Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (19 page)

“I don’t think she has thought of it in that way,” Miss Lowell said with a sympathetic smile. “It is a credit for you to have loved Mary, but it may make Miss Appleton question your ability to love her as well. In fact, are you certain she understands that you
do
love her? Without courting her properly, perhaps she does not know your true feelings.”

“I asked her to marry me—does that not prove my love for her?” He didn’t apologize for his tone this time; his shock had turned to anger. “Am I to be sentenced to a life of solitude because I
dared
love Mary?”

Miss Lowell smiled kindly, softening Henry’s heart and tempering his anger. He blinked back tears again. “The heart is not always reasonable,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

“She also said that she would marry a man like her father.” He had to pause to keep his voice from betraying how the words had cut him. “I am not good enough for her. Not rich enough, not successful enough.” He dropped his head into his hands again, this time clenching his fists around his hair and pulling until it hurt.

“Oh, I am very sorry she said such a thing. That was unkind.”

Henry wanted to agree with her, expand upon Fanny’s insult, and then think only of her unfairness to him. But
was
it right for him to expect her to accept a lifestyle so below what she was used to? She had servants and luxury; he could offer her only a modest life on the wrong side of the Charles River.

Mary had been the daughter of a judge, wealthier than the Longfellows of Portland, and adjusting to a simpler life had been difficult for her. More than once, she had asked her father for money so she might have new furniture or clothing that Henry could not afford. The comforts that Fanny was used to were well beyond that of Mary’s family. Could he be so surprised that she was hesitant to give up such comfort? Did he expect she would abandon everything she had known for love alone?

Love.

Henry raised his head and stared at some point in front of him with unfocused eyes. “She does not love me,” he said, verbalizing the discovery as though it was an artifact he had dug from the earth and was inspecting for the first time.

If Fanny loved him, their age difference would not matter, she would not feel threatened by Mary, and she would not be so reticent to accept a lowered lifestyle because she would
know
that love could make up for any want. Henry had seen love resolve all manner of discrepancies; it was truly the great healer. That Fanny was unwilling to negotiate even one of her objections made it clear to him that the love he felt for her was not returned. In some odd way the realization was a relief . . . and a challenge.

He looked at Miss Lowell sitting beside him. “How do you make someone love you?”

“
Make
someone?” Miss Lowell said, lifting her eyebrows and causing her cap to shift back on her head. “I’m not sure that’s possible, Mr. Longfellow. Or advisable.”

“I am
so
certain of my love for her,” he said, putting a hand to his chest. “That can’t be a mistake. God would not give me such feelings if not to have them remedied. She is my salvation, Miss Lowell, she embodies everything I need to be whole. I know this to my very bones.”

“I fear your poetic heart may be creating a stumbling block for you in this, Longfellow,” she said sadly. “Not all love is returned. Not every desire is answered. You are not the first to be crossed in love nor feel the sting of being pushed aside. I do not discount your feelings, but neither do I think it wise to interpret them as prophecy.”

Henry wondered if Miss Lowell had once been in love. Had she had her heart broken, too? For a moment, he pictured himself fifteen years from now, as alone in the world as Miss Lowell, living in rented rooms and seeking purpose in his life. He felt bad for judging Miss Lowell’s situation, but he did not want to live the rest of his life as he had this last year—without companionship, without a family of his own. He could
only
picture his future with Fanny. To remove her from the vision caused the entirety of it to fade away.

“What can I do?” he whispered, wondering at the wisdom of asking a spinster for advice in love. “I cannot give up.”

Miss Lowell regarded him for some time. “Well, if giving up is not an option, then perhaps the best you can do is learn patience. She is young. Give her time to better understand the world and to see your virtues.”

Henry nodded. Yes, he needed patience. She was barely twenty years of age. She enjoyed dancing and parties—frivolous things that Henry had no interest in. As she matured, she would turn more fully toward her intellectual interests, and then Henry would be an asset.

“But you must respect her wishes,” Miss Lowell added. “You cannot force her heart to change.”

He frowned in frustration. “Her wishes are to marry a rich man who has never been married before and is closer to her own age. I can change none of those things, but I feel certain—to my very core—that she is the woman who can make me happy.” He stilled, allowing the passion he felt to be rejected by any part of him that did not agree. Nothing disagreed. He and Fanny were meant to be together.

“To truly love someone means that you place their happiness above your own. Thus far I have only heard you speak of your happiness.”

Henry thought on that a moment. “You think I am being selfish?”

“I think that if you said to Miss Appleton what you’ve explained to me, she may have felt that
your
happiness was your only objective.”

Henry reviewed what he’d said to Fanny and felt the painful truth of Miss Lowell’s assessment. He had told Fanny she had healed him, lifted him, and remedied his solitude. Of course his intent had been to compliment her, but had it come across as selfish?
Was
it selfish? The rising self-recrimination brought panic into his chest. Had he acted rashly and destroyed whatever chance he might have had if he’d gone about things differently?

He turned to Miss Lowell with new anxiety. “Have I ruined everything? What can I do?”

She smiled at him in a motherly way. “Well, you cannot change her heart, but you may be able to influence it.”

“How?” He felt the desperate need for a solution rising in his chest with every passing minute.

“As you said, you can’t change the fact that you’re ten years her senior and widowed, but perhaps you
could
increase your income. Remedy that one objection as much as possible. It is the only aspect over which you have control.”

“There are specific salaries afforded each department, and they are not generous,” Henry said with a shake of his head. “Increases are mandated and nonnegotiable.”

“But you are not
only
a professor,” Miss Lowell reminded him. “What of your writing? Why have you not published another book?”

Henry stared at her.

“Do you remember the night when we discussed the possibility of America having its own Milton, or Austen, or Scott? You were the one who felt there was finally enough literary interest from Americans to support such an artist—we needed only to raise one up. I believe it was Felton who suggested
you
could be that man—America’s first great poet. The man to change the course of American literature and usher in a new cultural age that is not dependent on European voices.” She paused and then smiled shyly. “My nephew, James Russell, spoke to me of your work not long ago, something you shared during one of your lectures. He also felt that you had real potential to change the landscape of literature here in America. I tell you this only to show that it is not only your friends who encourage you.”

“I have so little time to write,” Henry argued, though without much heat. He remembered the discussion he’d had with Felton and Sparks that Miss Lowell was referencing, remembered how exhilarating their encouragement had been, and yet how intimidating it was as well.

He had several poems in his desk, bits he had worked on here and again, but he had not given his full attention to any of them. He also had the outline of another novel. But what if he were rejected? Could he withstand the rejection of his mind after the shredding his heart had experienced this very day? Yet how could the rejection of his writing possibly hurt like Fanny’s rejection had?

And what if Miss Lowell were right? What if he could remedy his situation to the point where Fanny would not have to lower her standards, to where he could offer her the lifestyle she deserved? Success would give him confidence and security, two things he did not have now and therefore could not offer. It was a heady consideration and played easily into his insecurity, already so well fed today.

“My time is stretched so thin,” he protested again.

“Not to pour salt on the wound, my dear, but you shall now have one extra hour a week on your hands. Three, if you count the time you spent going back and forth between Beacon Hill and Cambridge. Why not use that to begin with and see if immersing yourself in your writing doesn’t help you find even more time for it.”

Henry said nothing. On a day where he had gone from hopeful to hopeless he had very little left to draw from. He pondered Miss Lowell’s suggestions and thought deeply of the risk of such a venture. He had works he could polish. He had relationships within the publishing industry he could strengthen. He had an audience in his students. Miss Lowell’s nephew was one of those audience members, a student who would come out for lectures and who would be eager to see an American rival the acclaim of the British writers.

“What if it is not enough?” he asked in almost a whisper. “What if I fulfill every hope of my writing, and her heart remains closed to me?”

“Then she is a fool,” Miss Lowell said, nodding her head for emphasis. “But you finding success might lessen the sting of her foolishness.”

“She is not a fool,” Henry said. He pictured Fanny in his mind. Not as she’d been today—anxious and guarded—but as she’d been in her dining room two months ago when she’d surprised him with her French. That was an evening of pure joy. As had been their last lesson—when she’d felt Uhland in the fullness of his emotion and depth.

For Henry, watching her discover such a thing had affirmed how desperately he needed her in his life. How could she
not
feel the same? But he knew the answer. She did not love him, nor did she fully understand his love for her. He had bungled his proposal, put the cart before the horse and expected all would move forward simply because he wanted it to.

“If she is not a fool, and you are so certain that you are meant to be hers—not only that
she
is meant to be
yours
—then you have no reason not to move forward with your career and see where it might take you. Pour all the feelings of your heart and soul into your words, Longfellow. Let this setback make you stronger and better. Let her see you moving forward. You will be better for the journey with or without her, if you use this difficulty to push you toward a better future.”

Stronger.

Better.

With her.

Henry took a deep breath and nodded slowly, taking hold of the one spark of hope he had left. If he and Fanny were truly meant to be together—and he believed with his whole heart that they were—finding success in his writing could only help that happen. He could learn from this failure and better prepare for another chance to proclaim his love in a way that did not discount her wishes or poorly communicate the depth of feeling he had for her.

And perhaps he
could
find greater fulfillment in pursuing his own writing than what he found in the classroom. Perhaps he could.

Nineteen

Mrs. Appleton

Fanny sat amid the other wedding guests and took a deep breath through her nose before letting it out slow and steady through her mouth.
Is this truly happening?
she asked herself. Tom, sitting beside her, put a hand on her knee that she hadn’t realized she’d been bouncing up and down. She stopped the nervous habit and covered his hand with her own. She was glad he was here. She knew his feelings for this marriage were not much different than her own. That her discomfort was understood if not shared assuaged some of her guilt.