“Excuse me,” he said, “I couldn’t help but overhear. I believe wholeheartedly that the
effect
of unchecked desire, by both men and women, will be the downfall of our society, but that it’s not the
cause
of it.”
“Pray tell,” Reverend Griswold said tetchily, “what is it, then?”
“Sylvester Graham,” the man said, shaking hands all around. “From Connecticut. And my answer to your question is: greed.”
Mr. Greeley laughed. “Isn’t that the root of everything?”
Miss Fuller smiled wisely. “Not everything.”
“I’m quite serious,” said Mr. Graham. “Greed and our food supply. It is greed that compels dairymen to skim every bit of goodness from milk to make other products and then to fill the swill left with chalk and sell it at profit. Greed tempts butchers to grind up the meat of sick cows with well ones and mix it into sausage along with offal and dung to extend the amount of “meat” that they can sell. Greed motivates bakers to use flour devoid of the wheat germ and the nutritious outer husk and to add alum and chlorine to make bread look whiter and to cook faster. Americans are being poisoned, all in the name of profit, producing a weak-minded race of people who are given to lust and desire.”
“And so what do you propose, Mr. Graham?” said Mr. Greeley.
“That people follow a vegetarian diet rich in whole wheat grain.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” said Miss Fuller. “You want people to eat your crackers—Graham crackers.”
“Others call my recipe that,” said Mr. Graham, blushing. “They can call them whatever they wish, as long as they eat them along with wholesome fruits and vegetables.”
Mr. Poe appeared next to me, as quiet as a lynx. I stared ahead, my pulse racing.
“And if we all eat your crackers,” Mr. Poe said quietly, “what then?”
Mr. Graham gave him a nod. “There would be a reduction of desire.”
“Is that desirable?” said Mr. Poe.
I dared not look at him. I pulled my hand from Reverend Griswold’s grip.
“I should think so!” cried Mr. Graham. “How many people have ruined their lives by giving into their desires?”
“Here, here!” exclaimed Reverend Griswold.
Mr. Poe’s voice was that of calm intelligence. “You’ll excuse me, but I cannot agree. Many people have improved their lives by following their desires.”
“Tell that to Cleopatra and Mark Antony,” Mr. Greeley said laconically.
“They killed themselves,” said Mr. Brady, “didn’t they?”
Mr. Poe seemed not to hear them. “
Desire inspires us to be our very best. Wouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Osgood?”
I could feel his expectant stare upon me.
Mr. Morris stopped playing and joined our group. “Whatever you all are talking about, you have the most interesting expressions on your faces.”
“Poe says desire inspires people to be their best,” Miss Fuller said drily.
“Really?” said Mr. Morris. “I thought it just got people in hot water.”
Mr. Brady pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “I’d say that, too, but maybe if desire can be harnessed, it can do a man good. You know that old saying, ‘Behind every great man . . .’?”
“Tell me,” said Miss Fuller, “who is behind a great woman?” She looked around our circle, then stopped at me. “That’s right. No one. She has to get there by herself.”
The men in our group frowned between Miss Fuller and me, as if trying to find a hole in her statement.
“Speaking of great women—well, at least very rich ones,” said Mr. Greeley, “did you hear that Madame Restell’s house caught fire?”
Mr. Brady laughed. “No kidding? Was it licked by a flame from hell?”
“Evidently, it started in a shed behind the house,” said Mr. Greeley. “The fire brigade caught it before it spread beyond the kitchen. They say it was the work of an arsonist.”
Mr. Poe’s jaw went rigid. “How do they know this?” he demanded.
Mr. Greeley drew back, his rubbery face registering surprise at Mr. Poe’s vehemence. “The usual sort of evidence, I suppose.”
“You needn’t leap down his throat, Poe,” said Reverend Griswold.
Was Mr. Poe concerned because the fire had occurred so close to his home?
“I would have liked to have seen who came running out of that house,” said Mr. Greeley. “It must have been a who’s who of mistresses.”
“That’s not very charitable, Horace,” said Miss Fuller.
“Before I forget.” Mr. Poe turned to me abruptly. “My wife has asked you to join us on a picnic tomorrow.”
I blinked away my look of disbelief. What good could come of such an invitation? Why did he not discourage her?
“She’s very fond of you, you know,” said Mr. Poe. He turned to address the group. “I’d like to invite everyone else here as well. We’re going to Turtle Bay for a swim.”
“A swim? There was ice on that river six weeks ago,” said Mr. Brady. “No thanks.”
“Turtle Bay is too close to home,” said Mr. Greeley. “I avoid the wife and Castle Doleful whenever I can. If you want to picnic in the Astor House courtyard, I’m in.”
“Count me out, too, Edgar,” said Miss Fuller. “After I write up my visit to Blackwell’s Island, I’m interviewing some women who have formed a league whose mission is to reform housemaids. Apparently, they think the girls are too prone to run away. Seems to me they could reform the girls more quickly if their husbands didn’t keep pestering them.”
“Margaret,” said Mr. Brady, “you are a pistol.”
The men laughed, save Mr. Poe, and then others declined his invitation, although Mr. Greeley offered the use of the horse and the wagonette he kept for the country. The topic of the fire in Madame Restell’s house had been effectively abandoned.
“Reverend Griswold,” said Mr. Poe, “I have not heard from you. Would you like to go?”
Reverend Griswold’s lips curled in a sneer. “Only to see the cold water shock that smile off your face.”
Mr. Poe nodded as if taking a compliment. “Excellent. You must come and give me a report. Will you come, then, Mrs. Osgood?”
Everyone’s gaze was upon me. To refuse would raise suspicion.
And as mad and painful as spending a day with both Mr. and Mrs. Poe would be, in truth, I longed to be near him. I would take even the smallest piece of him, no matter how dear the cost.
“It sounds lovely. Thanks.”
“Good. Please bring your children. We shall be one big happy family.”
Twenty
Vinnie watched from our open bedroom window. “They’re here!”
I came away from the mirror, before which I had been tucking hairpins into my knot. Pinching color into my cheeks, I looked down upon the street where Mrs. Poe, in a black straw hat, and her mother, in her usual white widow’s bonnet, sat in the wagonette Mr. Greeley had loaned us. Across from them cringed Reverend Griswold, his air one of disgust beneath the jaunty straw boater perched on his head. I could hear Mrs. Clemm lobbing animated chatter in his direction.
Mrs. Poe tilted back to look up.
I pulled away from the window. “Girls, are you ready?”
Downstairs, Mr. Poe greeted us in the hall, looking dangerously handsome with his tousled hair and open collar. My urge to swoon like a schoolgirl was suppressed by the knowledge that his wife waited on the other side of the door.
“Mamma said we couldn’t take Poe,” Vinnie announced.
I knelt to tie her hat. “The cat,” I explained to him.
“It’s a girl.” She grinned at him shyly. I was not the only one to thirst for male attention in her father’s absence.
Mr. Poe smiled at her with genuine affection. “Your mother is right. You shouldn’t take Miss Poe. Cats don’t like water.”
“We do,” said Vinnie.
“That’s good,” said Mr. Poe. “Are you going to swim today?”
“Absolutely not,” I answered for them. “It’s too cold and dangerous for that.” I loosened Ellen’s hat—she had tied it on too tightly by herself—then put on my gloves. “We can watch Mr. Poe give it a try and be on hand to throw him a lifeline when he succumbs to the cold.”
“I’ll have your mother know that I was a champion swimmer when I was a boy. I swam six miles upstream in the James River against strong tides, a record that is still unbroken.” He took from my hands the hamper that Bridget had packed for us.
“I want to see you swim!” Vinnie exclaimed.
“I’m afraid that Mr. Poe’s record will not be of much use to him today. The only record we are going to compete for today is in sandwich eating. But it’s nice to know that we have a champion among us, isn’t it, Ellen?”
Ellen crossed her arms and looked away, as if responding would show disloyalty to her father.
Mr. Bartlett came upstairs from the family room with his hand extended. “Mr. Poe. Thanks for the invitation to join your picnic. Sorry we had to decline.”
“Next time,” said Mr. Poe.
Outside, Reverend Griswold’s well-groomed rosy face lit up under his boater as I approached the wagonette. “Sit next to me!” He patted the leather seat.
I did so as Mrs. Poe and her mother exclaimed about my dress and hat, and then about my daughters’ dresses and hats. Mrs. Clemm begged for the girls to sit on her lap. Only Vinnie obliged, hesitantly. With Ellen safely tucked under my arm, and the hampers and baskets under our feet, Mr. Poe swung up into the driver’s seat, took the reins, and chirruped the sturdy roan. The wagonette jolted toward Broadway.
Over the clashing of hooves against cobblestones, I asked Mrs. Poe, “How are you feeling today?”
She stared at me from within her straw bonnet. “Why do you keep asking me that?”
Ellen looked up at me. I sat back, chastened.
After a few blocks we had left the settled part of the city and were soon out on the new stretch of Third Avenue that had been macadamized. The wide dirt banks that lined both sides of the graveled road drew young men from all over town who were eager to test the speed of their horses, the superiority of their equipment, and the mettle of their nerves. Plodding among the brightly painted phaetons and tilburies pulled by glossy teams, Mr. Greeley’s workaday wagonette and mare stood out like a goose among swans.
Mr. Poe eased our little wagon up a hillock off the road, joining a cluster of carriages and riders overlooking the tracks.
“What is it, Eddie?” asked Mrs. Poe.
He nodded to the two young men drawing their fancy two-wheeled gigs parallel on the shoulders of the road down below, preparing for a race. By the cut of their clothes—a dandy’s country suit of tweed and the Irishman’s favored red shirt and black flaring trousers—it was obvious the drivers were of two different classes.
“That Hibernian ruffian hasn’t a chance,” said Reverend Griswold, “even if he did sink every penny he owned into his horse. A shame—some poor child is probably going hungry because her papa or brother wants to show off.”
Mr. Poe turned around in his seat. “Do you care to place a bet?”
Reverend Griswold coughed with incredulousness. “On these two? Only if I can take the gentleman.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Poe said calmly. “What should our wager be?”
Reverend Griswold groped for my hand. “The winner gets the privilege of rowing Mrs. Osgood around the cove.”
I rested my hands on Ellen’s shoulders. “That’s hardly a prize.”
“Bet money,” said Mrs. Poe, coughing.
Mr. Poe did not look at his wife. “I accept Reverend Griswold’s terms.” And no sooner than they’d shaken, than did the racers start off below.
Hooves pounded the dirt track. Whips cracked. Mrs. Clemm covered Vinnie’s ears as shouts went up from the occupants of the neighboring carriages.
The horses plunged down the track in a dead heat. I hugged Ellen to me, bracing for an accident.
Reverend Griswold sprang up. “He’s winning! He’s winning!”
Suddenly, the dandy’s horse jerked as if stung in the haunches. When the gig snapped into the macadam in a spray of gravel, the Irishman lunged ahead. His horse put on distance before the dandy could recover. His pals leaped for joy as he streaked past the finish mark.
Reverend Griswold plopped down on his seat. “Foul! Obviously there was some sort of foul! Mrs. Osgood, I hope you’ll not let him row you based on this travesty.”
Mr. Poe coolly gathered the reins. “I recall nothing about basing our terms on the fairness of the play, just which driver was the winner.”
“You should have betted money,” said Mrs. Poe.
“As my wife knows, I always bet on the underdog.”
“Even if the underdog is ruthless and unprincipled?” Reverend Griswold demanded.
“The principled man is merely one whose ancestors were ruthlessly
un
principled, affording him the option of acting upon fine sentiments.”
“You speak like a ruffian, sir.”
Mr. Poe smiled. “No, just one who lacks a sufficient amount of ruthless ancestors.” He turned back around and shook the reins.
I was aware of Mrs. Poe watching me as our equipage crunched down the gravel track. I made a show of gazing intently at the view. Here and there in the distance, farmhouses perched on rocky outcrops above the road, left high and dry when the road had been cut through their land. Connected to the road by long zigzagging flights of steps, they looked like so many lighthouses isolated on cliffs.
“My, the countryside looks odd out here,” said Mrs. Clemm.
“Someday everything will be the same level as this road,” Reverend Griswold said. “All these farmhouses will be gone. There will be new homes—bigger, better ones.”
Noting Vinnie’s worried expression, I said, “Not any time soon, though.”
“Oh, don’t count on that,” said Reverend Griswold. “The world around us is changing and there’s nothing we can do about it. If you don’t believe me, come this way in a year from now. And it’s not just the land that is changing but you and I. Two years from now, and you won’t even recognize yourself, mark my words.”
Vinnie’s soft brow buckled.
“Oh, look at the cows!” I said. We had come to a field at an intersection of Third Avenue with the Old Eastern Post Road. Mr. Poe turned off the macadam onto the dirt road.