Mrs. Poe (17 page)

“Look who’s coming,” said Eliza.

Beyond a large Hessian family stumping along in tight shapeless jackets and an upright Knickerbocker couple trying in vain to pass them, I caught sight of an arch pink face beneath a stovepipe hat.

“Oh no. Do you think he has seen us?”

Eliza caught my arm. “He’s your editor, Fanny. You must be polite. Maybe he’ll go away if we don’t encourage him.”

Reverend Griswold hastened forward when he saw me. He took off his hat, releasing the fringe of curls above his ears, and then bowed to the Bartletts and me. “May I have the honor of joining you?”

“Yes.” I did not know how to refuse him. “Please do.”

The crowd on the sidewalk necessitated that we separate into couples. Reverend Griswold marched next to me as we processed along, giving a solemn tip of his hat to the James Fenimore Coopers as they passed, prompting the author to glance at his wife before bowing. The reverend called a hearty hello to the astonished current mayor, William Havemeyer. When an earnest young gentleman approached, my escort waved him away, crying, “Not now, Hawthorne! I’ll read your draft of
The Scarlet-whatever
as soon as I can.” I could feel a strong emotion exuding from his nearby presence—pride of ownership of me? I shivered.

A mustachioed youth sauntered past, twirling a cane and arranging his face in a superior sneer, a task made difficult by the squint that was necessary to keep a monocle to his eye. Even Reverend Griswold’s oppressive company could not dampen my amusement.

Reverend Griswold gladdened to see my expression. “It is a fine day, isn’t it?”

“Oh dear,” I said, “Does young Mr. Roosevelt realize what a ridiculous figure he cuts?”

His smile faded. “I didn’t realize that men were such figures of fun to you.”

“They aren’t, not usually.” I suppressed a smile, recalling the dandy’s silly monocled wink.

“Well! Let us not talk about the folly of women! This new contraption that women wear to stretch out their skirts—”

“Crinolines,” I said, taken aback by his vehemence. “I imagine they are much more comfortable to wear than a score of petticoats.”

The cleft between his brows deepened. “I did not mean for you to say articles of unmentionables aloud. But I just now saw young Caroline Schermerhorn
in one,
and the wind caught hold of her and nearly set her sailing like a hot-air balloon. I am pleased to say that
I
did not laugh.”

“A pity,” I murmured.

He glanced at me.

“A pity she should look so foolish,” I said.

“Exactly!” he cried. “I do believe, Mrs. Osgood, that we are of the same mind. I have often felt so in your presence.”

“You are very kind.”

“I’m not kind,” he said. “I am speaking the truth, though it makes me blush to do so. What must you think of me, saying such, when you are a married woman?”

“I think very little of you,” I said.

He blinked.

“Other than as having the best of intentions,” I said.

“Oh, yes! You do perceive me well! This is the very thing I speak of.”

I smiled. If only Eliza would turn around and save me.

He waited until a phaeton with enormous yellow wheels and small grim driver rolled by. “Other men might try to take advantage of a married woman when her husband is absent, but never me. I am here to guard and protect you.”

“Thank you, Reverend Griswold. I’m sure my husband would wish to thank you himself, when he returns, very soon.”

“Very soon?”

“Any time now—perhaps today.”

“I was under the impression—” He stopped, balling his gloved hands at his side.

“How is the new edition of your poetry collection coming along?” I asked.

An immodest smile nudged through his frown. “Coming along
well, coming along well. I must have read a thousand new books to choose for it. I do believe that I have the largest library of American books in the country. But this edition will not be complete without some new works by you—can I count on you?”

“You are most kind.”

“Not kind,” he said. “Truthful—remember?”

I held back a sigh as I nodded.

“The truth shall set us free, yes?” His smile soured as he peered ahead. “Oh no.”

I peered ahead. My heart leaped as I caught sight of Mr. Poe, hatless among the river of black stovepipes. And then I saw his wife. They were promenading in our direction, along with Mrs. Clemm.

“Why does he not stay at home?” said Reverend Griswold. “Does he not think of the health of his wife? She is obviously consumptive—I think he wishes to hasten her to her grave!”

I felt a stab of guilt. Did her condition seem that severe? I recalled Mr. Bartlett’s accusation that Mr. Poe’s characters often murdered their wives.
Don’t be absurd.

I caught at my bonnet, lifted by the wind. “Surely they are just enjoying the fine weather like the rest of us.”

“Are they? Is he?
I find that there is nothing about Edgar Poe that is remotely like the rest of us. He is a predator, plain and simple. A wolf in wolf’s clothing.”

Eliza, a pace ahead, turned to seek my attention, having spotted Mr. Poe. When he and his family were even with our children, she extended a gloved hand to him. “Dear Mr. Poe! How lovely to see you today!”

As his wife and her mother nodded their hellos, Mr. Poe gazed at each of us in turn until his sights settled on me. A wildness leaped from his eyes, then receded back as if whipped into submission.

A thrill charged through me as I outwardly carried out my social duties, introducing Mrs. Poe and her mother to the Bartletts, then to our children, who had been made to stand quietly by Mary.

Ignoring the Bartletts and their offspring, Mrs. Poe looked between my daughters, curiosity sharpening her face within her bonnet. “Such delicious little girls.”

I nodded for them to respond.

“Thank you,” they said in unison.

“Mother,” Mrs. Poe asked Mrs. Clemm, “don’t you want two little girls like these?”

“Indeed I do!” cried Mrs. Clemm.

Mrs. Poe bent down and dabbed Vinnie on the nose. “I could just eat you up!”

Vinnie shrank back. Then, shyly, she said, “We have a cat named Poe.”

“Really?” Mrs. Poe’s face hardened as drew herself upright.

“Mr. Poe saved her,” said Vinnie, “and gave her to Mamma.”

“You did?” Mrs. Poe demanded of her husband. “When?”

“Recently,” Mr. Poe said shortly.

The fluttering of skirts and bonnet strings filled the awkward pause. Eliza frowned at her husband, who was rudely staring at Mr. Poe’s forehead. To the group she exclaimed, “Pretty day!”

“Very,” said Reverend Griswold in a scolding tone. “We should be going. Mrs. Osgood?” He put out his arm for me to take.

I ignored his offer. I could feel Mr. Poe’s intense gaze upon me. It had the singular effect of panicking and calming me at once.

“It is the warmest day so far this year,” said Mrs. Clemm.

Mr. Bartlett stared coolly at Mr. Poe. “It’s getting very warm indeed.”

In spite of their sister’s sternly administered pinches, Eliza’s boys, having stood still beyond their limit of patience, began to fidget. “Would you care to join us?” Eliza asked Mrs. Poe. “We’re going one more block south and then heading home.”

Mrs. Poe peered down the sidewalk as if weighing other invitations.

Just then, a plump woman stuffed within a lavish eruption of peacock-blue silk approached, followed by her lanky red-faced husband.

“Mr. Poe?” she asked tremulously.

He waited.

“Mr. Poe, we are your most ardent fans. I—we—loved ‘The Raven.’ May I ask you, please, could you say ‘Nevermore’? In your own voice.”

“I have no other voice to use,” said Mr. Poe.

“Please excuse my husband’s sense of humor,” said Mrs. Poe. “He’s always joking.”

The woman’s mouth rounded in an
O
. “You are Mr. Poe’s wife?”

Mrs. Poe extended her hand prettily. “I am Virginia Poe.”

The woman appeared ready to burst with her great good luck. “
Mrs.
Poe! What an honor to meet you! You must be so very proud.”

The attention invigorated Mrs. Poe like a potion. “Indeed, I am!”

Mr. Poe made a small smile. “Perhaps, madam, you would be interested in meeting one of New York’s shining stars.”

“Another star?” The woman gasped. “There is no one greater than you, Mr. Poe!”

Reverend Griswold, who’d been quietly fuming, sweetened. He turned toward the woman with proud expectation.

Mr. Poe touched my elbow. “This is Mrs. Frances Osgood.”

I reeled from the audacity of his touch as I nodded civilly.

The woman drew back to look at me. “Oh. Do I know you?”

“She is known by all persons of taste,” said Mr. Poe.

“I think I have heard of you,” the woman said haltingly.

Her husband patted her on the shoulder. “Come along, dear, let these good people take their air.”

“Eddie,” said Mrs. Poe as they walked away, “I’d like to go home.”

He turned to her with a slight frown. “If you wish.”

“You should get home, too,” Reverend Griswold said to me, “since your husband is coming.”

Mr. Poe glanced at me. The girls raised their faces to me with surprised delight.

I took their hands, hating Reverend Griswold. “It’s time to go. Good-bye, Mr. and Mrs. Poe,” I said, “Mrs. Clemm.” I parted ways with them distractedly, and shedding Reverend Griswold, turned for home.

I spent much of our return keeping my anger in check while explaining to the girls that Reverend Griswold had been confused. I had not, in fact, heard from their father, I told them, but they should not worry about it, not at all, as it could only mean that he was finding plenty of work, wherever he was. Their sad expressions devastated me. So caught up was I in smoothing over their disappointment that I thought little of the glances Eliza was throwing my way. It wasn’t
until we had arrived at the house at Amity Place and sent the children to the kitchen for an early supper that she said to me, “Oh, Fanny, you are in trouble.”

•  •  •

I perched next to Eliza on the black horsehair sofa, waiting while the parlor maid, Catherine, lit a whale-oil lamp upon the mantel; Mr. Bartlett had not wanted to use the gas that night. The wick took the fire; a flame blazed up. Catherine replaced the glass chimney, setting the prisms hanging from it ajingle, casting rainbow spots upon the shadowy wall. She moved on to the companion lamp on the mantel, then to the lamp on the center table, and with the room now glittering with light reflected from the many mirrors, left us.

Mr. Bartlett, in the place of honor in the arm chair next to the fireplace, tamped tobacco into his pipe. That they should call a meeting upstairs in the back parlor instead of the family room off the kitchen signaled the seriousness of the matter at hand. The ticking of the tall clock in the corner filled the uncomfortable silence, along with muffled thumps overhead as the children were prepared for bed. There came the scratch of a match against its box, followed by the sucking sound of Mr. Bartlett drawing on his pipe as the tobacco grew orange in its cherrywood nest.

“Well, Mrs. Osgood”—Mr. Bartlett removed his pipe stem from his mouth—“I’ll come out with it.” He blew out smoke. “It’s clear that Mr. Poe is forming an attachment to you.”

I tried to laugh it off. “Mr. Poe?”

Mr. Bartlett pressed his lips in a flat line, adding to his duckish appearance. “I am serious.”

What did he know? “We do respect each other’s work,” I said more cautiously.

“We’re your friends, Fanny,” said Eliza.

“I know you are. Very much so. I cannot thank you enough for providing a home for—”

“What we mean to say,” Mr. Bartlett said, interrupting, “is that it appears that Poe has gotten the wrong idea from your poem. He seems to think he can carry on a flirtation with you in front of his wife as long as you and he claim you are just friends.”

“That’s not why I wrote it.”

Eliza’s plain, sweet face crumpled with concern. “We aren’t here to accuse you of anything, Fanny. But if we can sense his attraction to you, what about others?”

“People talk,” said Mr. Bartlett.

I pushed away the proud thrill of knowing that it might be obvious to others that Mr. Poe was attracted to me. The reality was that as persons married to others, even the appearance of our being drawn to each other could destroy our reputations. Anyone who broke the rules was severely punished, with those who wore the yoke most heavily meting out the strictest judgment. No one escaped from the institution of marriage unless by a spouse’s death.

“I warned you about Poe’s instability,” said Mr. Bartlett. “You cannot truly believe that he will behave like a gentleman.”

I braced myself. “What evidence do you have for his inappropriate conduct?”

“He can’t keep his eyes off you,” said Eliza.

“No one ever committed a crime just by looking,” said Mr. Bartlett. He lowered his pipe to the arm of his leather chair. “But I am concerned by his involvement in your career.”

“Reverend Griswold is involved in my career as well. I cannot help that publishing is in the hands of men.”

Mr. Bartlett dismissed my evasion with a frown. “Poe cannot be trusted.”

Mr. Bartlett must not have seen the kiss. Now was the time to give up Mr. Poe, before any real harm was done to my reputation and my good standing with the Bartletts. But how could I ever do so? Just the thought of it filled me with despair.

“We are frightened for you, Fanny,” said Eliza. “There’s no telling what boundaries he will overstep. He seems to have little care for convention.”

“How do you know this?” I said. “Even if he does behave in a manner in which we are not accustomed, what is the harm in it?”

The doorbell jingled in the hallway.

We sat back in our respective corners as footsteps sounded up the kitchen stairs, then down the hall. I heard the murmur of voices.

The maid Catherine came into the room. “A Mr. Poe is here, ma’am. He asks to see Mrs. Osgood.”

“What did I tell you?” Mr. Bartlett said. “The man is bolder than I thought.”

“Tell him we are out,” Eliza told the maid.