by L. E. Waters
“Virginia!” Muddy calls over her shoulder. “There’s even a piano for you!”
“That is wonderful, Ma.” But her tone seems full of doubt since she nearly runs out of breath mid-sentence.
I kneel on the floor and remove the basket’s lid. Catterina first hesitates and then sticks her small, black head out. She smells the air and hunches back inside the very prison she fought against for the whole ride.
“Fine then, stay inside.” I leave the lid off and let her come out of her own accord.
“Virginia can have her own room here. There are three bedrooms.” Muddy points to the room facing the south-east side. “She will have that one.”
“But it’s the smallest and the eaves come down so low that the bed posts had to be cut off to fit.”
“It has the most sun and windows. She needs the light and air.”
I agree and bring my things to the darkest room, leaving the largest one for Muddy since I spend so little time in my room anyway. Muddy comes in and sees the desk left under the only, tiny window, facing north. “They left the desk for you. I think someone knew this was just what we needed.”
The stiffness incurred from the uncomfortable train seat leaves my muscles. “I only want to make you and Virginia happy.”
She looks into my eyes and gives me a sincere hug. “And you have, Edgar.”
Why is it I still feel as though I’m failing them? I wish I could give them a house like Moldavia, and have servants catering to Muddy all day. I could send Virginia to the finest hot springs in the country to recuperate. Maybe Virginia even got sick from the days in the New York tenement. Maybe they would find that consumption is caused by poor diets and insufficient air. Had Virginia gone to Neilson’s when he pleaded would she still be healthy?
I can’t bear to answer that question, for it bites into the depths of my stomach and stings there. I carry everything inside from the pile the carriage left. The thick air around me feels wet and the skies foretell impending rain. Muddy sets up Virginia’s bed first and, as soon as it’s fluffed practically to the eave, Virginia falls asleep until morning, even though it was only four in the afternoon when she lay down. Catterina finds me in the night, and only purrs when I wrap my arms around her, staying in my grasp until dawn.
Virginia never seems to recover from the trip. She sleeps more and more of the day away. On good days she ventures out to the rocker on the porch, and she waves to me whenever I turn to check on her from the boulder I write the day away upon in the middle of a sea of Cosmos, Black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace. I always bring back a large bouquet for Muddy to refresh all the ironstone pitchers in each room. It’s such things that battle Virginia’s noticeable decline. Warm fires, comforting dinners and Catterina’s rich and soothing purr work as well.
Then the brightest thing enters our house on a sleepy Sunday. I’m off on my rock and I barely notice the middle-aged, prim woman make her way up onto the porch. I watch her with squinted eyes as she knocks on the door and Muddy readily welcomes her in. Curious as to our unexpected visitor, I blow on my ink to dry it, then snap my writing folder closed. I catch my foot on a protruding stump before the porch and send the inkwell flying. I inspect the now chipped and ink-covered glass, hoping the mysterious woman is worth all the trouble.
As soon as I see her rosy cheeks, I know that she is.
“And this is the accomplished writer I’ve heard so much about.” She switches her large carrying bag onto her left arm so that she can offer me her hand.
Virginia chirps happily. “She is our nearest neighbor.”
“And a nurse.” Muddy cocks her head toward me. “She’s heard that Virginia is ailing and wishes to help us.”
“Sent from the angels then.”
She swipes the compliment away with her gloved hand. “No, just from the church. I didn’t even know anyone moved in. I should have been by months ago to help you settle in. How un-neighborly of me.”
I say, “Whatever you can do to make Virginia comfortable I will pay well for.”
“I wouldn’t hear of such a thing. The Bible says, ‘Love thy neighbor’ and happily I do so.” She unties her lacey Coburg bonnet.
Muddy quits wringing her hands and offers to take Mrs. Shew’s bag for her.
“Oh, no. I will need this most of all.” She heaves the supple leather bag up onto the table we eat on and yanks off her tight-fitting gloves, finger by finger. “I come prepared.”
“Maria, lay Virginia down in her bed, and I’ll be up at once with an Oriental herbal concoction that worked wonders for a daughter-in-law of mine. She still is managing quite well with tuberculosis, even after six years.”
Muddy takes Virginia up the stairs and Virginia gives a worried look back, as Mrs. Shew removes a large bulb of garlic from her bag. The smell of the tea she brews is so powerful I excuse myself to go back to work outside. By the time I return, Mrs. Shew is gone, but the odor hangs in the air.
Virginia looks rosier than I’ve seen her in months. “Oh, Edgar. It was horrendous.” Nevertheless, she laughs and sits strong in her chair. “It was all I could do to keep from spitting all over poor Mrs. Shew, but I drank the whole cup and I feel wonderful.”
Muddy says, “She truly has been sent to us from heaven.”
“What a miracle she is.” I pick up Catterina and snuggle her into Virginia’s lap.
The terrible smell becomes a most welcome smell, since Virginia improves more with every cupful. I push money into Mrs. Shew’s hands and she only accepts it to buy more of the rare herbs. She returns every day with more potion and always manages to bring the tastiest pastries and delicacies from the finest markets to keep Virginia interested in food. She can only be coaxed to swallow sweets since losing her appetite for meats and vegetables. Mrs. Shew becomes the sun to all of us. We flock around her whenever she arrives to bask in her healing light. I run from my writing pasture, Muddy abandons her chores, Virginia leaves the piano (yes she is even singing again!), even Catterina emerges, leg-stretching from her napping spot. I try to study what it is about her that can make me feel so. Was it her soft touch? Her warm voice? Her calm and strong presence? A spirit unaffected and undaunted by the toils and disappointments of life?
Our house is filled with laughter again and Muddy and I stop fretting over Virginia. She awakes every morning, ague free, and coughs only as much as Muddy or I. We even stop counting. Virginia ventures back outside and I can hardly write when I’d rather watch Catterina run after Virginia like a loyal puppy, bouncing along with her among the low grasses and fluffy dandelions. Virginia takes each little weed and blows the whole puff away, as Catterina frantically hops about in hopes of catching one. Virginia cries out like a child as she twists vines above the black cat’s head and Catterina stands like a little circus bear, humorously pawing in the air.
“Dance, my little bear. Dance!” She squeals with delight.
The gaunt angles are gone, softened by her usual youthful plumpness. Her robust laughter returns along with the mischievous smile. I haven’t realized how much she declined before Mrs. Shew’s intervention. To see her play again, with no tint of sickness, cools a burning deep inside. I can take a deep breath.
Chapter 33
Song returns to our home, laughter billows out our open windows and I thrive at my new job. Publications seek me out, and nothing could have even prepared me for the fame that follows after The Raven is published. I can hardly make it to work without passersby accosting me to say my most famous line, “Nevermore.” Fans gather outside my office and I have to cut through them to get to the door.
“Mr. Poe!” they yell. “Please tell us who Lenore is?”
I never answer of course.
Women’s auxiliaries and poetry reading groups (all bored housewives nonetheless) offer generous amounts for a reading, and I can’t turn so much away, since my job and publications aren’t earning me near enough. These extras would mean more exotic herbs and more pastries for Virginia, so I have
to put up a pretended front and entertain all their poetical fancies, like a grateful, trained seal.
I walk into Mrs. Ellet’s impressive brick townhouse and it’s always the same: a parlor full of giggling ladies whose wealth leads to too much time on their hands. These ladies have finished from finer schools than I. They choose not to sit home reading to their children and, with little career opportunities, flock to these literary fan clubs—fainting as their spotlighted poets read to them—fulfilling the need left by their busy husbands’ neglect and clinging to anything hopefully romantic.
A handsome woman, with a gold chain and pearl ferronniere suspended across her forehead and hair àla giraffe, steps forward. “Oh, it is so wonderful to meet the mysterious Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.” Mrs. Ellet holds a white-gloved hand for me to kiss and I do so with feigned interest. Her amber eyes blaze upon my contact.
The ladies turn at the mention of Poe, and all eyes bow to me like Christ has walked through the door. I blush immediately at their collaborative reception. Oh, how I wish I were at home watching Catterina rise and fall on Virginia’s chest.
Mrs. Ellet bends into me far too intimately and whispers, “I fear they all may have a crush on you.” By the way she giggles youthfully and tries so hard to catch my gaze, I suspect she is revealing her own feelings.
The women closest to us spin around with pamphlets of The Raven and Other Poems at the ready and each one begs me to sign something only to them. The sea of women surge and it seems the more I autograph, the more women appear. Finally, Mrs. Ellet parts the seas and rescues me.
“It is time for our celebrated guest to do a reading for us.”
A moan spreads over the crowd.
“I promise he will have time after, to sign every one of your books.”
I’m not sure if she should make such a promise. I don’t plan to stay here much later. I’m not getting paid by the hour.
Mrs. Ellet takes my arm and smiles down upon her feather-hatted minions, and they look on jealously as she pats my forearm. She leads me to the large bay window and the surge fills in around me until there would be no hope of survival if a fire broke out. I would end up trampled under the feet of these wretched women for sure.
Usually I have to clear my throat to gain attention to be able to read, but the quiet is unnerving in such a crowded room. All eyes wide open upon me, all lips tight in anticipation, all hold their breath in unison.
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary—”
They all take a starving breath. I hesitate for the next line and soon learn to stop focusing on each face, but blur the focus of my eyes into nothingness in order to read the rest. I keep going through their exaggerated fainting, through the potent odor of smelling salts, through bosom clenching and heaving gasps. When finally I’m through, a tremor of desperate hands clap, resounding against the walls, rattling the grandfather clock in the corner, bouncing back uncomfortably in all our ears.
Mrs. Ellet darts toward me and takes the liberty of placing her hands wherever she wants, suddenly my best friend.
“Oh, Mr. Poe.” She leans on me heavily. “Or are we friends enough to call you Edgar?”
The women wait eagerly for the answer.
“Only if I should call you by your first name.”
“Oh, please do. Elizabeth.” She bends to the crowd. “I would pay well to have you say my name.”
All the ladies laugh and some blush.
“Well, then, Elizabeth.”
She pretends to swoon and I’m forced to catch her. She flashes her amber eyes dramatically to her crowd. I push her up as soon as her antics are over. I notice a woman make her way out of the room. Strange, since the other ladies are only suffocating me further. I watch the beauty step out into the foyer and hear my name echo.
“Edgar?”
I turn back to a quizzed Mrs. Ellet. “I’m sorry?”
“Would you like to read another?”
Their hope hits me like a hurricane, but I put my arms up to shield it. “I mustn’t since I do have to return to my sick wife tonight and wouldn’t want to leave before signing every one of your copies.”
An “aw” rolls out when I mention Virginia and I smile inside, knowing Virginia would not mind me using her as an excuse to dodge out as early as I can.
“Very well.” Mrs. Ellet droops and pamphlets are shoved in my face.
By the time I get through, the women, bored with the signings, drift off into their groups and finally I’m able to see the lady who left the pack so early. As soon as I near her, I notice what it is that draws me to her. She surprisingly resembles Elmira, although her eyes are dark brown and her ears are elfishly-pointed.
“Would you like me to sign your copy?”
She frets with the handbag in her lap. “I fear I have forgotten my copy.”
I breathe an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank heavens, for my hand can’t grasp a pen any longer.”
She laughs a quiet laugh. “That was a marvelous reading.”
“So marvelous you were compelled to move to the other room.” I grin.
She rolls her eyes. “The theatrics were overwhelming. I could still hear you from out here.”
I like her immediately.
“Do you write yourself?” I’m sure all of these ladies attempt sickeningly romantic poems.
She nods. “You, in fact, published me.” She answers my surprised look. “In Graham’s. My name is Francis Osgood.”
My eyebrows dance out of my control. “I remember your writing. You have a way with words. You should be reading here tonight.”
“Thank you, but you are the biggest toad in the puddle.” She fluffs her leg-of-mutton sleeves. “I was happy to have passed such a discerning eye such as yours.”
I walk nearer to her. “That is a nice way of saying it.”
She replies to my self-ridicule with a knowing smile. “If anyone has the right to criticize it should be you. The Raven is a wonder. Sheer genius, as are all of your other pieces as well.”
Mrs. Ellet finds us in the foyer and interrupts when I’m finally enjoying the evening. “It seems I am missing out on the best conversation of the night.” She comes and tucks her arm in mine, even though I clearly tense upon her closeness. “And I thought you were hurrying to be home with your wife.”
Francis stares at where our arms meet, and I can’t tell what she thinks.
Francis gets up from the chair under the stairs and stretches her long fingers into her limerick gloves. “Thank you for the wonderful evening, Elizabeth. Mr. Poe.” She nods to each of us regally. “It has gotten late and I should be getting home.”
I release Mrs. Ellet’s clinging arm as gently as I can and put my hand up to go with Francis. “Thank you for reminding me, Mrs. Ellet—”
“Elizabeth,” she says, without a smile.
“Elizabeth.” I nod to her but rush to follow Francis out. “Thank you for the lovely night.” I throw the phrase over my shoulder, chasing the bustle of Francis’s light blue gown. I catch the door as she’s closing it.
“I think we are fleeing together,” I whisper and she shares the joke with a small smile.
Her footboy jumps to bring her carriage up and I shuffle my feet, embarrassed that I still can’t afford one of my own. She notices no driver appearing. “Where is your coachman?”
“I am not yet famous enough for one.” I despise having to exist in a world where my intellect can’t earn as much as a lawyer or a doctor. Had I Allan’s fortune, even a piece of it, I would surely have my own carriage and a footman to boot.
“Well, I’m sure you will obtain one soon. You are the talk of the city.” Her footboy folds down the step and takes her hand as she gathers up her dress decently. Once inside, she asks, “I would love nothing more than to take you home.”
I hesitate a moment.
She continues, “It is of course, an entirely selfish request since it would allow me to completely take advantage of your company.�
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Her footboy looks to me as I delay his task of shutting the door. I step up into her perfumed carriage, finally being able to fully intake the faint smell that follows her. “I should not deny such a well-versed lady. You just might write a poem to tell the city of my rudeness.” I sit down on the red Morocco seats. Never have I felt such luxurious leather.
She pulls a dried pen from her bag and twirls it playfully. “Behave then. You do not want to feel the point of my pen.” She tucks it back away. “It is what my dear husband fears the most.”
“Never upset a fervent poet with an audience.”
“It is our one benefit for an otherwise unsatisfied passion.”
“What will your husband think of your hijacked poet? I’m sure your carriage boy will tell him of the strange man who shared your coach.”
She gives a nonchalant laugh and waves it away. “For one thing, he would be happy to know I am meeting such literary genius and for another,”—her gaze drifts out the window—“he has staked a claim in the gold rush and has been away for months now.”
Loneliness hangs on her like perfume.
“Oh, that is a shame. I was hoping for a scandal. Scandals always increase sales.”
Her laugh becomes freer with every joke.
“If it’s scandal you’re after, stay close to Elizabeth Ellet. If there’s a buzz, she’s the bee.”
“I will make good note of that, but I fear it is she that gets too close.”
She snorts loudly and shoots her hand to her mouth to hold back any more unladylike sounds from escaping. I can’t help but smile.
We pull up to my little house and she says generously, “What a picturesque setting! The flowers on the porch and in the meadow. Oh, I see why you are so inspired.”