Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Without Fanny Appleton,” Mrs. Craigie said. Even in her final days, she had not missed his omission.

  “Without Fanny Appleton,” he repeated and wondered—perhaps even hoped—it might possible.

  “Did you not say she is in England?”

  “Yes, until the fall sometime. She and Tom went to visit their sister. I received a letter from Tom a few weeks ago. They met Carlyle and saw the actress Rachel on the stage.”

  “Ah, two of your greatest loves.”

  “Rachel, perhaps,” Henry said. “But I would not call Carlyle a great love.”

  Mrs. Craigie laughed only enough that he could hear it and patted his hand again. “The house is settled. Worcester has agreed to rent you the eastern half indefinitely. It will be strange to have a husband and wife living here again.”

  Henry ignored the stab of painful memory. Three years ago he had thought Fanny would accept his proposal and be the first wife to live in the house since Andrew Craigie had left his wife a widow in 1821. It was not to be, and now John Worcester would be the one to change the occupancy.

  “They will love the house and care for it well.”

  “I’m not sure they love it like you do, Henry,” Mrs. Craigie said. “I did not sell it to him as I hope that one day you might be able to purchase it. Of anyone who has lived here, other than myself, you have loved it best.”

  That Henry would one day own Craigie House was his own dream as well, and if his writing continued on the same course it was on, he might be able to do so in a few years’ time. Worcester had already told Henry he hoped to build a home of his own so he did not have designs on keeping the house for himself. Only, it would be strange to live here alone.

  “I appreciate the consideration,” Henry said. “I hope it will come to pass.”

  “You must promise me something else,” Mrs. Craigie said, closing her eyes again.

  “Yes?” Henry said when she did not expound immediately.

  “You must promise me that seeing an old woman in bed will not turn you away from marriage completely.”

  For an instant Henry was shocked by her joke, and then he laughed, loud and rich and heartfelt until tears streamed down his face in both mirth and mourning. Mrs. Craigie laughed too, as much as she could, and soon tears were leaking from her eyes as well. Henry got control of himself and handed her his handkerchief, not bothering to dry his own eyes.

  “I shall miss you, Elizabeth,” he said in a trembling voice.

  “Oh, Henry,” she said, her own chin quivering. “I shall miss you too. Please come read to me again before I go. If you can.”

  “As often as I am able.” He rose from the chair and leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on the old woman’s forehead. “God bless you.”

  She answered with a squeeze of his hand.

  He didn’t bother to turn down the light as he left; her nurse would check on her throughout the night, and the light would not pierce the darkness of Mrs. Craigie’s eyes. He closed the door softly behind him and paused a moment, reflecting on the gift of her life. He hoped that in some way the house would always stand as a legacy to her kind heart and good will.

  He thought back to a day when he’d come home from teaching to find Mrs. Craigie on the front porch, the canker worms from the trees she would not allow treated crawling all over her face and hands and turban. It was an appalling sight, and Henry had tried to help her in the house, but she’d refused. “They are God’s creatures,” she said, watching a worm inch its way up her arm. “They’ve as much right here as we do.”

  “Indeed,” he said to the darkened hallway as he turned toward the stairs. “Indeed.”

  Twenty-Nine

  A Changing Heart

  Fanny and Molly walked arm in arm along the pathway of Regent’s Park, located across from the court where Molly lived. It was early fall—Fanny’s favorite time of year—and the scent of wood smoke was in the air. Though it was not cold, there was a welcome coolness that tickled Fanny’s nose and made her think longingly of Boston, which heralded the seasons with more dramatic presentation than London did.

  Fanny wished she could use the splendors of Boston in the fall as greater inducement in her plea for Molly to return to America for a time, but they would never make it back to America in time to see the season change.

  “Harriet will have the baby in November,” Fanny said, trying yet another avenue to tempt her sister home. “And Ronald would have a playmate in William.”

  Molly looked at the path in front of them while they took slow, careful steps. “Robert’s family is here,” she said.

  “And your family is there. I know it would be hard to leave his family, especially his sisters, who have been so kind and attentive.”

  Molly nodded.

  “But you would not have to stay forever, just until Robert can shore up some connections and find another post. Just until after the baby is born and you are in good health again.” That was Fanny’s biggest reason to encourage a return home—Molly was pregnant again.

  After all Molly had suffered with Ronald’s birth, Fanny could not bear to think of her sister experiencing such trauma again without her family, and good doctors, to attend her. True, the doctor Ronald had found through his inquiries had been excellent and had helped them all through the months that followed, both with increasing Molly’s strength and decreasing her dependence on the medications, but Fanny could not help but think better care earlier on in Molly’s struggles would have avoided a great deal of difficulty. Though she did not fault Ronald, she was also quite sure if she had been present, things would not have gotten so out of hand.

  “The idea of traveling by boat when I feel so wretched makes me want to cry,” Molly said. “I am not as good at sea as you are.”

  “But you have not yet traveled by Cunarder,” Fanny said. “It is a remarkably smooth ride and only two weeks of travel.”

  Molly didn’t respond directly. After a few moments her mouth pulled down into a frown. “I know we can’t keep the house much longer.”

  Fanny took a quick sidelong glance at her sister. She had made the same determination but was surprised that Molly had realized the severity of her and Robert’s financial situation. Fanny thought it wise not to comment.

  “And there is talk of a post in India,” Molly said. “Mr. Rich was telling Robert about it the other night when they came for dinner.”

  Fanny took a calming breath before she spoke. The idea of her pregnant sister traveling to India made her chest catch on fire. But Molly was not a child, and Robert needed a job. “Would you like to go to India?”

  Molly looked at the ground. “I don’t think I would,” she said quietly. “But I support Robert in his career. It is not my place to make the decisions.”

  “You can certainly have an opinion, though,” Fanny said carefully. “Especially regarding the child you are carrying.”

  Molly said nothing, and they walked in silence until the path broke off toward the house.

  “You go on,” Fanny said, releasing Molly’s arm and keeping her expression soft. “I’m going to take one more round. The weather is so fine today.”

  Molly gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and moved toward home, while Fanny began walking again, this time at a more comfortable pace. Molly had to walk slowly, which at times made Fanny feel the need to run.

  She was grateful for her health, for the chance she had to come to London when she did, for Tom and Robert and how committed both of them were to Molly’s improvement. She smiled when she thought of her nephew, nearly a year old now and beginning to pull himself up on the furniture. She thought about Harriet having another half sister or brother to add to the Appleton family.

  Family.

  Though Fanny would not say she had outgrown friendships—she had a number of people she was excited to see once she returned to Boston—aside from perhaps Emmeline, none of her friends inspired the same feelings of belonging and connection as her family did. She had seen
that connection more than once during this trip as she watched the closeness between Robert, Molly, and Ronald during the day. The way Robert stood a little taller when Molly entered the room, the way her hand lingered on his when they parted company, and the way Ronald gazed at Molly with such abject adoration. It was beautiful. And a bit painful too.

  Fanny was nearly twenty-four years old. Not on the shelf, but she had proclaimed her desire not to marry loudly enough that there were few men who attempted to talk her out of it. She could enjoy their company, even flirt now and again, but she felt nothing like what she saw between Molly and Robert. Between Father and Harriet. Between her aunts and uncles. All around her were married couples who enjoyed such accord. Until this trip she would have said she admired it, but now she wondered if she envied it. Did she want such a connection for herself?

  She thought of Molly and could not imagine that her sister would ever feel complete without little Ronald. In fact, it was increasingly difficult for Fanny to remember what Molly had been like before she married Robert, before Fanny had seen her care for her son with such tenderness. There was something inspiring about that connection.

  But Fanny was not Molly. They had different temperaments, different expectations. Molly’s opinion regarding a post in India was the perfect example. Fanny couldn’t imagine living in such a wild place as India, but more she couldn’t imagine not having an opinion about it. Or not expecting her husband to regard her opinion.

  Should she marry, would she and her husband argue about everything? Would he expect her acquiescence, and she withhold it to her dying breath? What a pretty marriage that would make.

  And that was assuming there was anyone she wanted to marry. She’d had some tendrés in the past, a few that felt serious, but they had come to nothing and made her distrust her own interest. Was it the want of a child that had her considering the necessity of a husband?

  She grunted, frustrated with her thoughts, then looked around to make sure no one had heard her. None of the people strolling the park paid her any attention, and for a moment, she felt inexplicably lonely. Tom was in Paris for a few weeks, Molly was in her home, and Fanny had the strangest sensation that if she disappeared, nothing in the world would change. No one needed her. No one turned to her for particular comfort. She had no legacy to leave behind and had made no mark upon the world. Until that moment, she had not thought those things important to her, but suddenly they were.

  Family.

  There were no more dear people to her in all the world than her own family, so why was she so resistant to a family of her own? She pondered a moment and then sighed when Mr. Longfellow came to mind. Oh, that cursed man! Not for the first time, she wondered if her displeasure with him had created a displeasure with all of his sex. She could flirt and dance and enjoy a man’s arm around her shoulder, but she didn’t long for it. She didn’t want to deepen those relationships. Could that be because she worried such depth would come with that same discomfort Mr. Longfellow’s attention bore in her?

  She shook her head. Longfellow, Longfellow, Longfellow. Would she ever be free of that man? If not, whose fault would that be—hers or his? She was a grown woman after all. Why should she let him affect her like he did? Why should she care so much?

  She turned around on the path, determined to return home earlier than planned and help Molly with Ronald before supper was served.

  It did not escape her notice, however, that, while wondering at her future and questioning whether she was set against a family of her own after all, it was Henry Longfellow who came to mind. Surely that was because his was an open offer. She had no doubt that if she appeared on his doorstep and announced her heart changed, he would accept her without hesitation.

  But her heart was not changed. She was only thinking of things differently, and, of course a desperate suitor such as himself who made no attempt to school his affection would come to mind. Of course he would.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Thirty

  A New Year

  Fanny read the name on the card and took a deep breath—Professor Henry Longfellow. “He knows I am the only one receiving today?” Fanny asked Mathews, who awaited her response.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Well then, there would be no avoiding him. “Show him in, and send up fresh tea and cake.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mathews exited the room, and Fanny used the next few seconds to sit up a bit straighter and put a polite smile on her face. It was New Year’s Day, 1842, and despite all the changes to the Appleton family of Beacon Hill, Fanny had let it be known that she would be accepting the expected New Year’s visitors on behalf of the family.

  Tom had accompanied Father to Washington—Father was contemplating serving in Congress again—and Harriet had gone to stay with her sister in Cambridge for a few days with William and the new baby, Harriett. Molly and Robert had taken Ronald to the Sedgwicks’ home in Pittsville. Fanny had been invited, but, though she didn’t say so, she had looked forward to a quiet house. With three children beneath the age of two in the house that was also brimming with adults, it had not been a quiet winter.

  Fanny had offered to stay home and keep house, supervise the removal of the holiday decorations, and receive any callers. She had also enjoyed parties with friends and even a dance where she’d been reacquainted with Malcolm Pace. He was a nice young man she had known for many years, but a bit too eager for her tastes. She’d had enough of eager suitors.

  She had wondered, as the day went on, whether Mr. Longfellow would call as he usually did. That he had did not surprise Fanny—he had already proven how determined he was to remain on good terms with the family—what did surprise her was how mild she felt toward the visit. She had not seen him for months, not since before leaving for England in the spring, and she wondered if all that had happened since then had helped her grow out of her determination to feel insulted by the man.

  Mr. Longfellow entered the room, and Fanny was immediately struck by how thin he was. His face was gaunt, and there were shadows under his eyes—similar to how he looked when they had first met in Interlaken. Any lingering defensiveness she felt drained away out of concern for his health. He approached her chair and bowed, but without reaching for her hand. She had the impression he didn’t want to touch her. She was oddly hurt by it.

  “Please, have a seat,” Fanny said.

  He did so, sitting rather primly on a chair across from her. His trousers pooled upon the tops of his shoes, and his coat betrayed the thinness of his shoulders underneath. In her appraisal of his appearance, she had not noticed he held a parcel. He set it on his lap and stared at it a moment as though trying to remember what was inside the box.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” he said.

  Fanny’s heart pricked with conscience at how despondent he sounded. He would not meet her eye. “Don’t be silly,” Fanny said brightly. “You are always welcome here, Mr. Longfellow.”

  He glanced up, but then back to the floor. “Your butler said you are the only one home.”

  “Yes, but we are friends, are we not?” She hoped he understood her emphasis; she did not want him to misconstrue her kindness as an invitation for something more. But she had no desire to be unkind, especially when he struck such a sorrowful figure.

  “Are we friends?” he asked, taking Fanny off guard with his boldness. He lifted his head and met her eyes.

  She felt the look move through her, as it had on the first day they met, and she looked away. “Of course we are,” she said, wondering if perhaps she should have refused his visit after all. She gathered her confidence and offered him a broad smile, trying desperately to hide her feelings though somehow she doubted that was possible.

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  His calm, soft, and heartfelt voice pricked her heart in a different way. She had come to terms with the whispers regarding her connection to Hyperion, and she tried to forgive herself for the caustic gossip she’d made
to Jewett, but until this moment, she had not considered Mr. Longfellow’s feelings about her anger. She felt shame for having hurt him; he looked like a dog expecting to be kicked. The image wasn’t a pathetic one, as it may have been a year ago, rather she recognized that for him to meet with her today took a great deal of courage.

  A maid brought in the tea tray, and Fanny busied herself with pouring.

  “How was England?” he asked when she handed him his cup and saucer.

  “It was lovely,” she said sincerely. “Though next time I shall go in the fall and be spared a New England winter. That was not the best welcome to return to.”

  He smiled. “And Molly has come back to Boston?”

  “For a little while. They went to Pittsville for the holiday.” Molly was doing much better, well enough to want to see family and friends. “I know she’d have been delighted to see you.”

  “And your father and Mrs. Appleton have had another child?”

  “Yes, a girl. Little Harriet.” Fanny smiled at the thought of her half sister. “She is a delight.”

  “Please share my greetings and congratulations with both Mr. and Mrs. Mackintosh and Mr. and Mrs. Appleton. I am very glad for their happiness.”

  “I shall certainly do so,” Fanny said, then paused. “And you, Mr. Longfellow, are you well?”

  She could not tell if he avoided her eye from embarrassment or not. “I am well enough, Miss Appleton.”

  Mr. Longfellow had called her by name since their European tour, though she had not invited him to. She had been both irritated and unaffected by his familiarity, depending on her mood. She felt the distance of his more formal address today, and she didn’t like it, though she wondered why she had noticed at all.