Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen

Author:Lynn Cullen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, General, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9781476702919
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2013-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

Eliza did not accompany her husband and me to Miss Lynch’s conversazione the next evening, a Saturday. She insisted upon staying at home with Johnny, whose cough still lingered although he was getting better. Having lost two children to disease, she was not about to leave his side until he was completely well. But I was free to go, and with my girls in their nightgowns and under Mary’s spell as she told an Irish tale, could think of no excuse not to.

Pink-faced and immaculate, Reverend Griswold was hovering in the hall when I entered Miss Lynch’s home. “There you are!” he exclaimed to me. “I had hoped you would come.”

“You are too kind.” I gave my hat and coat to Miss Lynch’s maid while looking for an escape.

“Do you know if Poe is coming?” He pretended not to watch for my response.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “I am not privy to his whereabouts.”

He smiled slightly.

I heard someone playing the scales on Miss Lynch’s piano. “Who is going to play tonight?”

“Shall we go see?” He clamped my hand over his arm, then smoothed it with one of his mauve-clad own. The man had more pairs of gloves than the Hydra had heads.

“An important poet is to come here tonight from Boston,” he said as he led me into the parlor. “A very dear friend of mine—Ralph Waldo Emerson. Perhaps you know him, being from Boston yourself?” He grinned when he saw my frown. “Yes, I have been checking up on you. I learned that you are from Boston and that you have also spent some time in London.”

“Yes,” I said. “With my husband.”

He squeezed my hand, trapped on his arm. “I’m sorry to hear that your husband has been absent these past several months.”

“Thank you for your concern. You’ll be happy to hear that he should be returning soon.”

He slid me a sly look. “I hope so, although he seems quite . . . busy . . . in Cincinnati.”

My stomach knotted. So that is where Samuel had fetched up. Even I did not know that. Where did Reverend Griswold get his information?

In the front parlor, guests were forming conversational clusters, the closest of which were the companionable trio of Mr. Brady, Mr. Greeley, and Miss Fuller. To my dismay, I saw that the pianist, still intent upon the scales, was none other than the voluminously coifed connoisseur of horror stories, Mr. Morris, the editor of the Mirror.

Reluctantly, Reverend Griswold allowed me to pull him toward Mr. Brady’s threesome, where I casually turned my back toward Mr. Morris. I was embarrassed that I had not the creative power of late to come up with a frightening story for him. Mr. Poe had consumed my mind.

Mr. Brady broke off his conversation when he saw me. “Ah, Mrs. Osgood. I see that you have your head.” He grinned as if waiting for me to laugh.

“I don’t get it,” said Miss Fuller. “What’s the joke?”

Mr. Brady’s enlarged eyes brimmed with good will. “Mrs. Osgood had the misfortune of moving when the photographic plate was being exposed.

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