She had to look away from the half smile that accompanied his comment. There were certain expressions on his face that made her heart still or race without warning. To avoid the feeling of emotional vulnerability that followed the physical reaction, she reminded herself of their differences. A decade ago, when she still wore skirts above her ankles, he had been a grown man, traveling the world and only a few years away from marrying Mary Potter.
“I’ve had more practice,” Longfellow continued. “Let’s say it again.”
Fanny returned to the page they each held with one hand between them and focused on the lesson. That is why he is here, she told herself, to teach. She tried to mimic Mr. Longfellow’s pronunciation. It still came out garbled.
“Much better,” he said.
Fanny could not help but give him a rueful laugh. “It is deplorable,” she said. “You are being dishonest.”
“Certainly not,” he said. “But you need to trust that I have heard hundreds of students learn the language. If I say you are doing well, then you are. Now, let me explain the full sentence in context and how it would translate into English while still keeping its meaning and texture.”
He began to explain the sentence—the opening line to one of Uhland’s most famous poems—while pointing to the words on the page, but Fanny was watching him, not the paper. This was their fourth lesson, and it was not going well in more ways than one. To start with, German was much harder than French and required more memorization and study. Mr. Longfellow was patient with her, but she knew she was not making the progress he had hoped for.
The other failure, however, was more profound. Spending time together as they did, with Mr. Longfellow so confident and impressive in his knowledge, had weakened Fanny’s resolve to remain unaffected. He was so patient, so kind, and so determined. How could she not be attracted to such things? And yet her attraction frightened her and pushed her toward continual reminders on why they were not a good match. He was too old, and widowed, and poor, and smart. She was too young, and frivolous, and rich, and while he continually complimented her intellect, the German lessons seemed to show how far below him she truly was. She was not his equal of mind, and she never would be.
By the time Fanny realized Mr. Longfellow was no longer speaking, she worried the silence had stretched on too long. She had been staring at him, watching him without his knowing—at least at the beginning—but now he was meeting her gaze, and the intimacy caused her cheeks to burn with instant fire. She blinked and faced forward again, focusing her gaze on the poem.
“The Good Comrade,” she said, grabbing at the last thing she remembered him saying. “Not a direct translation.”
“Not direct, but clearer,” Mr. Longfellow said. He was still watching her; she swore she could feel his gaze burning through her skin. Reading her mind? Could he sense her conflicting thoughts?
She forced herself to take a deep breath to calm her racing heart and tried to renew her objections. There was no room in her heart to love this man. No room in her life to make space for him either. Yet she had not cancelled the lessons and in the process knew she had led him to believe she felt things she did not feel. Or, rather, felt things she would not admit to feeling. The feelings he inspired were not enough to override her objections.
Yet she could feel the heat of his closeness, a contrast to the rain outside the window, and the warmth of his eyes every time they lingered upon her. The briefest thought wove into her mind—what if he put his hand over hers just now? What if he touched her face, traced her lips with his long and elegant fingers . . .
“And this second line,” Fanny asked quickly, pointing to the words and trying to regain her focus. “What is the direct translation compared to the clearer one?”
“Repeat after me,” Mr. Longfellow said. He shifted closer to her, and his shoulder brushed against her, causing her to shiver. He surely noticed it—he had to—but he didn’t pause to savor it as she was tempted to do and instead began saying the German words.
This time she purposely mangled the lines when she repeated them.
“It’s hopeless,” she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest like a child. “German is too difficult.” She did not meet his eyes. She didn’t dare.
“Instead of repeating it, say it with me.”
He began to say the words, slow and lyrical in his mouth, and though she hesitated, she fell under the spell and began to say them, a moment behind him. When they finished that line, he moved to the next, and she followed along, the words blending and dancing like children around a maypole.
A few words stood out—words she already knew—and as she read with Mr. Longfellow, she could better understand how the words worked together, where the cadence was set within the lines. She began to see the shape of the poem. Even if she did not understand all the words, she felt a tremor of discovery in her chest.
She leaned forward, feeling the depth of the poem written about a fallen comrade during battle, feeling the words they both spoke as though they were singing. His voice was low and rumbling; hers was light and sweet. No more was the recitation choppy words that made no sense, rather it was playing out in her mind with a beat and a rhythm and a flow like waves on the sand.
Mr. Longfellow finished, and a syllable later Fanny did too. But she continued to stare at the page. She had never experienced anything like this and did not know how she would explain the sensation. The words still surrounded her somehow, like hummingbirds or a silken drape.
“Do you feel it?” he asked with a caressing tone as though he was unwilling to break the magic they had spun together.
Fanny looked at him. His eyes were eager for her answer, his eyebrows lifted with expectation. She wanted to resist him, and yet she didn’t. Her defenses were down, and she was suddenly a willing victim of the spell he had cast.
“How can I feel it when I don’t even know what it says?”
“Because you do know,” Mr. Longfellow answered. “You know enough of the words for your mind to bind them together, like mortar between bricks, until it is not bricks anymore but a wall, a structure with its own identity and substance. It does not matter that those bricks could have been used for a prison or a hospital or a house, they were used for this place. This experience. They are forever changed by their use. That is the beauty of poetry, Fanny, ordinary words bound together with heart and soul and measure.”
Fanny swallowed, feeling overwhelmed by the whole of it—this poem, yes, but also this man who represented both freedom and captivity. Their eyes held one another’s, and Fanny felt a growing panic as the air between them warmed. What was happening to her?
She was not falling in love—that was a blissful, light, and flowing feeling. Not a heavy, fearful, burden. Wasn’t it? But did she only feel fear, or was there bliss, too? Frightening bliss? Burdening lightness?
The chime of the grandfather clock in the hall broke her free—finally—and she jumped to her feet as the clock chimed twice more. “It is three o’clock,” she said too loud, clasping her hands behind her back and clenching her fingers tightly together. “The lesson is over.” She smiled, but her legs felt shaky, and she was not herself.
“I can stay longer,” Mr. Longfellow said, looking up at her from the settee. Looking through her. Seeing too much.
Fanny walked toward the window and pulled back the sheer drapes. “I am meeting my Aunt Sam at a shop,” she said somewhat sharper than she meant to. Her defenses snapped back into place, one slat at a time, building a fence, then a wall. Too much risk. Too much potential pain. She continued to explain and justify. “We are both in need of new gloves, and I’m afraid I am unable to prolong our lesson today, though I thank you for the offer to extend.”
He was still watching her, and she feared he would open his mouth and say words that could not be retracted.
“I shall have Mathews call you a carriage,” Fanny said, looking up at a sky filled with gray clouds. “It looks like we may
get rain this afternoon. Perhaps even snow. I would hate for you to be caught in a storm.”
“I prefer to walk.”
She searched his tone without turning back to him. Was he disappointed? Bemused? Finally she heard him stand and gather up his books. She stayed at the window until she heard him approaching. She steeled her nerves and lifted her chin before she turned toward him, determined to be polite, cold if necessary. He could not know her thoughts. He could not know her fears.
“You did very well today, Miss Fanny,” he said, bowing slightly, holding her in his gaze.
“I was appalling, but I admire your determination to be a gentleman about it.”
She could tell he was frustrated by her response. He wanted her to feel good about her progress, but she didn’t. Not in German. Not in her self-preservation.
“Might I walk you to the shop where you are meeting your aunt?” he asked. “Perhaps through the Commons?”
“Thank you, but I must refuse,” Fanny said, keeping her demeanor tight. “I do not think it would be appropriate for us to walk together alone. It would give the wrong impression.”
His eyebrows came together and he opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, though it pained her far more than she would ever admit not to hear what he might have said.
“I shall see you for our lesson next week?” she said quickly.
Mr. Longfellow held her eyes a moment longer and then smiled. “Next week,” he said with a nod. “I shall count the hours.”
Fanny swallowed as he left the room. She returned her attention out the window. The front door opened and shut and then Mr. Longfellow appeared on the street. He looked back, and she stepped away quickly so he would not see her.
What are you doing? she asked herself when she dared step forward again. She caught the last of him before he moved too far from view; she could swear he was smiling.
He had seen this lesson and the shared intimacy as a great success, whereas Fanny’s eyes filled with tears as she embraced her failure to keep her heart at a distance. She tried to think of how she could possibly fix it. Why could her head not rule her heart? How did her heart dare to love anyone when it had been broken so thoroughly by those she’d loved before and lost too soon?
Fifteen
An Open Heart
Henry skipped up the steps of Craigie House, checked his watch, and then went directly to the dining room. It was five o’clock, and he’d told Mrs. Craigie he would be attending dinner before his evening’s recitation—Italian on Thursdays. He entered the room and nodded a greeting to the other lodgers at the table.
Jared Sparks was a former pastor and the McLean Professor of Ancient and Modern History at Harvard, so they interacted a great deal. Sarah Lowell reminded Henry of his maiden aunt, Lucia, who had helped his mother raise ten children. The two were good company on every front, and Henry was in the mood to fully enjoy his time with them.
“Good evening,” Henry said as he took his seat beside Sparks and across from Miss Lowell. “How are we this fine day?”
“Apparently not as well as you,” Sparks said. “You are in a very bright mood.”
“It is Thursday,” Henry said with a broad grin.
“Yes,” Sparks said with a nod. “Of course, why did I not realize the happy nature of a Thursday?”
“He gives lessons to Miss Frances Appleton every Friday,” Miss Lowell said knowingly. They had spoken of his tutoring over their shared breakfasts of toast and tea. “This shall be your fifth lesson?”
“Indeed,” Henry said, reaching for a roll from the basket in the middle of the table.
“What kind of lessons?” Sparks asked.
“German,” Henry said. “You know I met the Appletons in Europe. Well, after I parted their company, Miss Fanny and her sister took French lessons in Paris, and she would now like to learn German. It has been a most invigorating experience.”
“What a strange girl to want to learn German.” Sparks grinned as he looked over his spectacles. “Is she a lunatic?”
Miss Lowell laughed, and Henry shook his head. “Do try to contain your envy that a lovely young women is interested in my work, Sparks. I know it shall be difficult.”
Sparks hooted at that, and Henry went on to explain the nature of his tutoring while dinner was served around the table. Beef stew, a simple meal but one of Henry’s favorites.
“If you ask me,” Miss Lowell said a few bites into their meal. “I suspect the lessons are nothing more than a screen to hide the true intent of these meetings.”
“I have only just learned of these lessons, and I agree with you completely, Miss Lowell,” Sparks said as he broke open a roll. “No one gets this excited about tutoring.”
Henry smiled into his bowl and then wondered what reason he had to deny his feelings. He looked up at his companions. “Miss Fanny is a most remarkable woman. She is smart and witty and so very self-possessed that every minute spent in her company is a moment of pure pleasure.”
“Oh, goodness,” Miss Lowell said. “I think you are quite smitten, Mr. Longfellow.”
“Completely,” he said with a nod.
“And when shall you confess the depth of your feelings?” Sparks asked with a single arched brow. “So that Miss Lowell and I might wish you happy.”
“I have yet to determine my timeline for that,” Henry said. “We have had four lessons thus far, and two dinners with her family, but I asked her to walk the Commons with me last week and she refused, claiming she was unsure it would be appropriate.”
He caught a shared glance between Sparks and Miss Lowell and hurried to alleviate their concern. “I think it is because she has been rather beset with suitors since her return to Europe and worries that being seen in individual company with me should set up an expectation with other men who would like to pursue her.”
“She has many suitors?” Miss Lowell asked, a crease between her eyebrows that he did not feel was warranted.
“Would-be suitors,” Henry clarified, using another roll to sop up the stew in his bowl. He had such energy and knew it was because of Fanny and the light she brought into his life. The hour-long lessons in her company felt as though time stopped completely. And last week! Oh, the glorious moment of discovery when she felt the fullness of what poetry could do. It had been as invigorating a moment as Henry had ever experienced. That ability to feel a poem would now be a part of her, and it would paint the world with colors she had never seen before.
Each time Henry made his way home from Beacon Hill following their Friday lessons, he was already eagerly anticipating the next week. Saturday was his longest day, knowing he was six days away from seeing her again, but his anticipation would build each day, stronger and stronger, until Thursday when he was ready to burst. He would count the hours—twenty-four hours from now, eighteen, sixteen—then he would wake up Friday and know that in seven hours he would be knocking at the door of her home and ushered into sunshine all over again.
“And she is not troubled by the attention of a poor college professor?” Sparks asked. “As I understand it, the Appletons could buy the whole of Boston if they were of a mind to.”
Miss Lowell laughed at the exaggeration but did not correct him.
“I do not think Fanny cares for such things,” Henry said. “She understands my work and does not put on airs. She has been encouraging of my attention.” He paused and reflected on a deeper level of his feelings before looking up at the faces of his friends. “I have not felt such invigoration since the early days of my marriage to Mary, and I never expected to feel such again.” It still hurt to talk of Mary, but not as it once had. “I thank God for extending to me a second chance to feel such happiness I once believed was lost to me.”
The teasing left the faces of both of his companions, and Miss Lowell reached over to pat the back of his hand. “Such love as that is a gift, Mr. Longfellow,” she said reverently. “I wish you the best in your pursuit.”
“As do I,” Sparks said
with a nod. “Would that we could all be so lucky.”
Sixteen
A Broken Heart
It was autumn in New England, and Fanny and Molly spent the day with Aunt Sam purchasing items they would need for winter and ordering those things not immediately available. The sisters would celebrate their birthdays next week, only a day apart. On October 17, Fanny would turn twenty and enter a new decade of her life. The next day, Molly would turn twenty-four, an age that was not quite as exciting to celebrate.
Aunt William had also attended them for part of the day, and they had luncheoned at the Union Oyster House. After sending the packages to the house and saying good-bye to their aunts, the sisters enjoyed a walk along the wharf, despite the cold, and watched the ships come in and leave port, each of the vessels moving so smoothly it was like they were speaking to one another.
The sisters had been back in Boston almost three months and had enjoyed every moment of the summer and fall, knowing a hard winter would be on them soon. Once the snow and ice came, they would warm themselves with memories of more pleasant days like this one.
They walked arm in arm and spoke of an upcoming ball, a past dinner party, and when Molly would next see John. He had gone to New York the previous week to assist in a business transaction for his uncle. There seemed to be no end to the virtues which Molly so easily extoled for John, and they speculated when he might propose. They both agreed that was where his attention was pointed. Perhaps there would be a wedding to usher in the New Year.
Fanny kept to herself how much she would miss her sister—it wouldn’t be the same without Molly on Beacon Street—but she was happy for Molly. Marriage was exactly what Molly wanted and deserved. As for Fanny’s own thoughts on love and a marriage of her own, she found great frustration regarding the topic.
She had not yet determined what to do about Mr. Longfellow, but after last week, she knew she must do something. She could not lead him on, nor could she risk her own heart becoming exposed. Thinking about him, and tomorrow’s lesson, filled Fanny’s stomach with butterflies, so she instead looked forward to the ball tomorrow night. She would wear one of her Italian ball gowns and dance every dance!
Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) Page 11