Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (3 page)

Unable to speak, Fanny nodded, left the tea tray, and walked from the room. Once the door was closed, and she was alone with Tom in the foyer, she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. Tom came up behind her and put a hand on her arm, then embraced her trembling shoulders. Fanny turned, muffling the sounds of her sobs in his coat. For all his teasing, Tom
was
her older brother, and he had a tender heart.

“We have known this was coming,” Tom said, patting her back and attempting to sound soothing.

Fanny shook her head against his shoulder. Fearing such a turn and having it arrive were two very different things.

“He deserves our respect of his wishes, Fanny.”

Does Tom still have hope for William?
Fanny wondered. Did he feel William could survive the voyage home? And then what? They were not quite halfway through their Grand Tour and would not return to Boston for another year at least. Even if William made it to Boston Harbor, would he survive long enough for them to be reunited? Or would they see only his headstone, set beside the other Appleton graves of those who died too soon?

“How can we bear to lose another?” Fanny said when she could finally contain herself and pull away from Tom’s coat. Was the only protection from this kind of pain not to let people inside one’s heart? It was a vain thought, since she already loved her family so dearly, but surviving another loss seemed impossible. “What is the point of having a heart if it is only to be broken again and again?”

“I wish I knew the answer, Fanny,” Tom said sadly, his face drawn. “I wish I knew.”

Two

Interlaken, Switzerland

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stood on the dock in Interlaken and watched the steam-powered boat—a relatively new addition for Lake Thun—move toward him and the other bystanders. He would not have guessed the ship would be in operation on a Sunday, but obviously he was mistaken. He looked from the crystal-clear, sea-green water to the majestic mountains holding the valley in its embrace and tried to find deep and profound words that would capture the timeless beauty of the Alps juxtaposed against the modern miracle of steam power. After struggling for some time, he sighed in defeat. Though he was a master of languages and a writer with a poet’s soul, he could not describe the scene before him adequately.

So then, why am I here?
he asked himself as he turned away from the lake.
What do I hope to gain from finishing this trip? What a solitary man I have become.

Henry walked away from the dock, heading for his hotel, and reminded himself that he had not come to Europe simply to admire the place and wax poetic of the vistas. He’d come to shore up his qualifications for the position of Smith Professor at Harvard College by returning to the places he had first seen ten years earlier. Remembering his reasons for being there, however, did not lessen the frustration he felt regarding the wall that seemed built up around the creative portions of his mind.

Henry’s first European tour had lasted three years and cemented in him a love of Europe. He was an American to his bones and embraced the values and virtues of the young country with his whole heart, but being immersed in European culture and literature showed him the portions of American society that could be better. Stronger. More.

Now, he was here again to strengthen his European credential—only the trip had been nothing as he’d expected. When he had set out with his wife, Mary, more than a year ago, she had brought two traveling companions. Attending to three women had required considerable changes to the expectations of his trip. When Mary announced she was expecting a child, he’d been overjoyed, and yet concerned as well. Both for Mary, who had always been fragile, and for how he would get the education he needed while caring for a family.

That worry felt foolish now, vain and recriminating. Mary lost the baby several months into her pregnancy, and a month later, Henry lost her, too. Her body had been sent back to Boston in a lead-lined casket where she waited for a proper burial. That Henry had not returned with her filled him with guilt, yet he had to complete his tour; he could not afford to come again.

Clara Crowninshield, one of Mary’s traveling companions, had wanted to stay as well. And so they did. He had tried to make the most of his months, closeting himself in university basements and sitting in the back corner of lecture halls, but his effort was halfhearted, and at times he worried he was too broken to ever be fit for Harvard, no matter how many languages he learned or books he added to his personal library.

Henry stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and tried once more to allow the scenery to overpower his heavy thoughts. The red rooftops rising above the white plaster walls, the cobbled streets with bright flowerpots that stood out like small, multicolored suns, and the whole of it framed by the green fields and splendor of the magnificent mountains. It should be the perfect distraction, and for a moment Henry
did
get lost in the beauty, then the horn of the boat sounded and his familiar melancholy muted his senses once again.

Perhaps his sorrow would forever be a part of him, like a curtain he must peer through all the days of his life. Mary had told him to live a full life, she had wished him to find a good woman and have a family, yet Henry could not imagine such a thing. To wish it, much less want it, felt wrong, but a life alone seemed worthless. Mary had been gone nine months, and he could not yet see his future without her.

Henry moved forward again, his legs burning from days spent trudging the alpine footpaths in hopes of outrunning his depression. The Hotel Beausite, the newest and most modern hotel in Interlaken, appeared ahead of him, and he longed for a hearty meal, a glass of wine, and a good book. He had indulged himself in the extravagant lodging in Interlaken in hopes it would restore his spirit. So far the grand lodgings had not done so, but the well-appointed room had not further lowered him as decrepit lodging had in the past. He had already shipped a trunk of books back to his parents’ house in Portland, but he had several other works he was eager to read beside the fire. Books had become his closest friends these last months and his only escape.

In the hotel lobby Henry nodded a greeting to two men who seemed to be on their way out before he turned toward the hallway that would take him to his room.

The sound of his name being called in a thick accent caused Henry to turn around. The clerk at the front desk waved Henry over. He had written down the address of a man in town with a book collection—Mr. Gurmand would welcome Henry to peruse his books the following day. Henry took the paper and thanked the clerk in German before turning to see that the two men he’d passed a minute earlier were standing, waiting for his attention. He could see they were American and felt a twinge of disappointment that they might have noticed he was as well—if that were the case then his attempt to dress and sound like a European was poor indeed.

“Pardon our attention, sir,” the older of the two men said. His companion looked enough like him to declare them father and son. “But did the clerk address you as Longfellow?”

“Not very clearly,” Henry said with a polite smile, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. “But, yes, I am Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

The man extended his hand, which Henry accepted cordially. “You left a card at my chateau in Thun some days ago, but we were soon departing for Interlaken. I am Mr. Nathan Appleton of Boston.” He turned to the younger man, who also put out his hand, which Henry shook in turn. “This is my son, Thomas Gold Appleton.”

Henry smiled more sincerely. “I am pleased to meet you both,” he said, looking between them. “I made the acquaintance of some relation of yours, John James Appleton, in Stockholm nearly a year ago. He told me that I might encounter you and asked that I share his well wishes should our paths cross. When I learned you were in Thun, I stopped to pay such respects, but then moved on to Berne shortly thereafter.” Henry did not admit that he hadn’t felt fit for company enough to pursue the acquaintance with much vigor.

Mr. Appleton smiled. “What a kindness to hear such things when we are so far from home. Thank you for seeking us out.”

“I am glad to have had the opportunity,” Henry said with a nod of his head.

“My sister has told me of your book,” Thomas said, taking Henry off guard. The American edition of
Outré Mer
had been published almost three years earlier. But with all that had happened since, it was painful to reflect on the work he had written while Mary sewed or read beside him in the parlor of their Portland house. Mr. Appleton must have seen Henry’s smile fall, as his eyebrows came together in confusion. “Mr. Longfellow?”

“I am sorry,” Henry said, attempting to repair his expression. “I am unsure what I should say, I suppose. The last encounter I had with a reader was rather awkward; he was not much impressed with the work.”

Tom Appleton’s smile returned and his brow softened. “Rest assured that my sister was complimentary.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Henry said, and indeed he was. Though he had published some poems and essays in his earlier years,
Outré Mer
was his first attempt at publishing prose, and his first foray into earning an income through his writing. The attention made him feel uncomfortable, so he turned to the older Mr. Appleton. “Have you enjoyed your tour so far?”

“We have found it a remarkable experience,” Mr. Appleton said. “My daughters, Molly and Frances—Frances is the one who has read your book—accompany us, as does my nephew William, though he is rather ill.”

“I am sorry to hear of your nephew’s poor health,” Henry said, feeling the regret keenly. He wished there was some way he could help the Appleton family, but he was no doctor—as Mary’s situation had proved only too well. On the night she had lost their child, Henry had been the only one to attend her. He had felt so inept, awkward, and frightened. If they’d had a doctor attend her, would things have turned out different?

“Thank you,” Mr. Appleton said graciously. “I see that you have just arrived back to the hotel, and perhaps you’d like to rest, but we would invite you to join us for supper in our rooms if you feel up to it.”

Henry had not expected such an offer. Even when he presented his card at their chalet in Thun it had been purely out of courtesy to John James Appleton. The Appletons were well-known in New England and far above Henry’s station. But the invitation was sincere, and Henry felt humbled by the offer. “I would be pleased to join you if you are sure it would not be an inconvenience. I don’t wish to intrude.”

“It would be a pleasure for us all,” Mr. Appleton said. He paused, then lowered his voice. “William’s health has been a difficult thing for my family of late, especially for my daughters, who love him as a brother. A new voice at the table might be the very thing we all need to lift our poor spirits.”

Henry felt the pressure immediately. He was not equal to the task of providing entertainment to a family fearing for one of their own. Yet refusing their invitation would be insulting. And it was not beyond his notice that a friendship with the Appletons could only be to his advantage once he returned to Cambridge. He also knew what it was to feel as though grief had driven your heart to the soles of your feet. If somehow his company could distract them from any amount of pain they were feeling, he would not regret it. He even felt a flutter of hope that new voices at the table might do
him
some good as well.

“I must warn you that I have spent the last several months cloistered in libraries and classrooms. My skills at conversation might be rather dismal.” Both men smiled, softening his anxiety even more. “But if your expectations are not too high, I would be honored to join you and meet the rest of your family.”

Three

Tom Appleton

Henry was grateful for Mr. Appleton’s invitation, even excited at the invigoration of such esteemed company, but as the hours drew closer to the event, his anxiety increased. In the months since Mary’s death, he had, of course, had to tell his tale to people he met. He kept the details scarce and accepted their condolences before turning the attention to the reason he was there—to study and learn. Since the majority of his associations were professional, his personal tragedy did not regularly take center stage. But now he was dining with a
family
. He could not distract them with questions regarding the semantics of a verse or phrase. They would ask after his situation, and he would add to the despair they were already feeling for their cousin. By the time the hour of dinner had arrived, Henry was pacing the floor of his room and sweating beneath his starched collar.