Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (15 page)

“Then tell him you have no wish to study German,” Molly said, as though it were that simple. “If you are so determined to be independent, then hold your ground and nip this in the bud before his heart becomes more engaged than it already is.”

Molly moved up the stairs, leaving Fanny alone in the foyer with her arguments and justifications.

“I do not need a man to be happy,” she said again before heading toward the kitchen. She wanted to compliment the kitchen staff on the evening’s tart, which had been particularly good. She also needed to discuss the broken lamp in the upstairs hall. It would need to be replaced, but she was curious as to why it was not working in the first place and whether or not the staff knew when it had gone dark. How would the household function without her, really? Especially when Molly married John and Fanny alone would be attending to these matters.

Someone must care for Father, and someone must manage the household.

“I do not need Mr. Longfellow or anyone else,” she said under her breath to fortify her position. “I shall not give up my independence for any man. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.”

And yet did she have enough confidence in that decision to tell Mr. Longfellow she did not want his kindly meant lessons? He would be disappointed, and the anticipation of such a reaction made her stomach tight. He had been
so
excited to teach her, and he had never been anything but kind and considerate toward her. She did love his insight on literature and language. Was that reason enough to
accept
the lessons?

Fanny took a breath and decided she would take the lessons one week at a time. If she did not reciprocate his attention, he would surely tire of the pursuit and a natural boundary would develop between them. She knew how to flirt when she wanted to, but she also knew how to close herself off and
not
draw a man’s interest. She felt sure that, if necessary, she could be very determined in showing Mr. Longfellow all her worst parts so he would not want her for anything—not a wife, not a student.

It should not be so hard to be an independent woman,
she thought as she reached the lower level and turned toward the kitchen. She should not have to justify her feelings to everyone, including herself.

Fourteen

Language Lessons

“Came-air-eh-den,” Fanny repeated, trying to make her mouth form the strange sounds of the German word. How could they flow so easily from Mr. Longfellow’s tongue and be so rocky and jumbled upon her own?

“Yes,” Mr. Longfellow said from his place beside her on the settee they shared. “
Kameraden.
”

“It’s sounds lovely when you say it,” Fanny said, trying not to sound petulant. “Fluid.”

“I have been speaking and reading German for nearly a decade, Miss Fanny.”

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?