The connection, so vivid only a moment ago, had been broken. Now that we had experienced such intimacy, we could no longer bear to look at each other. We focused on the kitten, cradled now against Mr. Poe’s chest.
“I am looking for poems for my journal,” he said as we petted it. “I realize that all of your work must be spoken for, but if you should ever be looking for a venue, I would be honored if you thought of me.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “I will.”
Almost shy now, he looked down upon the kitten, which had begun again to mew. “I think he’s rather desperate.”
“May I?” I reached for it as a hackney carriage rattled up the cobblestones. The vehicle stopped down the street from Mr. Poe’s lodging. A woman got out, her bonnet hung with veils.
“Who are these shrouded women?” I asked. “I’ve seen them several times now. Are they in mourning?”
He glanced in the woman’s direction. “So to speak, yes.”
“Who have they lost?”
“That is Madame Restell’s place of business.” He saw that I knew who he meant. “I did not know it when we took the place for rent or I would have thought twice. Virginia has not yet discovered it. I fear it will not sit well with her.” He drew a breath. “She can be very judgmental.”
“Of course.”
He gave me a sharp look.
“Any woman would react strongly,” I said. “It is a sad business.”
I felt him withdrawing into himself. After a moment he said, “I must find other lodging soon. I can do nothing to set Virginia off.”
“No,” I said earnestly, “you mustn’t.”
A terrifying fierceness flashed through his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then seeming to think better of it, nodded his good-bye and strode away.
I stood there shivering on the sidewalk with the kitten, its weightless bones trembling along with me. I knew that I should dislike the man, should fear him, should keep my distance at all costs. I knew that I would not.
Ten
On Miss Lynch’s stone porch steps the following Saturday evening, Vinnie stopped and leaned against the scrolled plaster railing to look into her coat front.
“What is it, Vinnie?” I asked.
She pulled back the corner of her lapel to reveal what was slowing her progress: A kitten popped up, its pale eyes curious.
“Poe wants to see.”
As Eliza’s own young ones entered Miss Lynch’s house with Mary—children having been invited to a special conversazione that night—she paused next to us on her husband’s arm. “Is there a problem?”
I sighed. “Vinnie brought the cat.”
“Poe wanted to go to the party,” Vinnie explained.
I sighed. “Well, we’re here now. Please tuck in Poe until we get inside.” I winced after I said it. When I had brought the kitten home and told the girls how Mr. Poe had saved it, after getting Eliza’s permission to keep it, they had insisted on its taking his name, even after we had determined that it was a girl. This is what happens when you let a child name a pet.
We were greeted by Miss Lynch inside the vestibule. From within, came the melodious groan of a cello.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett! Mrs. Osgood! Are these your lovely children?”
We introduced them to Miss Lynch, who shook each of their hands in turn.
“I have a special treat for you,” Miss Lynch told them. “One of my friends has learned some very nice stories for children by a man who lives far, far away. She is going to tell them to you tonight.”
“My mother writes children’s stories,” Ellen said.
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Lynch. “These stories are by Mr. Hans Christian Andersen, all the way from Denmark. They are not as good as your mother’s, I’m sure, but you might like them, too.”
Miss Fuller marched into the hall, her large bangle earrings—a gift from an Algonquin woman, she would tell us later—in full swing.
She nodded to Eliza and her husband. “Bartlett. Mrs. Bartlett.” To me she said, “Hello, Frances. Are these your little girls?”
I reintroduced her to them, though she had met them in seasons past. Miss Fuller shook their hands, and those of Eliza’s children, then waited as we removed our wraps and piled them in Miss Lynch’s maid’s arms to take upstairs.
“What do you have there?” she asked when Vinnie took off her coat.
“A kitty.”
“Darling,” she said flatly. “What’s its name?”
“Poe.”
A sly smile slid over Miss Fuller’s face. “Oh?”
“Mr. Poe saved her,” Vinnie explained earnestly. “Some boys were going to hurt her.”
“Good for Mr. Poe.” She thumped the kitten on the head as one would a dog. “Be sure to give it some milk tonight.”
“I will.”
“Go on up, now,” I said.
Vinnie ran up the stairs after Eliza’s brood, Ellen and Eliza’s maid Mary trudging after her. Miss Lynch left for the parlor with Mr. Bartlett. I threw a helpless glance at Eliza as Miss Fuller took my arm and ushered me toward the salon at a tortoise’s pace.
“Should I assume that you kept your appointment with Mrs. Poe?”
“Who is playing the cello?” I pretended to be listening.
“Some Swede. Poe was there, yes?”
“He dropped home before I left. It was all very brief.”
She smiled. “What are they like together?”
I looked longingly toward the entrance of the salon. “Like any other married couple.”
“Which is . . .?”
“Very kind to each other.”
She laughed. “That’s not the sort of behavior I have observed in your typical married couple. Our friend Greeley won’t even live with his wife, although they reside in the same city. She has the house on Turtle Bay. He has rooms in the Astor House. Ditto for five other gentlemen I could name.”
“They seem happily married.”
“The Reverend Mr. Griswold lived cities apart from his wife while she was alive. It wasn’t until after she died that he developed a yearning for her. I’ve heard that when he got home he had to be forcibly pried from her dead body, then after the funeral, he wouldn’t leave her grave until a relative intervened. As if that weren’t gruesome enough, he had her dug up forty days after her burial. He clipped locks from her hair then clung to her blackened corpse, sobbing like a baby. Guess he had a bad case of regret.”
“Horrid.” With her prying ways, she had to know about Samuel’s abandoning me.
We came to the entrance to the salon. “Look around,” she said as if she owned the room and everyone in it.
“For every married person here there is a story of rejection and betrayal. Some stories are sadder than others. But everyone has their wounds.”
“Not necessarily.”
She studied me a moment, then walked me toward the other guests. To my relief, Miss Fiske of the heavenly feathers, and her dreamy-eyed young friend visiting from Massachusetts, Miss Louisa Alcott, came forward to greet us. Miss Fuller soon stepped away—evidently there were bigger fish to fry than these young ladies. Even as the three of us compared mutual acquaintances in Boston, I commended myself again for submitting a small cache of unpublished poems to Mr. Poe’s journal under a pen name, with a note explaining to him that I preferred for my identity to remain unknown. If he accepted them and published them as mine, Miss Fuller, with her taste for scandal, would be sure to make a sensation of it.
I was just breathing easier when Miss Fuller marched up and latched on to me again. She guided me over toward the table where the tea was soon to be dispensed.
“You don’t strike me as naïve, in spite of your books for children.”
I felt my anger welling up. If that was a compliment, it certainly felt like an insult. Who was she to push me around Miss Lynch’s party? I’d had just about enough of it.
“I’ll come to the point, Frances: I am looking for an article on the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Poe.”
“An article?”
“Yes. From you. I want scandal. How much is he drinking? What do they do in private? What’s behind his buttoned-up appearance? You can’t tell me that the man is not ready to explode.”
“I can’t—”
“You’ll get your own byline in my column in the
Tribune.
If it’s money that you need, I’m prepared to pay you ten dollars in advance and ten dollars upon submission.” She paused. “Not that you need it.”
That was a great deal of money. My unstable situation pressed itself upon my mind. Payment for my poems at
The Broadway Journal
—if Mr. Poe accepted them—would go only so far. Terrifying stories for Mr. Morris were not yet flowing from my mind. Two of the scant handful of women who supported themselves by their writing in America wrote columns for periodicals, Miss Fuller for the
Tribune
and Mrs. Sarah Hale for
Godey’s Lady’s Book
in Philadelphia. I must give Miss Fuller’s offer, as repugnant as it was, my serious consideration. Perhaps my future was as a magazinist.
“If I would take on this project, it would be at the consent of the Poes.”
She shrugged. “If you wish to jeopardize your chances, by all means, ask them.”
Mr. Greeley arrived, all shining top hat and rubbery smile, with the happy effect of drawing Miss Fuller’s attention away from me. I took my position behind the samovar, to put distance between her and me so that I could think.
Eliza stepped over beside me. “What is the bee in Margaret’s bonnet?” she whispered.
In hushed tones, I said. “She wants me to write an article on the Poes.”
“For the
Tribune
?”
I nodded.
She looked at me. “Do you want to?”
At that moment Reverend Griswold approached. “Ladies, may I join you?”
The pink dome of his brow shone in the gaslight when he bent to kiss my hand. I shuddered, picturing him clasping his dead wife.
“Please do,” Eliza said politely.
“I wanted to speak to the most beautiful woman in the room. Everyone pales next to you, madam.” He smiled at me intently. I felt bad for Eliza, but it was she who flashed me a look of sympathy before stepping away.
“Her husband’s the publisher, yes?” he said, watching her go.
“Yes, Russell Bartlett.”
“A good man—he puffed my book in a review for the
Mirror
. I shall be glad to return the favor for his publications. That is how the world turns, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m afraid that I must go check on my children. They’re upstairs.”
“Perhaps your husband could do it?” He caught my glance.
“He’s not here tonight.”
He waited for further explanation. When none was forthcoming, he only smiled. “You might have heard, Mrs. Osgood, that my collection has been tremendously successful. I confess this is true. It has been very humbling that so many people trust in my taste in poetry. I think they must know that I feel a great responsibility to give them America’s finest. Imagine, then, my
honor
when my publisher recently offered to bring out yet
another
edition of
The Poets and Poetry of America
. Might I expect some more selections from you?”
I knew that I should leap at the opportunity. It brought little money—Reverend Griswold paid his poets a small fee up front and then took the profits from the sales for himself—but the recognition it gave me was priceless. Yet why did I feel like I was making a bargain with Rumpelstiltskin, with my firstborn in the balance?
The crowd went silent. The Swedish cellist stilled his bow. I looked toward the door. Mr. Poe stood alone, holding a posy of snowdrops bound together with a linen handkerchief. I could not help thinking how imperiled the delicate white flowers looked against the unrelenting blackness of his frock coat.
“Him again,” muttered Reverend Griswold.
Miss Lynch rushed to greet him, but Miss Fuller beat her to it. Mr. Poe looked on calmly as Miss Fuller pumped his hand. With a gracious nod to Miss Lynch, he let Miss Fuller lead him off, her earrings jangling as she spoke with great animation.
I returned my glance to the Reverend Griswold, who was in the process of listing the authors to be included in his new collection.
“Great friends, all of them,” he said in conclusion. “I make it my business to know my poets well. I will make it my business to become familiar with you, too. In fact, I shall relish it.”
I smiled, my attention upon Mr. Poe, who was disengaging himself from Miss Fuller.
“You will be in excellent company, madam,” said Reverend Griswold. “My dear friend Mr. Longfellow has already promised me his latest. I consider him to be the greatest poet of our times, no matter what Mr. Poe says.”
“And what is it that I say?” Mr. Poe calmly stepped next to him.
Reverend Griswold’s pink face turned crimson. “You err when you besmirch Mr. Longfellow, sir. I’ll say it—I’m glad that fellow Outis is giving you a thrashing in the
Mirror
for accusing Longfellow of plagiary! You richly deserve it.”
“Perhaps so.” Mr. Poe turned to me, then presented the snowdrops. “For you. From my wife.”
I forced myself to be calm. “You must thank her for me.” Reverend Griswold’s scowl deepened as I smelled their blooms. I was surprised to find that the simple white blossoms had a powerfully seductive scent.
“She picked them in the countryside,” Mr. Poe said quietly. “I took her for a ride up by our old farm this morning. We were able to get in a little picnic before the weather turned.”
“That must have cheered her.” I peered over the crowd. “Is she here tonight?”
The cellist resumed his playing. Mr. Poe shook his head. “The day wore her out, I fear.”
“Look here,” said Reverend Griswold, “we were having a conversation.”
“I did not realize. I thought Mrs. Osgood looked ready to leave.” He held out his arm. “Mrs. Osgood?”
I nodded my leave from Reverend Griswold. Self-consciously, I put my hand on Mr. Poe’s forearm. I tried to deaden myself to the feel of his sinuous flesh radiating though my glove.
When we had gone five paces, he said, “Where do you want to go?”