Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (4 page)

There was a knock at the door. He stopped, took a breath, and answered it, expecting a servant—surely the Appletons had brought several with them—but instead Thomas Appleton stood in the doorway with a well-humored smile on his face. Based on what Henry had seen of his disposition, and that of his father’s, it was difficult to believe that a sense of grief and mourning was afflicting the family.

“Are you ready, Longfellow? I stepped out to enjoy my pipe before dinner and told my father I would collect you on the way back to our rooms. We are on the third floor.”

“Thank you for collecting me,” Henry said with a nod.

The two men continued to the staircase, speaking lightly of the weather, which had been fine that day, until Henry found that he could not continue until his conscience was cleared. He stopped at the base of the stairs. “Mr. Appleton,” he said quickly, “there is something I must confess before I meet the rest of your family.”

“Confess?” Mr. Appleton said, raising his eyebrows without dropping his smile. “Why, Mr. Longfellow, we have just met. I’m not sure I’m prepared to carry whatever sin you might feel the need to unburden.”

He was making a joke, but Henry felt his face pale.

Mr. Appleton noticed, and his smile fell. “I have misspoken,” he said quickly. “I did not mean—”

“I am recently widowed,” Henry blurted out with all the tact of a pugilist. “I feel that, in light of your cousin’s illness, I might not be good company for your family. I worry my situation will only add to the sorrow.”

Mr. Appleton blinked at him, then his face softened into sympathy. “How recent was your loss, Mr. Longfellow?”

Henry looked away so as not to be embarrassed by the other man’s pity. “Nine months,” he said, and then, sensing Mr. Appleton’s sincerity, Henry told him the whole of it, attempting to keep his sorrow at bay long enough to relate the story. “So you see, my feelings might be so tender that I am the wrong choice for your dinner party tonight. I am sorry.”

“You are not the wrong choice for our party,” Mr. Appleton said with a shake of his head. “I am truly sorry for your loss. We have lost my mother and older brother these past few years; I believe that is why William’s decline has struck us all so deeply. Europe has been a good diversion from our grief until these last weeks when his illness has advanced. There is nothing you could do or say that would deepen the burden we carry.” He paused as though considering his words. “Just a few days ago, in Thun, William and my father discussed his situation. William agreed to this trip only if we promised to let him return to Boston if his health turned. He believes—and I cannot help but agree with him, though I hate to do so—that he is not well enough to sustain the return voyage. He has asked that we allow him to stay so that he might die within the great adventure of his young life. My father has agreed to his wishes, and though we will be slowing our journey to spare him too much travel, he hopes to reach Schaffhausen where he might be close to his Protestant roots.”

Henry blinked and swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am sorry, Mr. Appleton.”

“As am I for you,” Mr. Appleton said with a nod. “I do not wish to burden you with our struggles, but my father was perfectly sincere when he said another voice at the table would be a welcome diversion. I have no wish to rekindle your pain, or cast a pall over the evening, so if you are agreeable, I will help keep the conversation from such things that would be painful. In exchange, I would appreciate your help on keeping up the conversation. You could tell us about your book, perhaps, and your first tour if this one is too difficult to mention. There is no need for any of us to delve into painful memories—for one night at least. Is that acceptable to you or would you rather I give your regrets?”

Though a part of Henry felt guilty essentially ignoring the hole in his heart for an evening, there was enough relief at not having to explore the pain with strangers that Henry had little hesitation. “I would be pleased to attend such an evening as you have described, Mr. Appleton. Thank you for your compassion and kindness.”

The grin returned to Mr. Appleton’s face. “Perhaps wait until the end of the evening to thank me. Our plan might not work, but I shall give it my very best.”

“As will I,” Henry confirmed.

Tom turned to the stairs and Henry followed him up. When they reached the landing, Tom stopped. “I have one more favor to ask.”

Henry raised his eyebrows in expectation.

“Will you please call me Tom? I prefer to be called Tom in most situations—it suits me—and with so many Appletons in the company, I shall have a headache if you attempt to address all of us properly.”

It was unconventional to address another man by his Christian name, but it hardly seemed something to argue. “You may call me . . . Henry, then, I suppose.”

Tom cocked his head to the side and smiled. “I shall call you Longfellow. I would not want to make you uncomfortable. And, as you are a writer and professor, I should refer to you as due your situation.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, glad for Tom’s respect.

Four

First Impressions

“As I said, don’t thank me yet,” Tom said. “I must warn you that my sisters are a spoiled pair and wish to be dancing tonight, even though there is no such entertainment available as it’s Sunday. I hope they won’t take their disappointment out on us.”

Fanny regarded the man at the other end of the table and wondered what it was exactly that was bothering her. There was a nervousness about him that caused Fanny to feel unsettled in his company. In an attempt to discover the source of his discomfort, she’d watched him all through dinner—which she worried was increasing his anxiety. Tom and Father had already informed her that Mr. Longfellow was not an old man, as she’d first expected, but she had not considered that he would be handsome. Though he was rather too thin for the bold features of his face—a firm jaw, bright blue eyes, distinguished nose, full lips, and strong chin—it was not his physical attributes that had her on edge. She was well-acquainted with many handsome men and confident in their presence. It was something else. Something she could not quite identify.

Perhaps the fact that they had been talking about
Outré Mer
all evening was part of her mood—she had hoped for more energetic entertainment—but the discussion
was
interesting. She had given her review of the book and asked him questions, which he answered with ease. He was not arrogant about the attention given to his work, in fact at times he seemed almost embarrassed by it, but Tom was intent to stay on the topic.

Maybe
that
was the true cause of her discomfort.
Tom
was not acting like himself, and Fanny didn’t understand why. William had joined them for a brief time, but had already retired to his room. Molly seemed to be trying hard to hide her boredom.

“What of your
current
tour, Mr. Longfellow?” Fanny asked, interrupting what felt like a needlessly long description of his impression of Germany ten years ago. “How long have you been in Europe for
this
tour?”

When Mr. Longfellow did not answer right away, Fanny looked to Tom, who was uncomfortable, and then to her father, who was as expectant of the answer as she was.

“He has been touring for just over a year, have you not, Longfellow?” Tom said, turning his full attention to Mr. Longfellow, who looked as though he’d forgotten his own name.

“Can he not answer for himself?” Fanny asked, spurred forward by the reaction of both men, though she kept her smile polite. She did not want to appear cross. “And why does he call you Tom? Did not the two of you only meet today?”

“I asked him to call me Tom—you know how I hate being called ‘Mr. Appleton’ in informal settings. Don’t be peevish.”

She held her brother’s eyes a moment, then turned her gaze to Mr. Longfellow, undeterred. How could his tour a decade earlier be more interesting than what he’d seen and done in the more recent past? “How long
have
you been on this tour, Mr. Longfellow? When did you leave Maine?”

Mr. Longfellow blinked before he spoke. “I have been in Europe for fifteen months,” he said in a slow, calculated tone. “I shall be returning to Cambridge in a few months to accept a position at Harvard College as the Smith Professor.”

“And how have you enjoyed
this
tour?” Fanny pressed, though there was some niggling within her, warning her to retreat from this line of questioning. She argued with herself but did not give up. “Has it been so dreadful that it is not worth speaking of? Is there nothing of this trip you would like to tell us? Were you in Paris already? Did you enjoy the opera?”

“Oh, Fanny, leave him be,” Tom said, attempting to keep his tone light but not succeeding entirely. There was a warning in his voice. “I am interested in his
first
tour, and in his book.”

Tom’s defense only drew out her curiosity. “Which we have had a very interesting discussion about already—so much so that I would love to hear how Europe has changed in the last decade. Did you not invite Mr. Longfellow here for conversation, and should not that conversation be—”

“Fanny,” Father said, cutting her off. “You are being rude to our guest.”

Fanny turned her attention to her plate, embarrassed at having been called out by her father—something that happened rarely, even when she deserved it. The room was silent long enough for her to take a breath and remember her manners. “I’m sorry, Father. I did not mean to be rude.”

An awkward silence descended as Fanny’s cheeks burned.

“To answer your question, Miss Frances,” Mr. Longfellow said after a few miserable seconds had passed. “Yes, much of my tour this time has been quite dreadful. I told your brother the whole of my situation prior to dinner because I feared I would not be good company. He offered to help avoid difficult topics. I am sorry for the discomfort the avoidance has caused, however, and that the conversation is not so diverting.”

Fanny closed her eyes as the humiliation in her face and stomach burned hotter. Knowing what had been irritating her—he
had
been hiding something and was therefore being careful—did not make her feel better. She had embarrassed him, her father, and herself by being so intent. Why could she not keep her thoughts to herself as a young lady was taught to do? Why did she take it upon herself to fix everything and, in the process, not fix anything at all? Not William. Not this awkward dinner.

The room was still quiet, and she sensed everyone was waiting for her. She met Mr. Longfellow’s eyes from across the long table. She noted again that he was a handsome man, yet now she could see the pain in his eyes and the shadows beneath them. For a moment she wanted to know the cause of his pain—and then she stopped such wondering.

Fanny did not know precisely what Father and William had discussed in the parlor in Thun. She had asked for details, and her father had refused her—which may have added to her surly mood when she felt left out of another conversation tonight—but she could sense the heaviness of whatever the discussion had been, and her heart felt bruised within her chest. There was no room for her to bear anyone else’s pain, and so as quickly as she wondered what dreadful things had befallen Mr. Longfellow, she wanted to hear nothing at all.

Her inability to bear her own misery had driven her to seek out dancing and music in which to pass the time. She could forget the troubles that nipped at her when the energy was high. Evenings like this, calm and conversational, were not nearly as distracting. But that was not Mr. Longfellow’s fault, and she hated to know that she’d added to the difficulty he’d already experienced on this trip. Should she not be lifting the burdens of the people she met rather than adding to them?

“I am sorry, Mr. Longfellow, for pressing you, and for the difficulties you have faced. I was out of place to be so direct, and I pray your forgiveness.” She meant every word and hoped he would know it.

“You owe me no apology, Miss Frances.” For a moment the softness of his words held her like a cord, and she found she could not take her gaze from his. In some way she could not understand, she felt . . .
seen
as she had never been seen before. It was strangely flattering, but also made her feel vulnerable—something she could ill afford to feel. She forced her gaze to her father, who regarded her with concern.

“Father, might I be excused? I fear I am too fatigued to be good company tonight.”

“Of course, my dear,” he said with a nod.

“I certainly wish you the best, Mr. Longfellow,” Fanny said formally as she stood from the table and put her napkin on her chair.

“As I do for you, Miss Frances.”

She curtsied slightly but did not meet his eyes again as she left the room and hurried for the chamber she shared with Molly. She hated how she had behaved this evening. She hated even more the idea that Mr. Longfellow might depart as quickly as possible in light of her treatment of him and then she would never have the chance to redeem herself. She could not stand the thought that he would return to Boston, where their paths may likely cross again, and he would remember her as a sharp-tongued harpy who would not allow a man an evening’s peace.