dwelling.
My fear flamed into anger as I did so. Why should he be so cool? I would not have come if he’d not invited me.
Just inside, quivering next to the stove that served for both cooking and heat, was a woman who looked to be what Mr. Poe might become in a few years had he been a woman and in a constant state of worry. She had Mr. Poe’s high forehead and dark lashes but her square-jawed lined face and rounded eyes bristled with an anxiety completely foreign to him.
“Mrs. Osgood,” said Poe, stroking his cat, “this is my aunt, Mrs. Clemm.”
She bustled forward to shake hands, the long lappets of her white widow’s bonnet flapping. Was it her daughter who had married Poe? She glanced between us, obviously bursting to speak.
“You might tell Virginia that she has a visitor,” Mr. Poe said mildly.
Her bolster-like breast lifted in a sigh before she trundled into a back room.
I kept my gaze trained forward, pretending that I did not see the contents of the grim chamber: a threadbare sofa; a table set with alinen cloth browned at the edges from too much ironing; three lyre-backed chairs; the stove. Books lined the walls without the benefit of shelves. Besides a service of bone china on the table, the only fine piece in the room was a small, polished desk. It looked lost in its position beneath the rag-stuffed window.
“I hope you had no trouble in finding your way here,” said Mr. Poe.
I could hear whispers and scuffling sounds coming from the back room. “None at all.”
He put down the cat, who waddled over to the sofa, then jumped up and took a spot on it. “May I take your coat?”
Framing and discarding excuses to flee, I let him help me remove my wraps. His closeness discomfited me. I was trying to shake off my awkwardness when Mrs. Poe appeared in a schoolgirl’s gray wool dress, her face as bright as a child’s in a candy store.
“Mrs. Osgood! Thank you so much for coming! I have been dying to meet you ever since I read ‘Puss in Boots!’ ” She glanced at her husband. “I love your poems on flowers as well.”
Before I could thank her, she cried, “Please excuse our temporary lodging! Eddie had to find something close to his work, and this was all that was available at short notice. At least we don’t have to share it with filthy strangers.”
Mrs. Clemm grimaced. Mrs. Poe seemed not to notice. “You have heard that Eddie’s the owner of The Broadway Journal ?”
“Congratulations,” I said to Mr. Poe. “So you have left the Mirror ?”
“That monster Morris cheated him out of payment for his poems!” exclaimed Mrs. Poe. “Did he really think he could get away with that?” Her angelic voice dripped with vindictiveness. “Just wait—you’ll see. Eddie will get his revenge.”
Taken aback, I said, “Your husband’s talents will be much more appreciated at the Journal, I should think, with its more literary leanings.”
Mr. Poe’s expression remained rigid. “I fear my position at the Journal is not as lofty as it might seem. As one of three owners, I put in sixteen-hour days. I seem to be the partner elected to supply the elbow grease.”
“I should not take up your time then.” I started to rise.
“Oh, please stay!” said Mrs. Poe, all sweetness again. “You only just got here.”
Mrs. Clemm, hovering in the background, cried, “Would you like some coffee?”
Mr. Poe’s face remained neutral.
“Mother just made it,” Mrs. Poe added as further enticement. “We can’t possibly drink it all by ourselves. Please!”
I lowered myself, cringing. There seemed to be no polite way out. “Maybe just a cup.”
I soon found myself on the sofa with Mrs. Poe and the tortoiseshell cat perched on either side of me, the table moved to our knees. Mrs. Clemm poured the coffee into the china cups and then after passing them out, sat on one of the spindly chairs, her hand poised on the coffeepot, ready to replace my smallest sip. Mr. Poe, erect as a soldier,
My fear flamed into anger as I did so. Why should he be so cool? I would not have come if he’d not invited me.
Just inside, quivering next to the stove that served for both cooking and heat, was a woman who looked to be what Mr. Poe might become in a few years had he been a woman and in a constant state of worry. She had Mr. Poe’s high forehead and dark lashes but her square-jawed lined face and rounded eyes bristled with an anxiety completely foreign to him.
“Mrs. Osgood,” said Poe, stroking his cat, “this is my aunt, Mrs. Clemm.”
She bustled forward to shake hands, the long lappets of her white widow’s bonnet flapping. Was it her daughter who had married Poe? She glanced between us, obviously bursting to speak.
“You might tell Virginia that she has a visitor,” Mr. Poe said mildly.
Her bolster-like breast lifted in a sigh before she trundled into a back room.
I kept my gaze trained forward, pretending that I did not see the contents of the grim chamber: a threadbare sofa; a table set with alinen cloth browned at the edges from too much ironing; three lyre-backed chairs; the stove. Books lined the walls without the benefit of shelves. Besides a service of bone china on the table, the only fine piece in the room was a small, polished desk. It looked lost in its position beneath the rag-stuffed window.
“I hope you had no trouble in finding your way here,” said Mr. Poe.
I could hear whispers and scuffling sounds coming from the back room. “None at all.”
He put down the cat, who waddled over to the sofa, then jumped up and took a spot on it. “May I take your coat?”
Framing and discarding excuses to flee, I let him help me remove my wraps. His closeness discomfited me. I was trying to shake off my awkwardness when Mrs. Poe appeared in a schoolgirl’s gray wool dress, her face as bright as a child’s in a candy store.
“Mrs. Osgood! Thank you so much for coming! I have been dying to meet you ever since I read ‘Puss in Boots!’ ” She glanced at her husband. “I love your poems on flowers as well.”
Before I could thank her, she cried, “Please excuse our temporary lodging! Eddie had to find something close to his work, and this was all that was available at short notice. At least we don’t have to share it with filthy strangers.”
Mrs. Clemm grimaced. Mrs. Poe seemed not to notice. “You have heard that Eddie’s the owner of The Broadway Journal ?”
“Congratulations,” I said to Mr. Poe. “So you have left the Mirror ?”
“That monster Morris cheated him out of payment for his poems!” exclaimed Mrs. Poe. “Did he really think he could get away with that?” Her angelic voice dripped with vindictiveness. “Just wait—you’ll see. Eddie will get his revenge.”
Taken aback, I said, “Your husband’s talents will be much more appreciated at the Journal, I should think, with its more literary leanings.”
Mr. Poe’s expression remained rigid. “I fear my position at the Journal is not as lofty as it might seem. As one of three owners, I put in sixteen-hour days. I seem to be the partner elected to supply the elbow grease.”
“I should not take up your time then.” I started to rise.
“Oh, please stay!” said Mrs. Poe, all sweetness again. “You only just got here.”
Mrs. Clemm, hovering in the background, cried, “Would you like some coffee?”
Mr. Poe’s face remained neutral.
“Mother just made it,” Mrs. Poe added as further enticement. “We can’t possibly drink it all by ourselves. Please!”
I lowered myself, cringing. There seemed to be no polite way out. “Maybe just a cup.”
I soon found myself on the sofa with Mrs. Poe and the tortoiseshell cat perched on either side of me, the table moved to our knees. Mrs. Clemm poured the coffee into the china cups and then after passing them out, sat on one of the spindly chairs, her hand poised on the coffeepot, ready to replace my smallest sip. Mr. Poe, erect as a soldier,
Similar Books
