Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) (22 page)

Fanny looked at him curiously, but he did not explain, only winked before turning toward the door. “Have a safe journey to Pittsville,” he said. “I shall let you know when I might be able to come for a visit.”

With the good-byes finished, Molly said she would take the cheese to the kitchen before she left to luncheon at a friend’s house. Fanny thanked her sister and then returned to her seat in the drawing room. She opened the book, the binding creaking in a most satisfying way, despite the fact that she was not the first to open it. Jewett had obviously read at least some of it already. Still, she was glad it still felt like a new book.

Fanny raised the book and inhaled deeply, the clean scent of ink and paper tickling her nose. After indulging in one more breath, she lowered the book to her lap and began skimming chapter to chapter. Her gaze scanned the pages until she found the reference Jewett had pointed out to her. She backed up to the first of that chapter and began to read. A lady—spelled “layde”—in black who the main character—Flemming—met. The “dark layde’s” name was Mary Ashworth. Mr. Longfellow’s first wife was named Mary. Is that who Jewett meant when he suggested the character might reflect someone they knew? Somehow Fanny doubted it, and her anxiety to answer Jewett’s riddle coiled inside her.

“Do not look for ghosts,” she told herself, but she feared it was not ghosts at all.

Fanny finished the chapter and had begun the next before the first dawning of awareness lit up her mind. Flemming was in love with Miss Ashworth. Miss
Ashworth?
Miss
Appleton?
Fanny read faster, skimming passages that did not contain specific reference to Mary Ashworth but taking note of everything else said about her. Not beautiful. Read German poetry with Flemming. Would not return his affections.

Fanny’s mind spun until she had to stop, look forward, and take a breath. “Good heavens,” she said to herself before centering her thoughts. “Please tell me you did not do this, Mr. Longfellow,” she said to the walls and curtains and sashes in the room. “Please tell me you did not put me in a book with your wife’s name as my own.”

Twenty-Two

Lenox

Fanny relaxed in the Puritan rocking chair before the window of the cottage where she and Molly had been for the last few days and smiled at the rolling hills of Stockbridge county that stretched before her. “I fear I could become quite used to this,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Molly, who was on the couch, turning the pages of a magazine.

“The country?” Molly asked, screwing up her face as she regarded an advertisement.

“The freedom,” Fanny said with something akin to reverence in her voice.

One improved aspect of Father’s marriage to Harriet was that he had eased up on the need to keep his daughters under his watchful eye. He’d had no qualms with them going to Pittsville for the summer to stay with family, for instance. And when they’d written to request rooms of their own, rather than staying under a relative’s roof or in a hotel, he simply asked that they have their Aunt Frances help them find a suitable apartment. Which she had.

The cottage could not be more perfect and was just the respite Fanny needed from the heat and the whispers of Boston. Thinking of why Boston was whispering about Fanny caused her carefree mood to fade, and so she focused on the brilliant greens of the rolling hills outside the window. A starling swooped and darted beneath the eaves. It did no good to run away from a thing only to bring it with you.

“Better that we enjoy the independence while it lasts,” Molly said. “I am still shocked Father allowed it at all—and until October?” She shook her head. “It’s a marvel of his trust in us.”

“I’m sure the fact that he and Harriet have the house to themselves was a factor in his support,” Fanny said, trying not to sound dour but failing. “Which is why we may be able to convince him to let us stay.”

“Here?” Molly asked, raising her eyebrows. “With Mr. and Mrs. Yates?”

“Goodness, no,” Fanny said with a laugh. “I wonder, however, if Father would purchase a cottage of our own, or even build one.”

For the time being they were lucky to have found a house arranged so that half the rooms could be rented out. Mr. and Mrs. Yates lived in the other half and provided meals and care for the carriage horses—also rented for the next few months.

The sisters came and went as they pleased, kept their own company, and accepted their own invitations without having to manage the household entirely on their own. But Fanny was fantasizing about even greater independence. She was twenty-one, but Molly made up for Fanny’s youth with her twenty-five years, twenty-six in a few more months.

Fanny did not point out that her sister was nearly a spinster, but only because Molly didn’t like such an accusation. She still hoped for a good match with a good man, while Fanny had become only more determined against such a thing. She’d had a number of beaus—as she and Molly referred to the young men who buzzed about them—but none of them sparked her interest, and now the publication of Mr. Longfellow’s blasted book a few months ago had made her feel like a sideshow. She blamed her growing displeasure with the opposite sex squarely on the one man who seemed determined to draw her ire.

There it was again—baggage she had not meant to bring unpacking itself and sliding into her cupboards and cracks. She pushed up from the chair and turned to her sister, forcing a wide smile on her face. “Let’s get together a party for an afternoon picnic,” she said. “We could go to town and extend personal invitations and then walk up to the glen. It’s a lovely day, and we have time to make arrangements. I’m sure Mrs. Butler would come, and we could request a recitation—Shakespeare or something.”

Molly looked up. “I thought you were too tired for such entertainment today. That’s what you said last night when
I
suggested we put together a luncheon.”

“I don’t want a luncheon indoors—shut away from the glorious day.” Fanny turned back to the window. She hadn’t wanted a picnic either, until she realized what poor company her thoughts were. “I want to be outside, with the breeze and the birds and the—”

“Rain?” Molly said.

The clouds in the east were indeed moving in, but Fanny was not deterred. “It might not rain,” she said. “And if it did, we could simply bring the party indoors.”

“And have a luncheon?” Molly shut her magazine and gave her sister a rueful look. “I’m teasing you, of course. I think it sounds lovely.”

Fanny hurried toward the door that connected their rooms with the Yates’. “I’ll have Mr. Yates get the carriage ready,” she said brightly.

Thank goodness Molly had agreed to the diversion. They had been in Western Massachusetts for three weeks and still she could not keep her thoughts from straying to the frustrations of Mr. Longfellow and “Mary Ashworth.”

When she’d first read the book, she tried to take comfort in the fact that only she and her closest family and friends would draw the conclusion that Mary Ashworth was to Paul Flemming what Fanny Appleton was to Henry Longfellow. That had shortly proven to be an optimistic hope.

It felt as if everyone in Boston had made the same conclusion until Fanny could hardly bear to leave the house for fear some acquaintance would stop her on the street to ask her thoughts on the matter, or make a joke.

To Fanny, the comparison was not a joke, it was an insult, and whatever feelings of kindness and friendship she had retained toward Mr. Longfellow had been carried away by the stream of her humiliation. Publicly, of course, she pooh-poohed the entire situation, laughed it off, and acted as though she were flattered by the attention. Internally, however, she twisted and writhed against the embarrassment and anger she felt toward Mr. Longfellow. She’d tried so hard to remain friends after his ill-fated proposal—which he had also made public fodder for the gossips to dissect and share among themselves.

“See if Mrs. Yates also has time to help us put together a meal,” Molly said, causing Fanny to start, her hand still on the door handle. Molly cocked her head. “Fanny?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, bringing herself back from the past. She hoped this picnic would spare her mind the continual repetition of her situation. “I’ll ask her.” She disappeared into the shared portion of the house, determined—again—to keep her mind focused on the distraction rather than on the reasons she needed the distraction in the first place.

Twenty-Three

Mary Ashworth

“Mary Ashworth is not Fanny,” Henry said. “
Hyperion
is fiction.”

He and Tom Appleton had met for dinner at a restaurant along the wharf and, after a bit of small talk, Tom had asked Henry about Mary Ashworth from
Hyperion,
which had been out for two months.

“Fiction about a man who loses a dear friend, goes to Europe to recover, and meets a woman with whom he recites poetry?” Tom smiled and raised his eyebrows. “A man who loses his heart to a
dark ladye
who will not have him, and so he decides to live a solitary life?”

Henry looked down at his chowder. He could feel heat in his neck and chest and took a deep breath to calm himself. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked him if Mary was a veiled version of Fanny—or unveiled, according to some. It was not the first time he had denied it, but this was Fanny’s brother. Though Henry’s protests when the comments were first directed his way were insistent, Henry himself had begun to wonder. If not for his own study of literature and the way an author’s heart and experience tended to seep into the pages—with or without his notice—he could better argue his point. But he knew it was impossible for an artist of any medium not to personally influence his work, and so many people had suspected a connection between Mary Ashworth and Fanny Appleton that he feared Tom was right.

“I did not
intend
the story to be a reflection of your sister,” Henry offered. Or did he? Henry’s frustration with his feelings for Fanny had found their way into some of his poetry. Had he poured those same frustrations into the novel and then hid the truth of it from himself? Sometimes his mind felt as fractured as his heart, and he could not make sense of anything. He had hoped
Hyperion
would give him greater purpose and focus, but the reviews had not been as good as he’d hoped, and his publisher was hinting at money trouble that might delay Henry’s first royalty payment.

Tom waved a hand through the air. “Oh, don’t go throwing around ‘your sister’ and whatnot, I am not here to shame you, nor am I asking for any great confession, but you cannot blame me for asking.”

Henry met his friend’s jovial gaze. “You’re not angry?”

Tom laughed and scooped up a spoonful of his soup. “Very few things make me angry, Henry, you know that. And I think Fanny could use a little introspection, if you don’t mind my saying so. If this story helps her see herself more clearly, then it is for her good.”

Henry took another bite of his soup, picturing Fanny in his mind and wincing internally over the embarrassment she must feel. “Is
she
very angry, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Tom said, a laugh in his voice. He took a sip of his beer. “But she pretends as though she finds the whole thing silly and unworthy of discussion. Of course, that only prods me to introduce the topic into conversation any chance I can, which vexes her to the extreme.” He put a hand to his chest. “As her older brother, however, I feel that part of my responsibility is to vex her whenever possible. I am determined to do it well.”

Henry’s heart sank even more, and he wished, as he rarely did, that Tom was capable of a serious conversation. Was Fanny
truly
angry? At him? Was she hurt? Had Henry destroyed what little friendship was left between them? She’d been on summer holiday since he’d sent the gift of the book to her through her cousin, Jewett, and Henry had not seen her in all the months since.

“Do not take it so hard,” Tom said. He smiled with sympathy instead of amusement.

Henry hated feeling pathetic in his friend’s company.