Mrs. Poe (21 page)

I felt oddly hesitant to tell her, as if she might hurt it. “My children did, yes. Did you enjoy your walk here?”

Mrs. Poe watched the young cat with an intensity that raised the hair on the back of my neck. “We rode.”

“In a hackney,” said Mrs. Clemm. “A very good one. Very new. Very nice. It’s waiting out front.

The wind, strangely heavy with dampness, plucked at my shawl. “Do you have time for coffee?”

“The driver will wait,” said Mrs. Poe. “I paid him enough.” She lifted her gaze to me, her black-rimmed eyes bright. “Have you seen Eddie today?”

“Mr. Poe?” I tried to laugh. “No. I haven’t.”

“He wasn’t at his office,” said Mrs. Poe. “I just checked.”

“I wouldn’t know where he would be,” I said.

“He comes here,” said Mrs. Poe. “I know he does.”

A wave of fear swept over me. Caught. “He has come to see Mr. Bartlett on occasion. Did you check Mr. Bartlett’s shop in the Astor House? Perhaps he’s gone there.”

Catherine brought out the coffee. Cups and saucers and napkins were distributed, affording a merciful break in the conversation. I sipped at my drink, wishing that Mrs. Poe and her mother would go.

Mrs. Poe kept her gaze on me. “Will you be going to Eddie’s lecture at the Society Library tonight?”

I realized suddenly that I could not—not if she was going to be there. “No.”

She waited for me to explain.

“I have a conflict.”

“You must go,” said Mrs. Poe. “It’s in all the papers. There’s sure to be a big crowd.”

“You must be very proud,” I said.

“I am. I always knew Eddie would be something.”

“That’s true,” said Mrs. Clemm. “Back when Eddie was nothing, she thought he was something.”

Mrs. Poe set her cup in her saucer, pinky raised. “Oh, I knew. Even when Cousin Neilson said Eddie was no good for me and wanted me to come live with his family, I knew.”

The growing wind flapped the long lappets of Mrs. Clemm’s bonnet. “My nephew Neilson Poe did take a keen, keen interest in Virginia—I think he would have married her, in time. He’s a very rich lawyer in Baltimore, you know. He was all set to take us into his beautiful new home when Eddie found out. And that was the end of that!”

Mrs. Poe tittered. “You should have seen Eddie. He was ridiculous. He said he would kill himself if I went to Neilson.”

My blood froze. Mr. Poe had confessed to me that he had been vulnerable at the time of their marriage. He had not mentioned the thought of suicide.

“Really, he didn’t have to threaten me,” said Mrs. Poe. “He even showed me the bottle of laudanum he was going to drink.” She looked for and found my appalled expression. “It was so silly of him. I had my mind set on him all along. I knew what he was, what he’d be. I can see right into him.” She leveled a challenging smile at me. “As strange as it sounds, I know exactly what he’s thinking.”

The banging of the front gate and the cries of children announced Eliza’s arrival at home. A few moments later, she swept outside, her plain face bright with curiosity. After a flurry of greetings, Eliza scooped up the kitten and held it to her breast. “Goodness me,” she said, stroking its head, “the temperature is dropping. I do believe it’s going to storm.”

Mrs. Clemm jumped up. “Sissy, we had better get you home. Your lungs will suffer if the weather turns bad.”

Mrs. Poe kept a firm hold on her teacup. “Sit down, Mother.”

As Mrs. Clemm reluctantly sat, Mrs. Poe said, “Too bad you aren’t coming to Eddie’s lecture tonight, Mrs. Osgood.”

“You aren’t?” Eliza looked confused. “I thought—”

“Perhaps,” I said, “no one will be able to go if this weather gets worse.”

“We won’t let weather keep us away,” Eliza staunchly told Mrs. Poe. “We have become good friends with your husband.”

“Really?”

“He’s been a great help to my husband. But he hasn’t been by for at least a week—we miss him. Tell him that we have been waiting for him.”

Mrs. Poe looked between Eliza and me, then laid her cup and saucer on the table. She pushed her slim form from her chair. “Thank you so much for the coffee.”

“Are we leaving?” said Mrs. Clemm, bewildered.

Mrs. Poe put out her hand to me with all the drama of Mrs. Butler on the stage. “I hope to see you tonight, regardless of the weather.”

“She’s coming,” said Eliza. “I promised your husband.”

Mrs. Poe studied her a moment. “Good.” She turned to me, then nodded toward the stand of foxgloves, waving in the wind. “Those are poisonous, you know. If I were you, I’d watch your little cat.”

•  •  •

The weather worsened as the day wore on. The winds picked up strength, snapping branches from trees and sending milk cans clanging down the street. The second girl, Martha, prepared a fire in the downstairs family room around which we huddled as the house popped and groaned in the swiftly gathering cold. The view outside our basement window grew ominously dark until just after five, when the rain thudded down as if dumped from a heavenly basin.

“I suppose we should cancel our plans for tonight,” I said, looking out the window. I had been watching the weather closely, hoping it would supply an excuse to cancel our plans to go see Mr. Poe. Had I been mad, thinking that I could slip him a love poem there? And it was clear that Mrs. Poe suspected something. How had I ever thought that we could carry on a relationship? I must let him go now, before we went too far.

Over in her chair by the fire, Eliza was winding a ball of yarn with the help of her daughter, Anna. “It might clear.”

I kept my peace, hoping otherwise while taking the precaution of mentally devising excuses, most of which involved my health. When
Mr. Bartlett arrived from his shop soon after, with the legs of his trousers soaked to his knees, I thought I might be safe.

“A pity about the weather.” He gave Eliza a kiss, then patted Anna, and swung his boys in the air. “Poe’s talk is sure to suffer.” He put down little Johnny, who uncharacteristically did not demand more horseplay.

“We must go and support him, Russell,” said Eliza. “He’s been so interested in your project. We can’t let him down because of a little rain.”

“You’re right. I owe him.” He plucked at his wet pant legs. “I’d better go upstairs and change.”

When the rain had not let up after a quick supper, I thought they might change their mind, but the same loyal nature that made the Bartletts such good friends to me prevailed in the face of a storm for Mr. Poe. I could not think of a way to back out when they were standing behind him so resolutely.

An hour later, I found myself in a hackney carriage—the weather was too foul for Mr. Bartlett to drive his own open-air trap—and heading down Broadway to Leonard Street. Hail began to thump on the roof.

Eliza looked upward. “Uh-oh.”

“The driver had better get the horses out of the storm,” said Mr. Bartlett.

“Poor man.”

We fell into a silence, picturing the bewhiskered cabman hunched in his cape above us, open to the elements on the driver’s seat. But the pelting stopped as quickly as it had begun, and we continued on, the wheels crunching over the hailstones.

Only a few hearty souls were standing in the entrance to the library hall when we arrived. I recognized young orange-haired Mr. Crane, Mr. Poe’s assistant at
The Broadway Journal,
and Mr. Willis of the
Mirror,
appearing more than ever like a cricket in a wet black suit. After checking our wraps with a thin German girl of about twelve, we went up the grand staircase to the lecture hall. In it, in the sea of empty chairs, sat the Reverend Mr. Griswold, looking supremely satisfied in rose-colored gloves and a lush burgundy cravat.

He jumped up and loped over when he saw us.

“Poor Poe,” he said cheerfully as he neared. “Bad night for a lecture.” He grasped my hand, his pink face triumphant. “Mrs. Osgood, I am so pleased to see you.”

“Is Mr. Poe’s little wife here?” asked Eliza.

“See for yourself.” Reverend Griswold spread his arm as if he were lord of the empty hall. A scant handful of ladies and gentlemen were dispersed among the chairs.

Mr. Griswold tightened his hold. “You should have stayed where it is warm and safe, too.”

I was easing from his grip when a stout feminine voice rang from the foyer. “Where is everyone?”

Moments later, Miss Fuller appeared, strung with a necklace of brown feathers and the bottom ten inches of her dress dark with rainwater. “Good evening, chums.”

Eliza moved first to kiss her. “A fellow survivor.”

“I saw a Huron Indian woman give birth outside in the winter. I’m not going to let a little rain stop me from hearing Mr. Poe slice up a batch of poets.”

She chatted with the Bartletts and me, with Reverend Griswold hovering over my shoulder like an ominous cloud. When Eliza and her husband moved to find seats among the wooden sea, Miss Fuller pulled me aside.

“How’s the article coming along?”

I drew a breath. I had written her a letter but not yet summoned the courage to post it. “I’m not writing it.”

She blinked with a flash of a hawk’s white lids. “What?”

“Mr. Poe asked me to withdraw it.”

Reverend Griswold craned his neck around me to hear. “What’s this?”

Miss Fuller ignored him. “I paid you.”

“I will give the money back. Or if you like, write about someone else.”

Reverend Griswold flared his nostrils with disapproval. “You were writing about Poe?”

“Why did you agree not to do it?” said Miss Fuller. “An article
about him would get you noticed.” She put her balled fist to her mouth then jerked it away. “Do it anyhow.”

“No.”

At that moment Mr. Poe entered the lecture hall, a sheaf of notes in his black-gloved hand. He paused as if stunned by the empty room, started up again, then seeing me, stopped.

Miss Fuller beckoned to him.

“Too bad, Poe,” said Reverend Griswold when he neared. “Nobody showed.”

“It’s the weather,” said Miss Fuller. “Sorry, Edgar. A rotten shame.”

Mr. Willis trotted over with the man in charge of the program. “Poe—so sorry. We can reschedule if you’d like.”

“You’ll
probably
get more listeners that way,” Reverend Griswold said, gleefully doubtful.

Mr. Poe gave me a sidelong look, his dark-rimmed eyes coolly questioning.

“Are you going to speak tonight or not?” Reverend Griswold demanded.

Mr. Poe glanced at him. “No.”

Miss Fuller folded her arms, catching the base of her feather necklace. “What’s this about your not wanting Mrs. Osgood to write about your family?”

“I changed my mind.”

“Tell me that you’ll reconsider,” she said.

“There are more interesting subjects than myself.”

Miss Fuller gave a dry laugh. “Not right now there aren’t.”

Mr. Willis announced to the smattering of seated attendees that the program had been postponed until a later date. The Bartletts rose and came up the aisle.

“May I escort you home?” Mr. Poe asked me, his face fierce.

I was too ill to heed Reverend Griswold, squinting between us. Mr. Poe had a suspicious wife at home—suspicious and sickly. As much as every fiber of my body yearned for him, it was not meant to be. It was over. “No. Thank you. I’m with the Bartletts.”

Mr. Bartlett shook Mr. Poe’s hand. “Sorry, old man, about the nasty weather.”

His face was grim. “I cannot be angry about what I cannot control.”

“Perhaps it is best this way,” I said. “Surely you would rather be at home tonight with Mrs. Poe.”

“Yes,” said Reverend Griswold, watching him. “Surely.”

Mr. Poe’s anguished glance said otherwise.

“Your wife was so excited about your speech tonight when she stopped by this afternoon,” said Eliza. “Did she take unwell? It’s probably best that she didn’t venture out tonight.”

Mr. Poe started. “ ‘Stopped by’? At your home?”

“Didn’t she tell you?” said Eliza.

He seemed to fight for mastery over himself. “I have not been home much.”

“I’m afraid I only caught her as she was leaving. Fanny can tell you of the particulars.”

“She was out looking for you,” I said pointedly, “and was concerned that she could not find you.”

“I thought that I would have a chance to speak to her tonight,” Eliza said. “Such a disappointment, all around. I was anxious to hear what you had to say.”

He stared at me, his jaw twitching. He turned rigidly to Eliza. “Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett. You are always so kind to me.”

Warmth flowed from her gentle face. “You are a welcome guest in our home at any time.”

He made a little bow. “I shall never forget your goodness, madam.”

“Nor I yours,” she said with a confused frown.

“Sorry to break up your mutual admiration society,” said Miss Fuller, “but I’ve got work to do in the morning. So long, chums.”

Mr. Poe took his leave, his good-bye to me more curt than to the others.

Dispirited, I left with the Bartletts. The three of us sat quietly as our carriage bowled up Broadway through the storm-freshened night, with Mr. Bartlett peering out the window, Eliza casting glances his way, and me absorbed by my own overwhelming sorrow. Mr. Poe could only be acknowledging the end of our affair by taking what sounded like his permanent leave of Eliza. What a pitiful ending to
our friendship—our splendid attraction had withered on the vine. I had thought that he loved me. I was sure that he did.

The carriage hit a hole in the cobbles. The vehicle lurched forward, tumbling us from our benches.

Mr. Bartlett scrambled up and stuck his head out the window. “Watch it now!” he shouted to the driver. As he helped me regain my seat, I wondered: If Mr. Poe had not been home much for the past week, where had he been?

Eighteen

The next morning, Mary led the children out the front gate and onto the sidewalk.

“Do you have the bouquet for your teacher?” I called from the doorstep. I had cut the flowers that had been beaten down by the storm the previous evening and, except for the foxgloves—their association with Mrs. Poe disturbed me—wrapped them in a damp cloth. Now Ellen held them up as she joined her sister and Anna Bartlett in a pinafore parade down the sidewalk. I withdrew into the house, smiling in spite of the sore spot lingering in my heart.