Mrs. Poe (15 page)

“I don’t! Why would you say that, Eddie? Who wouldn’t be proud to be taught by the Shakespeare of our generation?”

I could feel the heat rush to my face. Had Mr. Poe told her about our excursion to Barnum’s? I glanced at him. He gave a slight shake of his head as if to deny it. But how strange that she had echoed my own conversation with him. I shivered. A coincidence?

Mrs. Poe turned to scan the line that had formed behind us. “Do you see anyone that you know, Eddie?”

“It is not polite to gape around behind you,” he said.

She gasped, then whirled to face front. She cut a gaze to her side, indicating that I should look behind us.

“See them?” she said loudly.
“Whores.”

I noticed two gaudily dressed women in the line.

“What are they doing here?” she said. “They are supposed to use a different entrance.”

“I really must insist that you stop this, Virginia,” said Mr. Poe.

“They’re not supposed to mix with us!”

“They’ll take their place in the upper tier,” he said, “and then we won’t see them.”

“Like the ladies who visit Mrs. Restell? If people are doing wrong, they should be punished.”

“It’s not our place,” he said.

“Then whose is it?” She smiled at me as if to enlist my support. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Osgood?”

I was saved from answering by the opening of the theater doors. I followed Mr. Poe and his wife inside. Immediately upon entering the lobby, Mr. Poe was hailed by a well-heeled gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Stewart, owner of a large mercantile concern on Broadway. He told Mr. Poe how greatly he enjoyed ‘The Raven’ and then introduced his wife, who then asked to be introduced to Mrs. Poe. This pattern repeated itself until a large crowd had formed around the Poes, congratulating him on his success and admiring her for her youth and freshness. I stood at the edge of the circle, noticing with each greeting how Mrs. Poe grew more animated and gay, and Mr. Poe less so. Only when the five-minute bell before curtain rise rang were they released from their admirers. By the time we were ushered to a box in the first tier, very near to the stage, Mr. Poe was glowering.

I took my place on the other side of Mrs. Poe. She leaned in to her husband. “Eddie, Eddie, what’s wrong? Why were you so rude to the people?”

“You must apologize to Mrs. Osgood.”

She looked at me. “For what?”

“You forgot our guest.”

“There is no need to apologize,” I said.

She ducked her head and frowned. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Osgood. I meant no harm.”

The bell rang, announcing the start of the play.

She squeezed my hand. “If I did anything wrong, Frances,” she whispered, “I truly am sorry.”

The play commenced. It was a fair enough comedy. The woman who played the silly wife lusting after status drew all the appropriate laughs, and the actor playing her cringing husband, who nearly
ruined himself trying to appease her, commanded chuckles of sympathy. But as I sat there in the dark, I could feel Mrs. Poe’s spirits still soaring from the admiration she had garnered and, disturbingly, what felt like her sense of triumph over me. If she had wanted me to recognize her possession of her husband, she had succeeded.

At the intermission, Mrs. Poe sprang up, prompting a little spate of coughing. “Eddie, I do believe I need a punch. Will you buy me one?”

“If you like. Perhaps it is best if you stay in your seat and rest—I’ll bring it to you.”

“And be cheated out of seeing your people? No!”

“I have no ‘people,’ as you yourself will sometime learn. Mrs. Osgood?” he said to me. “Are you coming?”

I told him no and begged to stay in my seat, claiming that I wished to jot down my thoughts about the play.

“Eddie’s the one who’s the critic,” said Mrs. Poe. “He’s already written it up.”

“I’d like to be able to describe it to Mrs. Bartlett when I get home.”

“But you must come out!” exclaimed Mrs. Poe.

“Please forgive me,” I said, “but I must insist on staying.”

They left. I was gazing at the curtain, hating Samuel for abandoning me and leaving me in this vulnerable position, and loathing myself for being ruffled by Mrs. Poe, when Mr. Poe returned, carrying a cup of punch.

“We cannot have you wasting away.”

Our hands touched when I reached for the cup. He let go reluctantly.

“It was a bad idea to come,” he said.

“Oh, no.” I glanced out over the rail, fighting against the pressure building in my chest. “I’m very much enjoying Mrs. Smith’s performance.”

“Hers is nothing compared to the rats.”

“The rats?”

“They are very well trained here. They understand their cues perfectly. They know precisely the time when the curtain rises and the exact degree in which the audience is spellbound by what is going on. They know just when to sally out to scour the pit for chance peanuts and
orange peel, and when the curtain is about to fall and they should disappear.”

I laughed. Our smiles settled into a quiet probing gaze.
You must not do this.

He broke away first. “I apologize.”

“For what?” I said lightly.

He glanced away, then looked fiercely into my eyes. “My wife.”

“She will be looking for you.”

I could feel him retreat into himself. “Yes.”

Stiffly, he asked my pardon and left. Some ten minutes later he returned with Mrs. Poe, who was filled with tales of the important wives who had spoken to her, and a count of the invitations she had received to pay calls upon them. Only the curtain’s rise hushed her, and even then I could feel her beaming victoriously my way.

Deflated, I missed much of the final acts of the play. Only the rats lifted my spirits. They were as talented as Mr. Poe claimed. They conducted their own play within a play—a more dramatic one, it turned out, than the comedy featured on the marquee. Would the rat get its bit of peel before Mrs. Smith stepped on it? Would it wrest its peanut from under the edge of the curtain before being swept away by its closing?

But I could not report even these small findings to Mr. Poe after the play. Before we could leave our box, he and his wife were mobbed by eager readers wishing for a glimpse of the celebrated Mr. and Mrs. Poe. The well-wishers shouted for an impromptu reading of “The Raven” as we descended the stairs. Their cries of “Nevermore! Nevermore!” dogged us through the lobby, where three ushers had to clear our way to the door. By the time we landed in our cab, Mrs. Poe was giddy with the adulation.

The carriage started away from the curb.

“Did I tell you that Mr. Brady invited us to have our daguerreotypes made?” Mrs. Poe exclaimed to her husband. “I have always wanted one. To see what I really look like.”

“I thought we had mirrors for that,” said Mr. Poe.

“Eddie.” Mrs. Poe nudged her husband playfully. “Did you know that Mr. Astor’s daughter-in-law commented on my dress? She said it becomes me. She’s really very nice.”

Her exhilaration loosed a fit of coughing. Mr. Poe patted her back, first distractedly, then as her coughing deepened, with genuine concern. On she coughed as our horse clopped down the dark streets. By the time we reached Eliza’s house, Mrs. Poe was curled against her husband’s chest, her coughs now wretched little spasms as he stroked her damp brow.

I insisted that Mr. Poe stay with his wife and let the cabman take me to my door. I faded back into the hallway, as with the jingle of reins, the carriage rolled into motion and away.

Eliza had not waited up for me but left an oil lamp turned down low on the hall table, along with a note:

You must tell me about everything in the morning!

Too unsettled for sleep, I took the lamp to the desk in the front parlor. With a sigh, I pulled a sheet of foolscap and pen before me.

I stared at the page as if to will a story to life. But the magic of creativity had abandoned me. Without it, I could no more will my imagination to produce than I could have willed the onset of labor for my daughters’ births. Like childbirth, creativity came when it came, beyond one’s control. Empty of productive thoughts, my mind wandered where it should not go: to Mr. Poe.

I laid my head down on my hands.

I was awakened by a tap on the window.

I froze. Had I imagined it?

The tap came again. Quickly, I blew out the lamp so as not to be seen. Who could it be at this hour? I inched to the window, my heart pounding.

Mr. Poe stood on the stoop, rubbing his hands as if to ward off the cold.

I pulled back. Was I dreaming? Had I conjured him up with my desire? I laughed with incredulousness.

Trembling, I went to the door, then drawing a breath, opened it.

He stood there silently as a hackney clattered down the street. He raised his hand. My reticule was slumped on his palm. “You left this.”

“I forgot it.”

“Did you? Or was I meant to return?”

We beheld each other in the moonlight. His face was anguished and furious and resolute. I glanced away. When I looked back, he grasped me to him. He gazed down upon me as if to devour me, then, with a groan, seized me to his lips.

Fourteen

Mr. Bartlett put down his coffee cup. “There she is. Sleeping Beauty.”

I entered the family room and sat down at the breakfast table. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Mary took the children to the park,” said Eliza, lowering her fork. “It’s such a beautiful morning. I hope you don’t mind that I let your girls go along.”

“No, I’m glad for them to get out—thank you. I should have gotten up earlier.” The fact is, so electrified was my mind and body from the touch of Mr. Poe, I had not been able to sleep. Not until dawn had I been able to drift off, only to fall hostage to dreams as vivid and violent as if induced by opium. When I awakened, the dreams dissolved, replaced in my consciousness by an overwhelming feeling of foreboding. I was aware that my life had changed, wonderfully, painfully, permanently.

“How was the play?” Mr. Bartlett asked coolly. Golden-skinned and blond-haired, he would have been handsome had his forehead not been so high, his lips so thin, and his quick intelligence not quite so given to judgments. As it was, his large brow and golden complexion put me in mind of a duckling—an image I am certain he was not trying to cultivate.

Eliza frowned at her husband. “What he really means, Fanny, is how was Mr. Poe?”

The hair rose on my arms. Had they seen me and Mr. Poe last night?

“Both were enjoyable enough.” For more reason than one, I was grateful for Martha’s offer of coffee at that moment.

“Poe—enjoyable?” Mr. Bartlett shook his head. “I must be missing
something. I can’t understand why so many women are fascinated with him.”

“You would if you were a woman,” said Eliza. “He’s so handsome and mysterious. The more standoffish he is, the more the ladies swoon.”

She tried to catch my eye but I could not look. My mind was flooding with remembered sensations: the warmth of Mr. Poe’s body when he clasped me to him; the heartrending sound of his groan; the sweet leather and soap smell of his flesh as he cupped my face to kiss me once more.

Mr. Bartlett poured cream into his coffee. “I should think women would have more sense. Any student of phrenology can see that he’s a dangerous man.”

“Must we talk about this now?” said Eliza. “Fanny hasn’t had her breakfast yet.”

I kept my gaze upon Martha, bringing over my cup, even as in my mind’s eye I saw myself pulling back from Mr. Poe’s lips. We had marveled at each other, joy welling up from our very cores. No words were exchanged before he left. None were necessary.

“Both you and Eliza would do well to steer clear of him at Miss Lynch’s conversazione tonight,” said Mr. Bartlett.

I willed myself into the present. “Pardon me?”

“It’s all written upon his skull. Those swellings at the sides of his frontal bone, just above his temples—surely you’ve noticed them? They’re quite remarkable.”

Eliza sighed. “Oh, Russell.”

“What meaning do you find in them?” I asked.

“Thank you for taking me seriously. My own wife won’t listen to me.” Mr. Bartlett drained his cup and set it on his saucer with a clink. “Those bumps, located where they are, represent a highly conflicted nature of the most volatile sort.”

Eliza gave me an apologetic grimace.

“We do have to talk about this,” said Mr. Bartlett. “We would not be good friends to you if we didn’t. As you know, phrenology is a proven science. Poe himself subscribes to it in several of his tales. And those frontal bone protrusions of his are enough to make any student of phrenology shudder. I wonder if the man has ever taken
a look in the mirror. If he knows phrenology, he won’t like what he sees.”

“Is it possible that you’re overstating it?” said Eliza.

Mr. Bartlett put his napkin on the table. “Not really. If you combine the severe moral confusion indicated by those bumps with the superior intelligence implied by the extreme breadth and height of his forehead, you have one very dangerous individual indeed.”

My gaze traveled to Mr. Bartlett’s own high forehead, framed by two swoops of yellow at his temples. He responded to my gaze with a stern, “It’s all in the location of the bumps.”

Eliza bit back a smile.

He deepened his frown. “It follows, Mrs. Osgood, that when such a mind comes under added pressure, not only is its possessor endangered but so are those who are close to him.”

“I’m sorry, Fanny,” said Eliza. “This is not exactly nice breakfast conversation.”

“I don’t think it’s wise for you two to continue to court him at Miss Lynch’s soirees.” Mr. Bartlett raised a hand against Eliza’s protest. “I should have said something earlier. I thought it would take care of itself. But now that Mrs. Osgood has gone to the theater with that pair, I feel that it is my duty to warn her against any further personal involvement. It is critical that you give him no encouragement should he come to Miss Lynch’s this evening.”