said when he reached the parlor a step ahead of Fanny. Her brother’s voice did not betray the family pain as he crossed to his friend, who rose from where he’d been sitting near the window. The men shook hands. “It is good to see you, my friend. How are your accommodations? Better than Zurich, I hope.”

  “They are very well, Tom, thank you.” His tone was somber, and Fanny noted his furrowed brow and regretful expression.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Longfellow?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

  Mr. Longfellow let out a breath and held Fanny’s eyes a moment before turning his attention to Tom. “I’m afraid I’ve been summoned back to Heidelberg by Miss Crowninshield, my . . . my wife’s companion who undertook this journey with me. She has been with friends in Germany while I traveled through Switzerland.”

  “Is Miss Crowninshield unwell?” Fanny asked. She had asked Tom about her at one point, wondering at the propriety of Mr. Longfellow having traveled for months with an unmarried woman. Tom had chuckled and shook his head. “I assure you that you need not worry about competition for Henry’s affections,” which Fanny assured Tom were no concern at all. Fanny had been embarrassed at Tom’s inference that there was any affection between her and Mr. Longfellow, but secretly glad to know that there was none between him and Miss Crowninshield either.

  “She is in good health, thank you.” Mr. Longfellow attempted a smile, but it did not stay long. “She is ready to return to America and has found us passage on a ship set to leave London in early October. We have just enough time to travel to the port without having to rush through the last few cities she would like to see en route.”

  “We had hoped you would continue our tour with us,” Tom said. “Could she not return with some other traveler? I’m sure Father could help with such an arrangement.”

  Mr. Longfellow shook his head. “It would be unkind for me to expect her to make the trip without me. She was a good friend to me when Mary died.” He looked out the window. Fanny had never heard him speak of his wife, and the light from the window made him look very much like the troubled widower he was. He turned back to them. “I am disappointed not to continue on with your family, but I feel I must return to Boston with Miss Crowninshield and see to her comfort. I came to you as s
oon as I realized my situation. Your father is out?”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “He had a meeting with the local clergy here concerning . . .”

  Fanny looked at her brother when he didn’t continue and felt a lump in her throat. She reached for her brother’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze of understanding and support. “We shall give Father your regrets,” Fanny said, smiling at Mr. Longfellow. “Of course, you should return with Miss Crowninshield. Father will understand.”

  Mr. Longfellow nodded slowly. “I also received word regarding my position. They need me in Cambridge by the end of the year and, then, Mary’s father sent me word of his eagerness to give Mary a proper burial.” His words sounded as though he were trying to convince them, and himself, of why it was necessary to return. “I should have returned before now. I feel I have not done well by her.” When he met Fanny’s eyes, his pain was laid bare before her. Did he truly blame himself for his wife’s death? Did it haunt him? He looked away and changed the subject. “If we make passage on the ship Miss Crowninshield has indicated, I could return to Cambridge in time to bury Mary very close to the anniversary of her death. It feels right and best.”

  “Of course it is,” Tom said. “You are a good man.”

  Mr. Longfellow said nothing, only stared at the carpet in silence.

  “When will you leave Schaffhausen?” Tom asked.

  “First thing tomorrow morning,” Mr. Longfellow said. His agitation seemed to unstick his feet, and he began pacing between them and the window. “My trunks are still packed from Zurich, and I have settled my account with the landlord for my rooms, but I had hoped to sit with William this afternoon as I will be unable to stay until . . . the end. I would like to read to him—the Dewey sermons, I think.” He stopped his pacing and faced Tom with an expectant expression.