Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “You’re a wonderful mother,” Fanny said, surprising herself.

  Harriet looked up, seeming as surprised to hear the compliment as Fanny was to say it. “Why, thank you, Fanny. What a kind thing to say.”

  The mood of the room seemed to unlock Fanny’s usually guarded demeanor with her stepmother. She looked into the face of her little sister when she spoke so as to avoid any scrutinizing look Harriet might direct her way. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” she asked carefully. “Motherhood, I mean.”

  “Yes and no, I suppose,” Harriet said. The gentle creaks of the rocking chair were comforting, adding to the soothing atmosphere of the room. “I’m not sure it’s possible to comprehend the investment of such a thing, but it’s equally impossible to describe the joy of it.”

  Though she didn’t say the words, Fanny felt sure Harriet heard them. Please try to describe it.

  Harriet smiled and looked at William, who was settled against her, his eyes closed as though heading toward the oblivion of sleep.

  Harriet began talking about the difficulties—not enough time, questioning herself, and feeling run ragged from lack of sleep. She missed her friends and the endless days where she could choose all her activities. It was lonely, she said, and exhausting, and some nights she would go to bed and cry herself to sleep for any number of things that had not gone right that day.

  Fanny was rather horrified. Why would anyone want such a thing? Why hadn’t Harriet hired a nurse to do the work for her so she wasn’t so miserable?

  But then Harriet began to talk about the reflection of Father in her children’s faces, the absolute adoration in their eyes when they saw her, and what she called a spiritual calling that reminded her of how eternally connected they all were. She talked about feeling them move within her for the first time, the fear that all would not go well, and the ecstasy of holding a child—flesh of her flesh—in her arms.

  She spoke of other nights when she didn’t fall asleep in tears, where she felt filled with a sense of purpose, where knowing how needed she was by these children who could not do without her made every regret seem paltry and inconsequential.

  “Perhaps it was a good thing I didn’t know the whole of the splendor before William was placed in my arms, otherwise I may have gone to great lengths to achieve it any way I could.” She smiled. “As it is, my blissful ignorance allowed me to wait until your father came along. I am grateful every day that my children have such a man to guide them through this life. I feel as though I found a great treasure in him, and because of him all the bounty of earth and heaven is available for me.”

  Fanny had never—not once—heard her stepmother talk so openly and was mesmerized not only by the words but also by Harriet’s sincerity. Fanny was reminded of the day Harriet had married her father, of the tears Fanny had spent most of the day holding back, of the resentment and embarrassment she’d felt. She did not feel those things any more save for the memory that she once had had them. If not for that marriage, there would be no little William or little Harriet. Fanny could not imagine life without them.

  “That is a beautiful testimony,” Fanny said.

  Harriet smiled and looked to her namesake still nestled in Fanny’s arms. “You’re very good with children, you know. Not too soft but not too hard either.”

  Fanny chuckled. “There are not many people who would say I am soft at all.”

  “You are with Ronald, and with your brother and sister. You connect with them, and they feel that you love them.”

  Fanny met her stepmother’s eyes with a questioning look.

  “It’s true,” Harriet said, still rocking back and forth. William was asleep on her lap, and Fanny wondered if Harriet would hold him for the duration of his nap. “I think it’s because they know they can trust you. You watch out for them, but you are kind—a perfect combination of security and love.”

  “I’ve never had much time around children until these last few years,” Fanny admitted. “I do find time with them more enjoyable than I would have expected. So many women seem to continue life after having children the way they did before. As though their children are of little consequence, especially when they are young.” She shook her head. “To listen to me you would think I spend a great deal of time with them when I do not.” She gave an embarrassed shrug. “It’s not as if I am a caretaker of any kind. I simply get to play with them on my own schedule. That is hardly the investment a mother would make.”

  “Do you want to have children, Fanny?”

  The question surprised her, and she looked down at the baby in her arms. The instant answer that came to mind was that without a husband it was not worth considering, but in that moment she knew she very much wanted children. She wanted to feel what Harriet had described; she wanted that kind of connection and sense of purpose. But she was hesitant to let the fantasy take root when she felt such little control over her future.

  “Not every woman is meant to be a mother,” Fanny said. “I believe God does not expect it from every woman, nor should every woman feel it is the only road to happiness.”

  “I agree,” Harriet said, again surprising Fanny. She thought her stepmother might argue the point. “But for many women, motherhood is that very road.”

  Fanny nodded as though they were agreeing, though she was unsure that they were. She felt anxious about the direction the conversation had taken and unsure what to say. Most women she knew viewed their role and position as the only one worth pursuing, shoring up their own confidence by making it seem it was the only way to find true happiness.

  “There is one other point I would like to make,” Harriet said.

  Fanny felt herself tense. She did not like it when people made points with her. As though they were delivering a reprimand. She looked at Harriet with controlled expectation.

  “God can help you find the path that is uniquely yours,” Harriet said. “I was older than you are when I decided to ask the Lord what he wanted of me. I served, of course, and helped others, especially my family. I was content with my life of independence and society. But in my study of the Bible, I began to feel that I was not on the course God wanted for me. I began to feel as though I was not doing my duty as a Christian woman.

  “I spoke to Dr. Channing about my concerns, and he encouraged me to undertake a search of God’s plan for me—just me, not a general ledger that gave every person the same map to follow, but the journey set apart for my feet alone. So I did, and in time, that journey led me to your father and these little ones.” She jostled William in her lap and nodded at little Harriet in Fanny’s arms. “Sitting here today, I have no doubt that this is exactly the course I should have taken, but the path was not laid out to me until I asked to see it. Perhaps God is unable to show us our way until we prove to Him that we truly want to follow it.”

  Fanny felt the truth of Harriet’s words in her heart just as she had felt other truth from time to time. Strong enough that she could not deny it, but soft enough to know she was not forced to believe. But she did believe. Harriet’s words resonated with her and gave her a great deal to think about.

  If God had a path for Fanny Appleton, just for her, would it not be in her best interest to find it? She was about to ask how, exactly, one would search for such understanding when Harriet stood from the rocking chair and gently carried William to a pallet set in the corner of the nursery. She pulled a blanket over her sleeping son.

  “I’ll fetch you Mr. Longfellow’s book, Fanny,” she said. “And then I will stop bending your ear. I do go on sometimes.”

  She left the room and a few minutes later returned and traded Fanny the book for the baby.

  “Thank you,” Fanny said, feeling conspicuous as she stood there with the book in the middle of the nursery. She took the book to her room, though she didn’t intend to read it until that night. But then she noticed a pink tassel of silk hanging out of the pages.

  She opened the book to the page Harriet marked and read the title
of the poem that began on that page—“The Bridge.” Fanny recognized the poem. It was about a man finding solace on a bridge, but as she read it again, she saw the man as Mr. Longfellow and the bridge as the West Bridge that connected Boston to Cambridge. She had not been particularly struck by the poem the first time she’d read it, but the words sounded different to her now as images and memories swam through her mind, connecting to real people and places.

  And forever and forever,

  As long as the river flows,

  As long as the heart has passions,

  As long as life has woes;

  The moon and its broken reflection

  And its shadows shall appear,

  As the symbol of love in heaven,

  And its wavering image here.

  Have you missed something? The same gentle softness she’d felt in the nursery seemed to ask the question. She lowered herself into the chair beside her bed and felt anxiety flutter in her chest that she could not explain.

  Fanny turned to the front of the book, planning to read from the first page to the last without the prejudices she had long since held around herself when anything regarding Mr. Longfellow came too close. In the very front of the book was an inscription written in Mr. Longfellow’s elegant hand. It was not written to anyone in particular, not to “The Appleton Family” or even to her specifically, but somehow she knew it was meant for her.

  Forever and Forever

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1842

  Have you missed something? the voice said again. Fanny didn’t know the answer. She turned to the first page of the book she suspected she had not understood as she ought and began to read with new eyes.

  Thirty-Three

  The Water Cure

  “Germany?” Sumner said, scowling from across the table.

  If Henry didn’t know his friend so well he would assume his friend was angry. “Near Boppard. There is an old convent there that applies the treatment. I feel it the best hope of regaining my health. Dickens mentioned the place to me during his visit, and while I admit he may have meant it in jest, I have looked into the procedure and found that it does seem to have merit.”

  Sumner’s eyebrows remained drawn together. “And you were awarded leave?”

  Henry nodded. “I received the notice just yesterday. Felton had already agreed to take over my supervisory duties if the leave was granted.”

  “How long?”

  “Six months. I leave in May, and I wanted to be sure I told you myself.”

  Sumner huffed and sat back in his chair, turning to look at the darkened windows of the pub where they had met for drinks. “What is this treatment? You say Dickens mentioned it in jest?”

  He and Sumner had met Charles Dickens a few months earlier, and the three of them got on very well. It was incredibly flattering to Henry to be accepted by a man who was known to select his friends with care.

  Henry doubted Dickens had thought he would be intrigued when he said that what Henry needed was to spend enough time bathing in a convent on the Rhine that he became web-footed; but the idea hadn’t left his mind. A logical man like Sumner would find it difficult to put any stock in something of this nature, but that was why Henry had requested they meet, so he could adequately explain the situation. No one understood the level of desperation Henry felt to find healing for his body and his mind, both of which seemed to be failing him.

  “It is called the Water Cure and consists of taking baths and tonics of water with a high mineral content. It’s supplemented with gentle country walks, a minimal diet, and a great deal of rest.”

  “It sounds like horse dung,” Sumner said forcefully. A few people at the nearby tables looked their way. Henry would have been embarrassed if he had not anticipated this very reaction. He remained quiet and Sumner continued. “They are charging you a pretty penny for it, I’d wager, and you will be cut off from all who love you and forced to follow a regimen that may very well make your health worse, not better. They probably mix whiskey with the water and tell you it’s minerals. You’ll be stuck in some ruin of a building and catch your death.”

  Henry smiled even as Sumner’s scowl deepened. “Oh, my dearest friend, how I shall miss you.”

  Sumner huffed. “You are going then.”

  “I have decided.” Henry looked at his thin hand holding his glass. He was desperate. For months he had been losing weight, suffering headaches, skin discomfort, and insomnia. There had to be relief for him in Europe, there had to be. “And I am eager to go. I need a new place, a new sky to look upon, new thoughts in this soggy brain of mine. This most recent black mood has not broken except for a few days of light here and there, but I never find the restitution I need. I don’t sleep, I barely eat, and I find myself in front of my students with my mind blank. I cannot write, I cannot focus on happy things nor believe they exist. I find myself thinking that perhaps death would be a haven and that frightens me.”

  Sumner’s expression relaxed into acceptance, telling Henry that his honesty was not misplaced.

  “I am trying, Sumner. I swear I am trying to rise above this, but I cannot seem to keep the air in my lungs, and I fear that one day I shall just stop breathing all together. I am desperate for relief, and I feel this might be my only chance.”

  “And Miss Appleton? Are you not simply running from her?”

  “Yes, I am running from her,” Henry said, looking at the tabletop, waiting for a reaction at hearing her name. It came, but it was as muted as was every other thing that had once brought passionate energy to his mind. “But not simply her. I am running from all of it, school and writing and associations and responsibility, in hopes that I shall return prepared to see things for their true color and shape—things that are lost to me within the bleakness of my thoughts.”

  “You are certain you cannot find solace here?” Sumner leaned forward. “Perhaps a trip to the south? The coastal towns there are very fine—you could drink the waters there.”

  “I am going to Germany,” Henry said. “I must tell you that when I received the administration’s letter approving my leave, I felt more lifted than I have in a long time. It was as though the clouds parted and a voice said ‘This is hope.’”

  “Are you expecting to come home cured enough that Miss Appleton will see a new man?”

  Henry shook his head, not surprised that Sumner had looped back to that topic. Sumner had seen Henry suffer for want of Fanny for many years and was particularly irritated by it.

  “I am hoping to return home free of the hold she has upon me.” He lifted his glass and swirled the wine within it until it created a small tornado of red liquid. “I know she is lost to me, Sumner, and that she was never truly mine for the asking. I know it in here”—he tapped his free hand against his head—“but my heart won’t yet accept it. I cannot survive with my mind and heart so separated. I go to Germany with the belief that I can connect my head to my heart once again and exorcise Fanny Appleton from both of them completely. It is my intention to return home a new man, free of Fanny, free of the fantasy that has hung like a millstone around my neck all these years. I want a family, I want a woman to love and who will love me back, and I am running out of time. I must separate Fanny from that expectation, and I feel sure that Germany is where that will happen.”

  Sumner took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Then I shall wish you well. I want you to know how greatly you shall be missed. You are my dearest friend, Longfellow, the best I have ever had. I shall count the days until your return, and while I will sorrow for myself, I wish you the treasure of your health and, above all, hope you will be happy.”

  Henry blinked back tears, surprised at the depth of feeling from this man who appeared so hard on the outside. He reached across the table and Sumner took his hand in a symbolic embrace. “Without the love and support of my friends, Sumner, I would not have made it so well and so long. I thank you from the depth of my soul for your faith and your care.”

  “God s
peed to you,” Sumner whispered, his own eyes glassy. “Find that happiness. Be well.”

  Thirty-Four

  New Life

  Henry trudged up the hillside, sketchbook in hand, lungs heaving, and muscles burning until he reached the crest which afforded a view of the smoking chimneys and bell towers of Marienberg, the village just outside the convent where he had been taking the Water Cure since June.

  Am I cured? he wondered, and then smiled at the paper in his hand. Three months ago he was not writing, and now he was. He had gained back some of the weight he’d lost, and his sleep and digestive struggles had evened out. He walked for hours every day without pain in his joints, and his headaches were far less frequent than they had been. Though he was hesitant to proclaim himself completely cured, he had not felt this good in years.

  He settled himself on the hillside and let the color and shapes of the view surround him. The landscape was beautiful: quaint, rustic, and free. After months of baths, drinks, bland food, and long walks, he had come to realize that while he may never be cured of what distressed him, he could rise above it.

  Here in Marienberg there was no one to complain to and, after looking around at the company he shared his time with, he realized many people suffered from ailments of every kind, making him oddly grateful for his own. Some of the residents were in far greater distress than he, dealing with all manner of physical and psychological impairments that tugged at Henry’s sympathy. Some seemed to regard their time at the convent as an excuse to be idle, and yet others seemed to enjoy the attention, often making up new ailments and complaints, then watching with bright eyes the way their attendants rallied around them.

  Henry was unsure which category he would place himself in, but he knew one thing—he had more power over his moods than he had thought. What’s more, he’d come to take a certain comfort in his ability to feel things so deeply. Perhaps because his mind could go to dark places, he had the perception and ability to recreate such ethereal concepts in his writing. Perhaps his weakness was also his strength.