Mrs. Poe (27 page)

Noting my zeal, Reverend Griswold exclaimed, “Her voice sounds just like a flute!”

“You realize,” Miss Fuller said to me under our continued clapping, “that we have the privilege of hearing the ‘Bochsas’ in New York only because they were drummed out of London. ‘Mrs. Bochsa’ isn’t Mrs. Bochsa at all, but Mrs. Bishop, wife of the composer Henry Bishop. They left London under the threat of death. Adultery is no more acceptable there as it is here.”

I kept on applauding.

A gentleman stepped up to the couple with his violin. The two men gave a concert, the intensity of which grew as it turned into a bout of one-upmanship. Each thought to top the other in musicality and dexterity until at last the violinist contrived to play a merry polka. As the crowd clapped with delight, I slipped from my group and out the gate.

I was hurrying along the white picket fence surrounding the garden when I heard footsteps behind me. Minetta Street and its criminal element were only a few blocks away. I increased my pace. So did the walker behind me. I could tell that it was a man from the sound of his steps but the brim of my bonnet kept him from my view.

I had nearly broken into a run when Mr. Poe grabbed my arm. “Frances, what are you doing? It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

“I’m fine!”

Without warning, he swept me to him. My hat tumbled to the sidewalk as he kissed me.

I pulled from him, my lips wet from his. “You cannot do this!” I glanced around wildly.

“I thought that I could be away from you, that poems would be enough. They aren’t.”

“Why not? It should be easy for you to be apart. I am second best.”

“I had to write that.” His voice was terse. “Virginia saw your poems to me.”

I held my breath as a carriage shuddered past, its lantern illuminating the dark. I turned away until it was gone. “My poems were anonymous.”

“She saw your letter that accompanied one. I made the mistake of leaving it in my coat pocket.”

I tried to remember what I might have said.

“She knows that you care for me.” He drew a breath. “I feared for you.”

“Everyone thinks we are lovers now.”

“Do you think I give a damn what anyone thinks?” He took my face in his hands and kissed me.

We heard a pattering behind us. We drew apart.

Mrs. Poe minced up as Mr. Poe was picking up my hat. She looked between us, her mouth turned down like an unhappy child’s.

“I’m afraid that I had to leave,” I said stupidly. “I’m sorry that we hardly got to speak tonight.”

She gave me a dismissive frown, then turned to her husband. “I’m tired, Eddie. What are you doing out here? I want to go home.”

Wordlessly, Mr. Poe led her, coughing, away, but not before she threw a look of sheer hatred over the shoulder of the dress, a dress so similar to mine in every way.

Summer 1845

Twenty-three

The heat was stifling in the Bartletts’ back parlor and yet I wanted to giggle. The very sight of Reverend Griswold, sitting next to me on the black horsehair sofa, water glass clutched in his white-gloved hand was enough to undo me. Maybe it was his outrageous bragging about his luncheons with this important poet or that, about his invitations to their lovely houses, about their glowing reviews of his collection of poems. Maybe it was the irreverent picture that kept flashing through my head of him making love to his dead wife. More likely, it was just me. Is there a creature more unstable than a woman made mad by desire?

Hardly a week after our encounter at Niblo’s Garden, Mr. Poe had stopped by the Bartletts’ on a Sunday to announce to us that he had moved his family into the neighborhood, just a few houses away down Amity Street. I could not believe that he would be so bold as to move so close. Bolder still, he began to drop by the house most nights after work, with a new book for Mr. Bartlett to consider for his bookshop, or a seedling to plant in Eliza’s garden, or novel Southern expressions for Mr. Bartlett to consider for his dictionary. Never did he touch me or even claim me as the reason for his visit. But even with his back turned to me when presenting a new breed of rose to Eliza, or when standing at the table at which Mr. Bartlett wrote, or when loping down the hall, hunched like a monster, after the happily shrieking children, I could feel his soul reaching out for mine. The effect was devastating. Is there an aphrodisiac more powerful than forbidden fruit hanging just out of reach?

Now I grasped at any sensory distraction that would anchor me into Reverend Griswold’s excruciating conversation: the murmur
of the servants downstairs; the fly crawling up Reverend Griswold’s lapel; the faint pop of the linen stretched across Eliza’s embroidery ring when she punctured it with her needle. It was no use. I became lost in picturing Mr. Poe’s calmly probing smile, the veined columns of his wrists as he held on to the chair behind me, the clean tapered fingers of his hands.

“Don’t you agree, Mrs. Osgood?”

I found Reverend Griswold’s pink face turned expectantly to me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

The furrow deepened between his eyes. “That Miss Fuller’s latest article in the
Tribune
has gone too far.” He saw that I still didn’t comprehend him. “About that madman preaching Free Love in Vermont, John Humphrey Noyes.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“You must keep up on these things, my dear.
As an important woman poet, it is your duty to speak out against false prophets.”

“Thank you for the compliment. But I didn’t realize that was my job.”

“Your job and every other responsible person’s,” said Reverend Griswold, indignant. “The man is a fraud. He claims that Christ has already had his Second Coming—in seventy
AD
, to be exact.”

“I wonder how he came by that date?” Mr. Bartlett said absently, leafing through a book.

“My point exactly!” said Reverend Griswold. “It’s rubbish. He says that mankind is now living in a new age in which one only has to surrender one’s will to God and let God work through him. Once God is in control, whatever one does is ‘perfect,’ because it’s ‘God’s will.’ ”

“Sounds like a nice arrangement.” Eliza tugged her silk thread through the hoop. “Do what you please and claim God made you do it.”

Mr. Bartlett frowned as if annoyed by being pulled into the conversation. “Margaret agreed with this man?”

“Well, she did seem interested in his theory that conventional marriage was a sinful institution. He has the strange notion that marriage is unholy when the couple does not love each other purely, that a man does not have the right to a woman’s body just because he is legally married to her.”

“There are men who are unkind to their wives.” Eliza looked at Mr. Bartlett, busy again with his book. “The law and society does little to protect these women. Maybe that’s what Miss Fuller objects to.”

“This might be true of the savages in Five Points,” said Reverend Griswold, “but not in polite society. We cherish our women. I would cherish the woman who agreed to be my wife.” He set down his glass. “Mrs. Osgood, I must be frank now. I would never treat a woman in the manner in which your husband has treated you.”

There was a shocked silence. Simultaneously, Eliza and I started to object.

He raised his hand. “Please. Let’s stop pretending. We all know what Mr. Osgood is: a philandering, unconscionable, disgusting scoundrel. An editor friend in Cincinnati has kept me apprised of him—a most appalling case. Did you know that your husband is openly living with a rich divorée?”

Eliza covered her mouth.

Reverend Griswold smiled grimly. “Mrs. Osgood, it’s time you ripped off the bandage to let your wound heal. I’m here to help you. Won’t you let me, please?”

I listened for sounds of my children. Please don’t let them hear this.

He dropped to one knee, then startled me further by taking my hand. “I am considering marriage to a fine and prestigious older woman I have met from Charleston. Should I decide to wed her, I will make her the happiest of her sex. But one word from you, Mrs. Osgood, just one word, and I shall withdraw my proposal to her immediately.”

“Congratulations.”

He sat back, evidently expecting a different word. The tall clock ticked ominously from its corner.

“What is her name?” asked Eliza.

Petulantly, he said, “Charlotte Myers.”

The jingle of the doorbell stilled us.

Catherine announced the arrival of Mr. Poe. Reverend Griswold jumped to his feet.

“Send him in.” Mr. Bartlett closed his book, oblivious to Reverend Griswold’s grimace and my own suppressed groan of relief.

Mr. Poe entered with kind words for all. He came to me last, and bowed with a little smile. “I’ve got good news.”

My heart leaped.

“I’ve been invited to speak before the Boston Lyceum in October.”

What other news did you expect? I scolded myself, as Mr. Bartlett offered his hand. “Excellent,” he said as they shook. “Give them a taste of your magic, Poe.”

“That’s a very sophisticated crowd,” said Eliza. “Congratulations.”

Boyish delight leaked from beneath Mr. Poe’s reserved exterior. His lower face, dark with a day’s growth of beard, was wreathed in a rare open smile. “I’ve always wanted to address this crowd. If you can please Bostonians, you can please anyone.”

“The truth,” said Mr. Bartlett.

“I might try something new, see if I can kick up the dirt a little. I don’t want to just be another voice in the chorus of frogs perched around the pond in the Boston Commons.”

“Here, here!” cried Mr. Bartlett.

“I suppose you think Mr. Noyes is a prophet,” Reverend Griswold said shrilly.

Mr. Poe turned to him. “Pardon?”

“Mr. Noyes and his Free Love, I suppose you support it.”

Eliza pierced her cloth with her needle. “We’ve been talking about how marriage is unholy if both partners do not love each other.” She cleared her throat. “Among other things.”

Still in a jolly mood, Mr. Poe took the chair by the covered grate. “I do support that.”

“You would,” Reverend Griswold muttered.

“Do you find love so objectionable?” asked Mr. Poe.

“Of course not. But there are other important considerations to a marriage.” Reverend Griswold flung Mr. Poe a superior smile. “Such as how well a man can provide for his wife. Can a man buy instead of rent a house, can he afford a carriage,
can he afford the best doctors should his wife become ill
—all these things greatly matter to a woman.”

The joy drained from Mr. Poe’s face.

Wicked toad!
“So you support the idea of a loveless marriage, Reverend Griswold?” I demanded.

The vehemence in my tone made Eliza blink.

Reverend Griswold flared his delicate nostrils. “You make me sound like an ogre! Yes, love in a marriage is important—it’s the icing
on the cake—but it is respect and obligation that are essential. I’m sorry, but do you not see how society would unravel if couples split once they fell out of love?”

“I’m afraid that I agree with Reverend Griswold,” said Mr. Bartlett. “Half the couples would divorce, given the chance.”

Eliza stopped sewing. “Would you divorce me, Russell?”

He frowned at his book. “Don’t be silly.”

Her troubled expression made me look twice. I had always thought of them as such a happy pair.

“It is my belief,” said Mr. Poe, “that marriage is made holy by two souls in communion, not by the order of the law.”

“So you would have everyone running about having affairs?” cried Reverend Griswold.

“Is it so inconceivable,” Mr. Poe said quietly, “that individuals should commit themselves to each other solely out of love and mutual understanding, not obligation?” When he sought my gaze, I boldly returned it.

Reverend Griswold glanced between us, then snatched up his glass and drank loudly. When he put it down, his smile was politely cruel. “Perhaps there is one benefit of illicit love. I’ve heard it said that the Spanish used to believe that children of affairs—children conceived in
amor
—were more beautiful than those produced in a marriage. But I think that can be neatly explained away by the fact that the Spanish nobility always married family. Inbreeding of first cousins makes for a very strange-looking child.” He shoved his lower jaw forward and lisped, “That hideous Habsburg jaw.”

Pleased at thinking he had wounded Mr. Poe, he turned to me. “You must not think that I am not a great lover of women, Mrs. Osgood.”

“I assure you that I do not.”

“Oh, but I am!” cried Reverend Griswold. “I think of women as superior to men. We need them to help us control our base desires.”

“What if women don’t want to control men’s desires?” I asked.

He looked at me incredulously for a moment, then laughed.

“What if women have their own?”

He cowered away from me.

“Why must women always deny their desires? Why must men always deny theirs? It is completely unnatural to do so.”

My words hung in the ensuing silence.

At last Eliza said gently, “Because to not do so will destroy our civilization. For all of us to get along, we must have rules.”

Mr. Bartlett cleared his throat. “On that note, I must speak to you, Mr. Poe, about the rules for Southern speech. I’m working on a paragraph about it for my glossary.”

The conversation then split into two groups: Mr. Poe and Mr. Bartlett in one; myself, Eliza, and Reverend Griswold, sulking, in another. I could feel Mr. Poe’s gaze upon me as Reverend Griswold held forth loudly to Eliza about the new clock being installed in the rebuilt Trinity Church.

“It is the world’s largest.” As if to punish me, he kept his back turned pointedly to me, although we were both still on the sofa. “Quite a feather in Trinity’s hat—it’s already the tallest building in New York. I had the vicar to Delmonico’s for lunch last week. He said that they have had a devil of a time hanging the minute hands. It seems that they are incredibly big—tall as a man.”