by L. E. Waters
He sits at our table and shares our food. I ask him, “Tell me what you are writing presently.”
He takes the time to clear his mouth before answering, “Actually a collection of writings on our founding fathers. Benedict Arnold and Washington in particular.”
“Ah, the villain and the hero of the revolution, together in the same bindings,” I say.
Lippard gushes, “I’ve always felt so drawn to Arnold’s story. How such a man could fly so high but fall so fast.”
“He was a coward. A bloody coward,” Virginia spits, as I search my mind if I’ve gone over this in her books yet.
“A coward at the end, yes. It was unfortunate what happened to Lieutenant André.”
I perk up at the mention of the name. “That is the name I used to call myself when I was little and I’d play spies with my brother. I’ve just made the connection.” Henry would laugh to hear the revelation, but had someone told us the story?
“Poor André,” Virginia laments, a faraway look taking over her usually clear eyes.
“Arnold’s scape-goat,” Lippard says. “But what was Washington to do? His hands were tied.”
“I can see he had no choice,” I say, as I notice Virginia drifts away to the new piano I bought her; she must find the conversation unpleasant.
“If I could meet one man who ever lived, it would undoubtedly be Washington. I would serve him to the end. I know of no other who has led such desperate and worn peoples to an unimaginable victory.” Lippard’s eyes are like stars in the dark, fire-lit room. “If only I could lead today’s downtrodden in such a way.”
“Major Washington was a decent enough fellow.”
Virginia conceals a quick giggle as Lippard squints, his palms up in question. “Major?” he puzzles.
I blush immediately. “General, of course. I have no idea where that came from.”
Lippard senses Virginia’s reception of his hero and changes subjects. “Do you play?”
Virginia turns with a smile and nods. Lippard stands up and heads to the piano bench beside her and he plays a sweet song. Virginia studies his fingers and quickly picks up the harmony. Muddy sits after cleaning up and listens to the beautiful melody permeating into the very walls of the cottage.
After the slow song finishes, Lippard immediately pounds the keys in a rowdy beat. Virginia springs from behind the piano and dances about the room like a sprite on the vernal equinox. The beat is infectious and soon Muddy and I are tapping our feet and clapping. After the last note, Lippard closes the piano and says, “Thank you so much for including me in your supping. My belly is full and happy tonight, and I best be making my way to find a place to rest my head.”
I think quickly if there is any place for him to lie down, but Muddy offers, “We don’t have much space, but you are welcome to our quilts and floor.”
His smile gleams next to the darkness of his sun-kissed skin. “That is more than generous of you, but I have a few friends in the city who expect me. They might worry at my prolonged absence.”
He shakes my hand. “It was a pleasure to make such an accomplished writing companion, Edgar. I do hope we shall meet again soon.”
“I will be insulted if you don’t stop in.”
Muddy lights a candle and offers the holder out to George. “Please take this to find your way.”
He shakes his head. “There is no need. I wasn’t born in the woods to be scared by an owl.”
We close the door after him and make our way to our beds, thankful we don’t have to walk miles home.
With the extra time not working, I write like a fiend. I manage to publish Journal of Julius Rodman in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine and I’m paid fairly for four installments. I also publish two volumes of the Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque but don’t receive any royalties from the publisher. I even have time left over to educate Virginia myself.
At the end of my workday I stop at the door, watching the lightning spark up the early darkened skies. Rain comes down by the bucketful, the streets flood in streams.
“I advise you not to venture out in that.” Burton leans on his office doorframe.
“I actually do swim very well.” That gets a chuckle from him. I attempt to button up my frock and search for an extra newspaper to hold over my head.
“You might as well wait until it lightens up some.” He raises his beautiful bottle of cognac. “I always save a drop for a rainy day.”
The cognac seems far too appealing beside the tempest. “Maybe one glass.”
The spirits reinvigorate me immediately. It creeps to my muscles and relaxes them. I sit more comfortably in my chair. I notice a new portrait on his desk of a beautiful young woman.
“Your daughter?” I turn it toward me to study the resemblance.
He laughs. “My second wife.”
My eyebrows rise without my control. “She’s very pretty. Did your first wife pass?”
“No,” he says, looking disinterested in the conversation.
“Divorced, then?” There is a story here, I can feel it.
“You could say that.” A sly smile appears over the lip of his glass. “How are you faring here? What do you think of my paper?”
“I am happy here, sir.” The cognac loosens my tongue. “I never thought I’d work on a gentleman’s magazine.”
He puts down his glass. “Why is that?” His tone abruptly cools.
I put my hands up in defense. “No discredit to gentlemen’s magazines intended, it’s just that the focus on sporting life, hunting, sailing, and the like, is not what I imagined when I thought of running a newspaper.”
“And you would do things differently?” He locks his stare on mine.
“If I owned this magazine I would keep a literary focus, setting the highest standard of selections and analysis to elevate the literary world.”
He leaps upon my words. “And you don’t think my magazine does that?”
I better tread gently, noticing his fists ball on his desk. “I feel your magazine has other attentions. Attentions that many of your subscribers expect.”
“Well, I have hired you now. You have every opportunity to elevate the literary world through my magazine.”
I’ve ventured into murky territory. “Owning my own magazine would free up my tongue, sir. I have strong opinions and I withhold them to keep the peace.”
“If you have been holding back in your reviews and selections, then I urge you to cut your restraints and use my paper to those standards you dream of.”
“If I should do that. If I should make your paper the center of most prestigious literary circles, then I should expect a right of first refusal if you should ever go to sell.”
He pulls at his necktie and takes the last swig remaining in his glass. “Let’s just see what you’re capable of. I’m not a man of words, but a man of proof. Do what you say and we’ll discuss business later.” He puts the cap on his cognac, and I sense it’s time to venture out in the rain, still beating down mercilessly.
I replace my glass. “I am a man of words and a man of results. Good evening, sir.” I put my hat on and tip it to him. His stature softens slightly and he reaches for his umbrella. “Here, take this or you’ll be requesting sick days.”
“My body thanks you.” I open the door, the rain splashing with such force it ricochets up on my new shoes. The umbrella releases with lavish ease, I ogle the carved wooden handle and fine mechanism, then step out in the torrent, a smile on my face as I think of the first article I’ll fully express myself in: my long-awaited critique of Longfellow.
Chapter 28
Mr. Kennedy sends me an invitation to join him as his guest at a gala reception in Richmond. Always on the lookout for friends in the publishing business, I decide it’s worth the cost of the trip, but Virginia is not up for the long travel. She has been unusually tired as of late. The reception takes place in a large hall in the center of the city. Candles are lit everywhere as if daylight and, wherever you turn,
there is a tray being offered of the finest delicacies the south can provide: oysters, game meats, cracklin’ bread, pandowdy, and pumpkin pie.
“Edgar!” Mr. Kennedy finds me with open arms. “I am so pleased you accepted my invitation. I insist that you keep me company tonight as I have been desperate of some higher conversation.” He hands me a syllabub punch, perfect on such a winter night.
“I would only travel so far at your invitation, sir.”
He spies an acquaintance. “Let me introduce you to some publishing bigwigs.”
I hold him back slightly. “Be careful in mentioning my name to some. I have created some enemies for myself in this Longfellow battle.”
He laughs it off. “I have been enjoying the uproar you’ve created. I’ll be careful to approach any Longfellow lovers.”
As I’m shaking hands with a few well-dressed southern gentlemen, I catch sight of a beautiful woman walking up the grand staircase in the blue-painted, paneled foyer. Some torturous angel must have whispered in my ear to follow her and I excuse myself quickly from Mr. Kennedy to hurry up the stairs behind her. What is it about the way her dark hair is swept up on such a swan-like neck that compels me so? Her bell-shaped, gossamer, satin dress swishes back and forth as she climbs, conducting a mesmerizing song of crinoline and petticoats. Her slender hand clings to the cherry wood railing, as the other holds up her thick skirts, revealing a dainty silk shoe and delicate ankle. My heart beats faster so I can close the gap between us, not even thinking what I should say is the reason for stalking this poor woman. The angel keeps prodding me along, and my pulse throbs as we reach the landing practically at the same time. She turns as soon as she hears me so close.
We both freeze, neither one of us expecting who should stand a breath away. I’m so pleased I’m dressed so well this time, so pleased to replace the haggard image she saw in the road. We stare into each other’s eyes far too long without words and both of us fumble to use our voice, as all the blood seems to be rushing elsewhere. Shock allows us to stare and sadness keeps us from speaking the truth. Those green, green eyes. Eyes that make my stomach twist with bitter-sweet pain.
“Edgar,” she finally breathes.
Oh, how I miss her calling my name. Say it again.
She licks her beautiful lips, dried from surprise. “I thought you were in Philadelphia?”
So she’s been following my career. She senses my deduction and immediately tries to cover it. “I mean…I’d heard you were editing there.” My persistent smile unnerves her. She breaks eye contact to search down the stairs—for her husband I presume. Not seeing him, she feels safe to gaze back into my admiring stare.
I can’t help but to say, “It’s so good to see you, Elmira.”
She knows it means much more. She blushes brightly and the shelf of her bosom tightens as her breathing increases, even though we’re standing still.
“You haven’t changed a bit. I feel like I’m brought back in time ten years to our river.”
“Or the tobacco barn.”
The air around us thickens and warms. The glow of the candles on the landing touches her so softly, her skin shines and her eyes sparkle like a looking glass. How I strain to see if my reflection still lingers deep within. I panic this moment would end. The whole world seems to stop for us. The music pauses, the din of many conversations falls away, the last ten years disappears. Time takes pity on us and gives us a gift of a suspended moment.
I reach out to touch her silk cheek but instead lay my hand under her jaw line, remembering how she doesn’t like her face touched. She bends into my cupped palm with darkened eyes. “I had to be sure you were real,” I whisper, afraid of breaking the spell.
“Only at this moment.” She closes her eyes, in a trance. “I have been someone else these last ten years.”
It feels so safe in our bubble that I reach for her hand. A spark flares out as soon as my shaking fingertips touch hers. Her small hand finds shelter in my pen-calloused one, and I squeeze it tight, as our energies warmly swirl back and forth between us.
“Elmira,” comes a deep voice, accompanied by foot-thuds up the stairs.
She yanks her hand from mine and steps back, putting three distances between us. The tear from my being could hurt no less than if a sword had done it.
A dapper man, the same man I bumped into in the streets, hurries up the stairs with her velvet capuchin cape in hand.
“Elmira,” he whispers so no one will overhear. “We are leaving at once.” He glares at me. “And you, sir—and I do use the term lightly—should make your way back downstairs immediately before my high breeding gives way to instinct.”
I can’t walk away from her. She is not his. I want to tell him about our kiss in the tobacco barn. How I know how her lips feel. How her hair smells of gardenia. How she craves storms. That I have known her first. He will never be able to take that from me.
But she looks away from me like some dirty secret, and he throws her cape on and guides her down the stairs, owning her all the way. She only glances up one more time as she puts on her gloves. A mournful, soulless look.
“Carriage, please,” her husband calls to the servant in the foyer, who is surprised by such an early exit. She disappears behind the heavy door.
The world skips back into spinning. The gift of time expires. The bubble that surrounded us has popped.
Chapter 29
When I return, I don’t even have time to slink home and mope. A Dr. Joseph Snodgrass, the editor who recently published Ligeia for me, requests that I dine at his house. I find the respectable townhouse easily and knock on his thickly carved door.
The servant asks, “Please remove your shoes by the door, sir. Dr. Snodgrass is particular about not having the street dirt tracked in.”
I immediately worry if my stockings are in adequate shape, as I pull my high-lows off. The house doesn’t seem to have a speck of dirt or dust anywhere. Muddy would have relaxed in such a house with nothing to clean or tidy up. His servants lead me into the sitting room, where the doctor reads a stack of newspapers.
“Ah, Mr. Poe. So nice to make your acquaintance.” He descends the stairs in the usual long black coat and white wig.
I reach for his hand. “I hope I haven’t delayed dinner. I just stepped off the train from Richmond.”
His beady eyes widen. “Business?”
“Attending a gala.” I love how prestigious it all sounds and it seems to impress him.
“Please take a seat while we’re waiting for my wife to appear from her dressing room.” He gets a servant’s attention. “Can I get you something to drink while we wait?”
“Whiskey or an apple jack, if you have it.”
“I keep a dry house here. As a doctor, who’s seen far too many victims from the poison, I’m a staunch defender and advocate of the temperance movement. Could I persuade you to some lemonade or sweet tea?”
“Sweet tea sounds wonderful.” I hope my smile hides my resistance to his preaching.
I take the chair beside his. “I can’t thank you enough for featuring Ligeia.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure.” He adjusts his hair smoothly. “It has received so many praises, not only within Philadelphia but in periodicals in New York, Richmond, Baltimore, Boston, even St. Louis!”
“And I follow them all in ego-driven hunger.”
He laughs easily.
“I’ve also read your last publication in the Gent’s Mag, The Fall of the House of Usher. So unique and captivating. However, my very favorite is your collection of short stories, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. You are truly talented. And all the while you are editing an entire magazine.”
“Co-editor.” I allow Burton some credit.
“Oh, we both know you run the show while he is dancing from stage to stage.”
“He is away a lot.” I cross my legs, but seeing my over-darned stockings up close, I decide to leave them on the ground.
He leans closer, as if someone might over
hear us although there is no one around. “Have you ever thought of creating your own magazine? Displaying all your own work in one place?”
“I’ve toyed with the idea, but do not have the funding at such a time.” I immediately worry that it might get back to Burton. “I am committed to Burton at present.”
“Are you sure he deserves such commitment?” He leans back and holds a bent finger to his cleft chin. “When I’ve heard good word that he is shopping around his magazine for sale?”
I laugh. “Where have you heard such a thing?”
He flips open a paper and holds his quizzing glass over the ad.
I scoff. “And why do you presume it’s Burton? He would have told me such a thing. He’s promised me first right of refusal.”
“It seems you need to have a discussion with Burton. I’m friends with Graham of Graham’s Magazine, and he has immediately met with the creator of this ad and told me in confidence it is none other than your Mr. Burton.”
The betrayal and anger flushes my face and I’m about to curse aloud when Mrs. Snodgrass makes her entrance. It’s almost impossible to entertain conversation with such rage growing within me and, as soon dinner is through, I excuse myself before dessert with a feigned stomachache.
“Oh, have the doctor take a look at your ailment,” Mrs. Snodgrass offers.
But Dr. Snodgrass smiles weakly at me. “I’m sure it is something that will be improved shortly.”
As soon as I say my thanks I run for Burton’s fancy dwelling. I’ve knocked on his door enough times at such hours regarding editing emergencies that his servants think nothing of letting me in.
Burton saunters downstairs, with an expectant look upon his face and ice clanking in his half-full tumbler.
“What is the matter, my dear Poe?”
I call to him up the stairs, “You know quite well why I’m here. You think you can list such a thing in a competitor’s paper and think I would not hear of it?”