Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (18 page)

“But our love of literature and poetry,” Mr. Longfellow said, his own shock reflected in his tone. “The enjoyment we have in one another’s company.”

“Yes, we have been well-suited
friends
, but I must be quite honest with you—I am not of a mind to marry.”
Especially not now.
The idea of entertaining any man’s feelings when Molly had so recently been wronged by such a heartless cad was impossible. Thank goodness Fanny had not let her affections toward Mr. Longfellow grow beyond what they were. Thank goodness she had not considered a match or spoken of her deep feelings with him. How would Molly feel to have her younger sister with a beau after all John Peterton had done?

Mr. Longfellow looked down and fingered the lapel of his coat.

Fanny wished she dared run away. Even with her irritation so sharp in her chest, Fanny had no wish to cause him pain.

“You do not mean to marry—or you do not mean to marry
m
e
?” he asked, quietly, forlornly.

“I have no wish to be cruel,” Fanny said, softening her tone and wishing it could also soften the blows she was landing. “But I feel sure any interest you have in me comes from the fact that we met when the wounds of Mary’s death were quite fresh. I believe you have misinterpreted your feelings toward me and given me the credit for having had your spirits restored through your friendship with my family. I believe you see me as a ticket away from your grief, but such a thing cannot replace the mourning of your wife.”

His gaze came back to hers. “With all due respect, I do not agree with that opinion.” His tone was unexpectedly bold. “I very much admire you, Miss Fanny, for your own merits. And I
have
mourned my wife. I cannot, however, be expected to live within that mourning all my days. Mary would not want that, and I would not want it for her if our places were reversed. I am prepared to step eagerly into my future again, and I feel to the depth of my soul that you are the woman with whom I can find happiness.”

What of my happiness?
Fanny wondered.
Has he any regard for what would make me happy, or is he incapable of thinking past his own desires?
Like John Peterton. Like any number of other young men who saw money or position or, in Mr. Longfellow’s case, his own relief.

“I am grateful for your friendship, Mr. Longfellow, to me and to my family, especially to William when he was fading. I think you are a very good man with great compassion and intellectual merit, but I am not interested in marriage, not to any man.” She paused, took a breath of confidence, and then said the horrible truth she knew would put an end to his hope. “And should my feelings regarding marriage change in the future, it would be unfair for me not to make it clear that I expect to marry a man very much like my father in situation and achievement.”

Mr. Longfellow’s neck turned red, and he looked at the rug beneath his feet for several seconds, long enough for Fanny to feel the razor of her words. None of her thoughts had been said as smoothly as she would have liked, but he had put her on the spot. She’d had no time to prepare, and yet she
had
told the truth.

Finally, when the agony was becoming thick, Mr. Longfellow raised his head. “I understand.” Had he said it with a tinge of anger or pride, Fanny would have become even more defensive. But his tone was sorrowful and full of humility. “I hope, however, that you will not dismiss my affections as that of a lonely man who does not understand his mind or heart. Instead, please accept them as a compliment to the woman you are. I shan’t take back any of what I said, even as I wish you happiness on your course. Good day to you, Miss Fanny.”

He didn’t wait for her to speak and instead gave a quick nod before crossing the room and disappearing into the foyer. A moment later, she heard the front door open and close. Fanny sat looking at the doorway where he’d disappeared and reviewed their conversation over and over in her mind until she could not hide the fact that in the face of her rudeness he had been nothing but kind.

Tears rose in her eyes—tears whose source she would not define. She had done the only thing she could do. It would have been unkind to have said anything different. She wiped at her eyes, berating herself for such a reaction, then took a deep breath and assured herself that, though not as well-stated as she would have liked, she had said what was necessary. Mr. Longfellow should not have gone about it as he had. She’d had no choice but to reject him.

If only her rejection of his suit didn’t sit like a rock in her stomach.

Eighteen

Pathways

Henry did not go home. He had told Mrs. Craigie of his planned proposal and received not only her blessing but also her agreement to rent rooms to both Henry and his new wife upon their marriage. She would even consider selling the house to them if an agreeable arrangement could be reached. Henry was only one year into his position as Smith Professor and did not have the means to give Fanny a home in the manner she was used to, but Craigie House was as near equal to her father’s house as any could be, and Henry had felt certain she would be comfortable there.

How would he explain to Mrs. Craigie that he was the most idiotic fool? How would he preserve his pride in light of the old woman’s pity?

He went to his office and attempted to occupy his thoughts with mindless tasks until the hour was late and the sky was dark. He’d had his émigré take the evening recitations because he’d expected he and Fanny would be celebrating. How many of his friends knew he was planning to propose? Four? Six? He had not been shy once he’d made his decision.

Putting the collar of his coat up against the cold wind blowing off the Charles River, Henry hunched forward and walked home, his humiliation raw. He encountered no one when he entered the back door of the house, for which he was grateful. He headed to the back stairs and was at the landing before he heard movement. He looked to the top of the steps where Sarah Lowell stood as though about to come down. At least she was unaware of his planned proposal, unless she’d heard it from someone else.

Henry did not want to engage in conversation but he was a gentleman. “Good evening, Miss Lowell.”

“Good evening, Longfellow,” she said, smiling easily. “Are you coming to the parlor for a visit?” Henry and his friends often ended the day conversing and debating in the parlor, and although the topics were a bit more staid when Miss Lowell joined them, it wasn’t unheard of her for her to hold her own.

“Not tonight, Miss Lowell. I’m afraid I am not feeling well.”

She pulled her gray brows together beneath the lacy mobcap that rimmed her head. “Shall I have Miriam make you a tonic? She made one of rum and anise for me last month that was exactly the thing for my sour stomach.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure I just need to lie down.” In the dark. For the next eight weeks.

“You do looked a bit peaked,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “I should think a tonic would be just the thing—”

“No, thank you,” he said firmer then he meant to, prompting him to offer a hasty apology. “Forgive me, Miss Lowell, I am not myself this evening. I should prefer not to see anyone, not even Miriam.”

She regarded him another minute, and then turned toward her rooms, waving him to follow. “I have what you need, Longfellow. Come with me.”

Henry let out a breath of surrender and followed her. He could not refuse her any more than he could refuse Aunt Lucia, but he was in no mood for this. He needed solitude, and darkness, and perhaps a wall to bash his head against. Instead, he followed Miss Lowell to her apartment on the opposite side of the house from his own.

He stopped in the doorway of the sitting room, which was filled with delicate furniture and knickknacks. Miss Lowell moved to her desk, shuffled through a drawer, and then lifted a bottle of brown liquid he hoped was—

“Whiskey,” she said as soon as he’d thought it. She moved to another table where there were two glasses on a brass tray. When she finished filling the glasses, she turned toward him, still standing in the doorway, and raised her eyebrows. “It is only my sitting room, Mr. Longfellow, and the door shall remain open to ensure propriety. We are friends, are we not?”

He was not entirely comfortable being in a woman’s sitting room, but he did not want her to come to him so he crossed the room and took the glass she offered. When it came to drinking, he preferred wine, the best he could afford, but he was in no mood to savor the rich flavors and subtleties of wine tonight. He threw back the whiskey in a single shot, then grimaced at the burn that raced through his throat, chest, and shoulders. He coughed once into his hand, his eyes watering.

Miss Lowell regarded him. “I suspected it was not illness that had you out of sorts.” She took a quick drink of her own glass without making a face. “A man who drinks like that is suffering from a very different ailment. Would you like to talk about it?”

Henry stared into his glass for a few moments before meeting her eyes. If he were to talk to anyone about his circumstance, it would be his Aunt Lucia, who had a practical wisdom beneath her stern demeanor. Miss Lowell was not as stern as Aunt Lucia, but he knew he could trust her. “I would like another drink first.”

She did not hesitate to fill the glass a second time. And, though it did not burn as hot as the first drink had, he still cringed against the spreading fire.

“She does not want me,” he finally said, feeling each word as though it was being peeled from his heart in long, bloody strips. The tears that rose in his eyes were no longer from the drink, and he placed the empty glass on the tray.

“Miss Appleton?” Miss Lowell said. “She no longer wishes the German lessons?”

Henry looked about for a chair and, upon spying a worn leather settee, moved to it on unsteady legs. He sat and then dropped his now-swirling head into his hands, bracing his elbows on his knees. He had not told Miss Lowell and the others that Fanny had cancelled their lessons.

He had obsessed all weekend until coming to the realization that Fanny simply did not understand the level of his affection. Fanny thought he was a man who did not know his own heart or mind; she may even have been testing his level of interest to see if he were truly devoted. Such justifications seemed like nonsense to him now, but up until the horrid meeting in her parlor that afternoon, he had believed that once he declared himself, Fanny would reveal her feelings to be the same as his own.

“I fear she never wanted my attention,” he said, mournfully. “And now she is lost to me forever.”

“Now, now.” Miss Lowell sat beside him and softly patted his shoulder. “You have been attending to her for weeks now, surely she has welcomed your visits. Why would she be
lost
to you?”

“I asked her to marry me, and she refused my suit.”

Miss Lowell’s hand froze on his shoulder. “You proposed to Miss Appleton?”

He nodded.

“You proposed without courting her?”

“I
was
courting her,” Henry said, looking up at his unlikely confidante. “I was teaching her German every week. We get on so well and have so many shared interests. I felt sure that rejecting the lessons was her way of being coy with me—wanting to see if I would be bold in my affections.” He shook his head, dumbfounded at how wrong he had been. “But today . . . today . . . I don’t understand it. Why would she have encouraged me?”

“
Did
she encourage you? Were you given false promises?”

Henry considered that but had no answer. He had
felt
encouraged. He had
believed
their affections were mutual. “We share such a love of literature, and I feel such a depth of admiration for her. I don’t understand what’s happened.” How could he have felt so hopeful and been so horribly wrong?

“Did she give you a reason for her rejection?”

He thought back to Fanny’s words and huffed in irritation. “She said I am too old for her.”

“How many years are between you?”

“Ten,” Henry said. “It is not so many.”
Was it?

“For a young woman, it can seem like twice that. You are nearly as close to her father’s age as you are to her own.”

Henry hadn’t thought of it like that but resisted giving the idea merit since age was of no consequence to him. “She also feels that I am simply pining for Mary.” Henry felt the heaviness in his chest when he thought of his first wife. He was at peace with Mary’s death, wasn’t he? “It has been two years.”

“But you loved her,” Miss Lowell said as though it were an accusation.

“Of course I loved her,” Henry said, meeting Miss Lowell’s eyes. “Should I say that I did not?”

“Miss Appleton is young and possibly believes the romantic notion that people only have one portion of love to give. If she feels you have given it to another, what is left for her?”

“That is ridiculous,” he said sharply, then cleared his throat and took a calming breath. “Would she rather I
hadn’t
loved the woman I married? Would that make her feel
better
?” The idea made no sense to him at all.