Henry stared at her.
“Do you remember the night when we discussed the possibility of America having its own Milton, or Austen, or Scott? You were the one who felt there was finally enough literary interest from Americans to support such an artist—we needed only to raise one up. I believe it was Felton who suggested you could be that man—America’s first great poet. The man to change the course of American literature and usher in a new cultural age that is not dependent on European voices.” She paused and then smiled shyly. “My nephew, James Russell, spoke to me of your work not long ago, something you shared during one of your lectures. He also felt that you had real potential to change the landscape of literature here in America. I tell you this only to show that it is not only your friends who encourage you.”
“I have so little time to write,” Henry argued, though without much heat. He remembered the discussion he’d had with Felton and Sparks that Miss Lowell was referencing, remembered how exhilarating their encouragement had been, and yet how intimidating it was as well.
He had several poems in his desk, bits he had worked on here and again, but he had not given his full attention to any of them. He also had the outline of another novel. But what if he were rejected? Could he withstand the rejection of his mind after the shredding his heart had experienced this very day? Yet how could the rejection of his writing possibly hurt like Fanny’s rejection had?
And what if Miss Lowell were right? What if he could remedy his situation to the point where Fanny would not have to lower her standards, to where he could offer her the lifestyle she deserved? Success would give him confidence and security, two things he did not have now and therefore could not offer. It was a heady consideration and played easily into his insecurity, already so well fed today.
“My time is stretched so thin,” he protested again.
“Not to pour salt on the wound, my dear, but you shall now have one extra hour a week on your hands. Three, if you count the time you spent going back and forth between Beacon Hill and Cambridge. Why not use that to begin with and see if immersing yourself in your writing doesn’t help you find even more time for it.”
Henry said nothing. On a day where he had gone from hopeful to hopeless he had very little left to draw from. He pondered Miss Lowell’s suggestions and thought deeply of the risk of such a venture. He had works he could polish. He had relationships within the publishing industry he could strengthen. He had an audience in his students. Miss Lowell’s nephew was one of those audience members, a student who would come out for lectures and who would be eager to see an American rival the acclaim of the British writers.
“What if it is not enough?” he asked in almost a whisper. “What if I fulfill every hope of my writing, and her heart remains closed to me?”
“Then she is a fool,” Miss Lowell said, nodding her head for emphasis. “But you finding success might lessen the sting of her foolishness.”
“She is not a fool,” Henry said. He pictured Fanny in his mind. Not as she’d been today—anxious and guarded—but as she’d been in her dining room two months ago when she’d surprised him with her French. That was an evening of pure joy. As had been their last lesson—when she’d felt Uhland in the fullness of his emotion and depth.
For Henry, watching her discover such a thing had affirmed how desperately he needed her in his life. How could she not feel the same? But he knew the answer. She did not love him, nor did she fully understand his love for her. He had bungled his proposal, put the cart before the horse and expected all would move forward simply because he wanted it to.
“If she is not a fool, and you are so certain that you are meant to be hers—not only that she is meant to be yours—then you have no reason not to move forward with your career and see where it might take you. Pour all the feelings of your heart and soul into your words, Longfellow. Let this setback make you stronger and better. Let her see you moving forward. You will be better for the journey with or without her, if you use this difficulty to push you toward a better future.”
Stronger.
Better.
With her.
Henry took a deep breath and nodded slowly, taking hold of the one spark of hope he had left. If he and Fanny were truly meant to be together—and he believed with his whole heart that they were—finding success in his writing could only help that happen. He could learn from this failure and better prepare for another chance to proclaim his love in a way that did not discount her wishes or poorly communicate the depth of feeling he had for her.
And perhaps he could find greater fulfillment in pursuing his own writing than what he found in the classroom. Perhaps he could.
Nineteen
Mrs. Appleton
Fanny sat amid the other wedding guests and took a deep breath through her nose before letting it out slow and steady through her mouth. Is this truly happening? she asked herself. Tom, sitting beside her, put a hand on her knee that she hadn’t realized she’d been bouncing up and down. She stopped the nervous habit and covered his hand with her own. She was glad he was here. She knew his feelings for this marriage were not much different than her own. That her discomfort was understood if not shared assuaged some of her guilt.
The organ began and everyone stood and turned toward the back of the chapel to see Fanny’s soon-to-be-stepmother come down the aisle. Harriet Coffin Sumner . . . Appleton. Fanny was embarrassed that Harriett had insisted on a full church wedding, despite the fact that her groom had three grown children and was twenty-two years her senior.
Father stood at the front of the chapel dressed in a top hat and tailcoat, waiting for his bride as though he were a young buck.
This is happening, Fanny said to herself as though until that very moment she had not believed it would. My father is getting married.
Harriet walked down the aisle like the blushing bride she was—though she was thirty-five years old—and Fanny worked hard to keep a polite smile on her face. Nothing would be helped if the other guests knew her discomfort, and she had decided months ago to act as though she were accepting of her father’s choices. The alternative was to vocalize her objections and draw even more gossip to an awkward situation.
When Father had begun paying particular attention to Jesse Sumner’s spinster daughter, Fanny had warned him that his interest was drawing notice, and whispers, which were increasingly uncomfortable. Fanny did not feel it appropriate for him to court a woman nearly the age of his children.
Father had held her eyes a long time, then crossed the room and put a hand against her cheek. “I have been alone for six years, Fanny,” he said tenderly. “If this old heart of mine can fall in love again, I hope my children would wish me happy. Harriett is a fine woman. It would be an honor if she returned my affections.”
Fanny had been shocked, and a little embarrassed, by his response. Without raising his voice or justifying his feelings, he had made clear that he expected her support. Fanny had not shared her concerns again even as the relationship deepened between Father and Harriet, but he knew her displeasure. She acted too formally when Harriet was around, never dropping her hostess persona. Through months of courting, Fanny had felt sure one or the other would see the error of their decision and put an end to the relationship. But they had not, and so here she was, with Tom on one side and Molly on the other, watching their father make vows to a woman who was not Fanny’s mother. She felt tears well up in her eyes, grateful to know the other guests would think they were tears of joy.
Dr. Channing conducted the ceremony, but Fanny looked at the floor when the time came that they were pronounced man and wife. She could not understand her father’s reasons for this marriage. Everything was going well with their family, business was strong, everyone was in good health and good spirits. Why disrupt the accord?
A mutual sigh came from the crowd now that the deed was done, and Fanny looked up to see the new Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Appleton face the crowd—legally and lawfully married before the state of Massachuse
tts and God Himself.
Molly leaned toward Fanny. “Doesn’t Father look happy?” she whispered.
Fanny hated to admit that he did look happy. Happy and carefree and . . . in love. It hurt her heart to admit it. What of Fanny’s mother, six years in the ground? Where did she fit now?
The wedding couple walked down the aisle together, and the wedding party filed after them—immediate family first—into the frigid January morning. It wasn’t snowing and for that Fanny was grateful as she looked over the line of hired carriages waiting to take the guests to a wedding breakfast at 39 Beacon Street.
She kept her smile in place and accepted the congratulations of people she passed as she moved toward the second carriage. Her father and Harriet were in the first. She was glad when Molly took her hand, gave it a squeeze, and held tight until Tom lifted his sisters into the carriage. The three siblings settled into their seats in silence, shivering in the frosty cold. The warm bricks placed in the carriages were not much remedy for a New England winter.
“Could they not have waited until June or some such month that is at least pleasant?” Tom said after he shut the door of the carriage. He shivered dramatically. “Do you know they never get snow in Barcelona? Rain every day, but never snow.”
“Is that where you will go? Spain?” Molly asked, settling the skirts of her new dress about her legs.
Tom had become an attorney last year but mostly worked hard at not working very hard. He had recently announced he was going to close his office and sojourn in Europe to recover from his failure. He had never wanted a legal career, and his mind was more and more focused on writing and the study of the arts—an occupation Father did not find acceptable. Now that Tom could say he’d tried his father’s way and failed, he would plot his own course. Fanny felt sure, however, that part of him removing to Europe was because, with a new woman in the house, things were changing. Like Tom, Fanny also questioned where she fit into her father’s new life and if she would be welcome there.
“I hope to go to Europe as soon as I can,” Tom said. “But I will miss the company of my sisters.” He slid his gaze to Fanny, who looked out the window to avoid his eye. “Or at least one of them. The other sister has been a bit of a bear these last weeks.” He kicked playfully at Fanny’s leg, and she drew her feet back against the seat, out of range.
“Do not tease me, Tom,” she said in a quiet voice that shook a bit, prompting her to take a steadying breath. “I shall not get through this day if you break me apart.”
Molly and Tom were silent for nearly a minute, during which time Fanny dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief while she tried to control her emotions. She needed to recover before they arrived at Beacon Street where she and Molly would share the role of hostess, perhaps for the last time. Molly scooted closer to Fanny on the bench and put an arm around her shoulder, prompting Fanny to lean against her older sister for comfort.
“It’s going to be all right,” Molly said. “Can you not find some peace in Father’s happiness?”
“I should find peace in his joy,” Fanny said, staring into her lap. “But I cannot seem to.”
“You must try,” Molly said. “It is done and all will be well, but you must try to find that peace that Tom and I have found, Fanny. Promise me you’ll try.”
I have tried, she said to herself. But that would not do. She had no right to make Molly feel worse. “I will try,” she said finally, lifting her head and taking a deep breath. She managed a shaky smile for Molly’s sake, and avoided Tom’s eyes.
The carriage began to slow.
“We are nearly there,” Tom said, as though they couldn’t have guessed that on their own. “Fanny, would you rather go to your room when we arrive? We can give your excuses.”
Fanny looked at her brother in surprise but shook her head. “It wouldn’t look right.”
“But if you cannot lend your heart toward this union, then perhaps it is unfair to expect you to pretend.”
Fanny didn’t like the idea that she should be left out, but she understood what Tom was saying and appreciated that he was giving her an option. “Thank you, but I will be fine,” she said. “I will do right by Father and honor his choice.”
“Sometimes,” Tom said in a careful tone, “I feel you think too deeply, Fanny. You ponder too much on things we cannot make sense of in this mortal life and create obstacles that are not really there.”
Fanny was tempted to take offense, however there was truth in his words. “I wonder at his love for Mama,” Fanny said. “Do we not believe in being reunited in heaven with the ones we love? Will Father have to choose between them?”
“Oh, Fanny,” Molly said. “We don’t know the answer to that, but we know that God is all that is good and beautiful. Do you not believe that Mama—more than anyone—wants Father to be happy? She would not want him to live the rest of his life alone.”
“He is not alone,” Fanny said, looking between her siblings. She truly wanted to feel as they did. She ached for such acceptance of this change. “He has us, have we not cared for him?”
“Not to be indelicate,” Tom said. “But a wife is different than a child.”
“Oh, Tom,” Molly said, her cheeks turning pink. “We need not speak of that.”
“It is the truth.” Tom waved his hand toward Fanny. “Father would never ask you to give up your happiness for his, Fanny. Molly is right—Mama would want him to be happy, of course she would, and the Bible says that it is not good for man to be alone. We have no more claim than Mama or God on Father’s choices.”
Fanny said nothing, only turned to the window as the carriage came to a full stop. She tried not to hear her own words spoken to Mr. Longfellow more than a year ago come back to her regarding his first wife. She had accused him of being lonely and trying to replace Mary. The professor had told her that he had mourned, that he was prepared to move forward. But what about the woman he would move forward with? What of Mr. Longfellow’s potential second wife? What of Harriett? How could a man love two women equally? How could Harriett not feel part of a contest? It was not only Fanny’s mother she felt sorry for, it was Harriet, too, and their father whose heart must now be divided.
Yet Fanny could not deny that her father did love Harriet. Fanny could not understand it, but she knew it was true. Could Mr. Longfellow also love another as he did his first wife? Was that right? Fair?
It was all so confusing, and she tried to push the thought from her mind. Perhaps Tom was right—she did think too deeply and create unnecessary conflict. There was plenty of natural conflict to keep her mind quite occupied without inventing more worries.
When the newlyweds returned from their honeymoon—a three-month tour of the Southern states—Harriett would assume the position of mistress of the house. Fanny took great pride in her management of the household alongside Molly and, specifically, in taking care of her father. What would she do now? What would her purpose be? She was twenty-one years old, too young to live independently, but too old to act the role of a daughter for a woman only twelve years older than herself.
As her thoughts grew heavier, Fanny was tempted to retire to her room. But she didn’t want to make a happy day a sorrowful one for her father, who would notice her absence and suspect the cause. She would hate to cause him pain and so, until she could feel true acceptance in her heart of this necessary turn, she would continue to act as though she already had. She was Nathan Appleton’s daughter, and she would not give him reason to be disappointed in her.
She took a deep breath, sat up as straight as she could, and nodded to the door. “I hope the pastries are fresh,” she said. “I told the caterer to make them this morning rather than prepare everything the day before.”
Tom smiled. “There’s the Fanny we know and love.”
The door opened, and Tom exited first so he could help his sisters down the steps. When she took his hand, he gave it a squeeze. “We should all want happiness for each other,” Tom said quietly. “We know
better than anyone how fleeting it can be. I, for one, do not want to waste a drop, nor deny anyone else their share.”
Fanny still felt argumentative, but she nodded her understanding of what Tom was saying. Two hours from now she could collapse on her bed and cry out the anguish she felt. Until then, she would act her part. She was becoming quite good at pretending.
Twenty
Hopeful Romantic
Cornelius Felton cleared his throat and lifted his wineglass above the table, scanning the other occupants until his gaze settled on Henry, who smiled back at his dear friend.
“A toast,” Felton said with a smile. The other men raised their glasses. “To Henry. May your heart and your pen put the stepping stones of success at your feet for the journey yet ahead.”
Cheers and agreement rang out from the other men as they tapped their glasses together and then drank in both celebration and reverence for the accomplishment Henry had finally—gratefully—achieved. Almost six years after the release of Outré Mer, Henry had published another book. This one was a romance, though perhaps a tragic one. He had loosely based his new book—Hyperion—around his second European tour, and he was eager to see how it would be received. He’d picked up his own copies that very afternoon from the publisher, and, since it was not yet in bookstores, it was unspoiled by critical review which would likely follow.
But tonight was not a night to dwell on pessimistic possibilities. Tonight was a night to enjoy good friends, fine wine, and the glow of accomplishment.
“I should be saluting each of you,” Henry said to the company at the table. “I could not have done this without your support.”
“Ah, not true,” George Hilliard said with a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulder. “Then again, who am I to dispute the possibility that you owe every bit of success to the rest of us?”
The men laughed, and Henry marveled at how close he could feel to these men who a handful of years ago were strangers. Now they were like brothers: united, ready to spar or tease or give whatever they could for another brother’s mercy.
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