Mrs. Poe (26 page)

I glanced at her. “Thank you,” I said uneasily.

“Edgar and you have quite a correspondence going. I take it you are ‘Kate Carol.’ It is you who is his ‘bright dear eye’ with ‘the bright idea,’ yes?”

To deny it was me would shine the light of suspicion on our relationship. “It’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Very. I think it’s the season. We’ve all gone silly.”

She grunted.

I pretended to watch the crowd gathering around the lion. The balloonist, his device taking shape behind him, gaped as if stunned that someone had stolen his thunder.

“I talked to Mrs. Poe today.”

I felt a stab of guilt. “Oh? How is she? I heard that they were moving.”

“I did, too. So I hunted them up. They live in a boardinghouse on East Broadway. With seven other boarders.”

She let me digest that. I tried to keep my voice level. “That’s strange. They were looking at a house on Amity Street. I wonder what happened.”

“Oh, she mentioned that house. She said something about it not being ready for them in time. But believe me, no one who could afford a house on Amity would spend five minutes living in that hovel, even if they were planning to move.”

I kept my expression pleasant. “So what are you saying?”

“That Poe is poor.”

“I don’t understand your need to tell me this. You, of all people, who champions the less advantaged in your articles about the living conditions in tenements and the abuse of those in insane asylums and prisons.”

“It’s not Edgar’s poverty that concerns me, it is what his poverty has made him.” She toyed with her whip. “He is not what he seems, Frances.”

The driver of the Barnum’s wagon had gotten down and was goading the lion with a poker.

I turned to Miss Fuller. “Which is what?”

“Cultured. Controlled.”

I smiled coldly. “What is he then?”

The lion roared. Miss Fuller frowned at it before answering.
“A poor boy much damaged from the trauma of his childhood.”

I laughed. “That’s hardly a strike against him. President Jackson was born poor in the wilds of North Carolina three weeks after his father died, and he turned out all right.”

“Andrew Jackson killed at least thirteen men in duels, probably more. He killed hundreds and hundreds in battle. He killed any Indian unfortunate enough to walk across his path, and beat a man to death with a stick. Yes, Americans, in their questionable wisdom, elected him to be president, but I don’t think that he turned out ‘all right.’ ”

“I still don’t understand why you are telling me this.”

“Because I don’t like to see people get hurt.”

“Did Mrs. Poe say something about our poems?” I asked.

“No. Should she?”

The lion roared again, louder, causing Miss Fuller’s horse to shy. She steadied her animal with the reins.

“I’m your friend, Frances.”

“If you were my friend,” I said, “you wouldn’t further rumors about me.”

“Who said there were rumors?”

“You said Mrs. Poe was complaining.”

“She wasn’t complaining. In fact, she said she only wished she could spend more time with you, learning from you, but her illness keeps her at home.”

I drew in a breath. “I will make a point of seeing more of her.”

“Don’t.”

I bristled at her bossy tone.

“I think you should steer clear of the Poes altogether,” she said.

“A strange bit of advice, coming from someone who insisted that I must write an article about them. I heard that you were writing it yourself. What happened to it? I haven’t seen it in the
Tribune.
”

“I should have never insisted that you pursue that article. Once I got a firsthand look at the Poes, I dropped my article immediately.”

I glanced at her. What had she seen that discouraged her?

Miss Fuller rested the reins on her lap. “I’ve been rooting for you from the start, Frances, with that bounder of a husband of yours. I think you’ve done tremendously well, raising those two girls on your own while you work on your writing. Don’t ruin your reputation as a serious writer on a man. History has a way of forgetting the mistresses of great men. Even if they have talent.”

The children came back to the rug with Mary, the Bartletts strolling hand in hand behind them. “Did you like the lion?” I called, shaken.

Little Johnny shook his head. “He gots no teeth.”

“They’d been taken out!” Eliza exclaimed. “So disgusting.”

Miss Fuller stroked the beads at her neck. “That’s one way of managing a lion.”

Twenty-two

The following Saturday afternoon at Washington Square brought rock doves bobbing across the warm flagstones, children chasing one another, screaming with laughter, and a German brass band merrily oompah-pah-ing from the bandstand. On the parade ground, the militia performed a drill wearing beautiful uniforms and stern faces. Should the Mexicans harassing the Republic of Texas come any closer to New York, the Seventh Regiment was ready. So enchanting was the day that my girls and Eliza’s older two could not be convinced to come home when it was time for Johnny’s nap. We left them with Mary, with a promise that she would take them no farther than the park—there’d be no more straying off to see her beau, at least not with the children.

Back at the Bartletts’, I had gone downstairs for a drink of water. It was a relief to be by myself for a moment. Constantly putting up a cheerful front, in spite of my cares as an abandoned wife and my involvement in an impossible relationship, had exhausted me. I was carrying my glass into the family room, scratching under a stay digging into my rib cage, when I came with a start upon Mr. Bartlett, reading a magazine by the open basement window. His oiled blond hair shone in a shaft of sunlight.

“Oh! I didn’t realize that you were here.”

He gave me a long look, leaned over, then tossed his magazine on the family room table.

“We have a celebrity in the house.”

I glanced at the publication:
The Broadway Journal
. Mr. Poe’s magazine.

“Your little romance is causing a stir.”

My scalp tingled in alarm. “What do you mean?”

Eliza came into the kitchen, untying her bonnet strings. There was a little
V
of sweat on the buttoned-up bodice of her dress. “What little romance?”

Mr. Bartlett crossed his arms. “Between Mrs. Osgood and Mr. Poe.”

Eliza paused for a moment, then proceeded to take off her hat. “Russell, that’s not nice.”

“What’s not nice? They’ve been exchanging love poems in public. Did they not expect people to comment?”

I felt a wave of nausea. “They were just poems. Poets
do
write them.”

“So you did send them.” Eliza’s expression begged me to deny it.

“Only under pen names.” Is this why no one had come calling lately? I had totted it up to the Bartlett children’s illnesses, and to my own withdrawal from public. People were shunning me?

“Your disguises did not hold up,” said Mr. Bartlett. “Everyone knows you are ‘Violet Vane’ and Poe is ‘M.’ ”

How?

“I didn’t!” Eliza exclaimed.

“You’ve been busy with the children,” said Mr. Bartlett. He pushed the magazine toward Eliza and me. “I had three lady readers come into the bookshop this morning asking for this. I don’t usually get but three ladies a week requesting
The Broadway Journal
. They want
Godey’s
or some such. I asked the last one what compelled her to get this issue.” He paused. “She said she heard that Mr. Poe was breaking off his flirtation with Mrs. Osgood.”

Breaking off his flirtation? I restrained myself from scooping up the magazine and flipping madly to the page.

“I hope you set her straight!” Eliza exclaimed. When she saw him look away, she said, “You did tell her there was no flirtation, didn’t you?”

He held up his hand to hush her. “Mrs. Osgood, as your friend and guardian while Mr. Osgood is away, I insist that you cease writing these poems. It’s gone too far.”

Eliza picked up the magazine. How I itched to grab it for myself.

“Page seventeen,” said Mr. Bartlett.

She turned to the page. “ ‘To’
blank,
‘by M.’ ” She ran down the page with her finger, then read aloud:

We both have found a life-long love

Wherein our weary souls may rest

Yet may we not, my gentle friend

Be to each other the second best?

She looked up at me.

This is how he would end our relationship? So publicly and condescendingly?

I made myself smile. “You see? I’m just second best.”

“This is no jest,” said Mr. Bartlett. “You shouldn’t be second best to a married man. You shouldn’t be third or fourth, or even fifth. You should be nothing to him.”

Obviously, that was precisely what I was to Mr. Poe now.

“As man of the house, I’m putting my foot down,” said Mr. Bartlett.

Eliza studied my face. “Don’t worry, Fanny. It will blow over.”

I nodded, my insides roiling. Apparently, some things already had.

•  •  •

The evening brought a walk with the Bartletts to Niblo’s Garden, across Broadway from Mr. Astor’s large home. On such a pleasant night, everyone would be there. Although I wished nothing more than to repair to my bed, I had to go. I had to act as if the poems in Mr. Poe’s journal were meaningless to me. But how had people figured out that Mr. Poe and I were writing the poems? Had Miss Fuller pried it out of Mr. Poe? And then to have had the tale spread—what a sickening sensation to be “known” by people I had never met.

Niblo’s Garden was glittering with influential patrons when we arrived. As I feared, many of the same guests who frequented Miss Lynch’s salon were there. Made close by our evenings of conversation, we naturally drifted together. I soon found myself strolling with Mr. Greeley and Miss Fuller and the others through the open-air saloon under the hundreds of colored lamps shining from the trees like fairy lights. I braced myself for questions and remarks.

Surprisingly, none came. My circle’s good breeding prevailed. Yet
many of the women treated me with the coldly kind and civil reserve one saves for former friends or cousins of whom one disapproves. The men tried not to smirk. Not a word was breathed about my exchange with Mr. Poe. None was necessary. The too-quick smiles, the subtle turning away when I approached, spoke volumes.

I had come to rest in a conversational knot that included a newcomer to town, a Mrs. Ellet, who was now droning on about her husband’s four different degrees in the sciences, when Mr. Poe stepped into the garden with Virginia on his arm.

Reverend Griswold, who had claimed a place at my elbow, sniffed. “Speak of the devil.”

Mr. Poe’s expression was pleasantly quizzical as the group politely greeted him and his wife. His gaze stopped on me. In the scarlet light of the lamp hanging over us, I saw the curious looks of the crowd.

I smiled at Mrs. Poe. “Lovely dress.”

Everyone looked back and forth between her and me, noticing what I’d seen when she entered: her dress was almost exactly like mine in color and cut.

Mr. Greeley grinned, then shoveled in another bite of ice cream.

Mr. Brady was not so restrained. “I give up!” he said, laughing. “Poe, this has got to be another of your hoaxes.”

Mrs. Poe blinked at her husband. “What hoax?”

“My wife doesn’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Poe said coolly. “Perhaps you had better explain it to her.”

My face was on fire. Before Mr. Brady could upset her, I said, “You must forgive me, Mrs. Poe. I had conceived of a little game to pique the readership of your husband’s journal, for which I myself received payment. I wrote some silly flirtatious poems and Mr. Poe responded in kind, until this week’s issue, in which he begged to reconcile with his wife.” I nodded to Mr. Poe. “It appears the scheme has worked. My friend, Mr. Bartlett, reports sales of the magazine have increased at his store.”

Mrs. Poe wrinkled her nose. “You would do that to your reputation?”

“Thank you!” cried Reverend Griswold. “My sentiments exactly! I have been bursting to say something all evening long. Shame on you, sir,” he said to Mr. Poe, “for injuring our dear Mrs. Osgood in this
way.” He swelled with righteous indignation, shrinking only a little under Mr. Poe’s withering stare before he turned to Mrs. Poe. “I’m sorry, madam, but what your husband did was inexcusable.”

“Blame me,” I said quickly. “It was a foolish and unseemly ploy on my part to get recognition. Your husband was correct to put an end to it this week with his poem,” I said to Mrs. Poe.

“What did you say, Eddie?”

The lamp above us rocked in the wind, flashing scarlet light over Mr. Poe’s grim face.

“He said,” Reverend Griswold announced, brave now that he had been released from Mr. Poe’s glare, “that she was second best to you.”

I could feel the fascinated looks of Mr. Greeley and Mr. Brady upon me, and Miss Fuller’s I-told-you-so scowl and Mrs. Poe’s pout. But it was Mr. Poe’s torment that stopped my breath. Anger, sorrow, and dismay contorted his face until he harnessed them into murderous fury. I feared for Reverend Griswold’s safety.

Just then, as if heaven-sent, a peal of chords on a harp blossomed in the air. Everyone turned to see the gentleman tuning the instrument set up under a rose-covered trellis. A buxom woman in black stood next to him, wringing a handkerchief.

The proprietor of the garden, a stout gentleman crossed with watch chains, beckoned us to gather around. “Dear friends, joining us during their tour of America, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Nicolas-Charles Bochsa!”

Mr. Poe’s expression had frozen into cold disdain as we all politely moved to encircle the harpist and his wife, who proceeded to perform from an opera of the gentleman’s own composition. By the time they had finished, my heart had resumed its normal beating. I applauded with extra enthusiasm, grateful for the relief they had provided.