Unknown

Muddy looks the other way when I give in to the bottle, allowing me some leniency after “the accident”—which is how we referred to Virginia’s sickness from then on. Using words like consumption and tuberculosis bring us too far out of our necessary denial. I’m happy that Burton sold the magazine so quickly, avoiding him in the office became a game. Graham is a decent fellow and allows me to go about my job as unusual. No lectures about being overly critical and strongly urging me to contribute whenever I can. As I’m repairing from a particularly rough night, Virginia peels Catterina off her stomach and places the warm, droopy critter on my lap while I slump in the chair as Muddy hurries to get the coffee on.

Virginia finally stops coughing up the lingering pink-tinted sputum, but still coughs far too much for Muddy and my nerves. It’s as if I could count the time between coughs as a scale for how sick she is. At times, it would cease for hours and other times there would be ten fits within an hour. Today though, we haven’t heard a cough all morning and it brings our spirits up. Catterina especially enjoys not being shaken awake on the quake of her belly.

“Look at this!” She squeals and sticks The Star in front of me, pointing at the review of my newest short story publication. “They’ve embraced The Murders in the Rue Morgue with open arms. They say you have created a whole new genre: detective fiction!”

My blurry eyes try to focus on the words of praise with all my might. I pretend not to care so that they won’t know how much I ailed this morning. “That is wonderful.”

She slaps two more newspapers down. “The same praise in The Evening Post and The New-World. The best newspapers in the city, Edgar. I am so proud.”

Her lovely honey eyes twinkle with the greatest esteem, but I feel far from worthy at the moment. Muddy waves a letter in my face as she pours the rich smelling coffee too slowly in my waiting tea cup.

I blow on the rejuvenating liquid, eager for the first scalding sip, in hopes of it settling my stomach. “Don’t pretend you haven’t read it already, my dear.”

She gives a sheepish smile and returns the coffee pot to the fireplace. “She and Rosalie are so proud of your accomplishments. She says you are quite the talk about Richmond and, since they hold you as one of their own, a great many of her friends have requested to host a party in your name.”

I shake my head immediately, although my brain rattles unpleasantly against my skull.

Virginia perks up. “Just think of it, Edgar, all of Richmond’s finest to come and see what a success you have become.”

“Maybe I shall consider it.” I don’t know if it’s the coffee or the hope of seeing Elmira again, but my headache disappears. I nod. “Yes, I think I shall write Mrs. Mackenzie that I would be most honored to attend such a party.”

I can’t help but purchase a new coat and shirt for the affair. I hate to leave Virginia for any prolonged time, but she assures me she is feeling much improved. After I force Dr. Snodgrass out for a visit and he confirms she seems to be mending, the guilt is lifted for my journey. I stop off at Graham’s, making sure to tie up loose ends before my trip. While I’m finalizing a proof, the engraver saunters in, dapper from head to toe. He struts directly up to me with a tight-lipped grin on his jolly face.

“I finally have the luck to meet the famed Poet-Editor.” He is English by accent and smells of bay rum tonic, which doesn’t appear to be working, judging by the bald patch displayed on the back of his head after he removes his stove-pipe hat.

I nod to him, with slight suspicion of such overly friendly greetings, although something about him, the way he walks or holds his chin, or how he looks about the room as though it’s his ship, makes me want to salute him as captain. I settle on a lukewarm smile and a question. “Mr. Sartain, I presume?”

He removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves to get to work, revealing a long-healed scar running from his forearm to elbow. “In the flesh. I engrave here once a month, and it was an unfortunate day last month when I showed and you were ill.”

“Captain.” His slate eyes sparkle. “Suits me fine. I have been called much worse.”

“My mind is not where it should be. I’m hurrying this editorial to catch a train to Richmond.”

“Lovely place. When you return, I must insist on sharing a drink or two and discussing literary matters.” He leans his cane against the wall.

“I shall leave you to your work then.” He bows and backs away toward his station with an enduring smile.

The whole train ride I hold the image of her at the top of the stairs, bathed in the most appealing light of the candelabra. If any sort of black magic could have allowed me to reach through the vision to kiss her once more, I fear I would have sold my soul for it. Holding her in my frantic and desperate thoughts is all I can do in self-absorbed prayer. As the train nears the city I love and hate equally, my heart beats as though it can never slow back down again. I grab the first cab I can, not even asking the fare. Yes, I could have walked my way to Rosalie’s plantation like I’ve done so many times, saving me the expense, but my heart can’t take the journey, it’s beating so haphazardly. I should have asked who is attending, to at least spare me the heart attack I fear impending. I couldn’t care less when we pass Moldavia. I don’t even check to see if Mr. Allan’s rich, thief-children run about the lawn.

The Mackenzies’ house looks just as it did for Rosalie’s birthday. The tables are outside with streamers and banners hung on this unseasonably warm spring day. I search for Elmira’s figure, the same young girl I saw standing on this grass so many years before. It seems our longing never ages, my youthful passion for that same girl would never be met. Would reuniting with her older version provide any relief?

My shoulders sag as soon as I search the faces and find hers absent. How silly that I should come all this way in hopes of even seeing her from afar. Rosalie drifts to me since I’m parked in front of the teacakes. She stands next to me without any pressure of conversation. She doesn’t appear to have matured a day since I first met her. No wonder she enjoyed teaching children so much. Even though she seems frozen in immaturity, she’s the only genuine soul at the pretentious gathering. I take a step closer to her. She reaches behind me with her tongue stuck out to grab the last peppermint cake on the far tray. After shoving one in, getting frosting stuck on the corner of her lips and chin, she looks up in a child-like astuteness. “Elmira will be here later.”

She narrows her eyes as I lie, then lifts her pink frosted-chin in the air, and twirls her braid. “She asks about you all the time, doesn’t think I know why. People tend to underestimate me, but I can see right through them.”

She stuffs another pastry in her mouth. I wonder how it is that she isn’t plump with such a sweet tooth.

She points over-eagerly at me. “I knew it. I knew you couldn’t have forgotten about her. Virginia isn’t half so pretty. Elmira has green eyes and Virginia has dirt-colored eyes.”

“Virginia is quite lovely—” I attempt to defend my wife, but the laughter in Rosalie’s eyes reveals me. I always thought she was devoid of observation. “What has she asked?”

“She asks how you are doing, what you’ve written, do I know whom they are about, do you love Virginia, when you are going to visit. Very nosy things.”

“No, since we were little. I’ve grown to accept it. As soon as she visits she doesn’t care about me, but she always brings lemon drops so I answer all her questions.”

She rolls her eyes sweetly at my suddenly endearing tone, but then kicks out her legs and shrugs. “I didn’t think about it.”

I pull out the remaining lozenges I brought along for the ride. “Cherry?” I say, dangling it in front of her. She reaches up and grabs it like a three year old. “I will bring you more next time if you tell me everything she says.”

Mrs. Mackenzie floats over and I hold my breath that Rosalie has the wherewithal to keep our conversation between us.

“You have pulled together an impressive boodle. I’m so happy to be able to grace your party.”

Mrs. Mackenzie bites her lip before flashing a nervous smile. “I fear I might have given you the impression that I was funding this visit and performance.”

The color drains from my face. “But Mrs. Mackenzie, I could never have afforded to come otherwise.”

“Have no fear, Edgar. I have an even better design.” She turns my shoulder around to peer at a table stacked with pamphlets. “After you give an impassioned recitation everyone will be compelled to purchase your works. All the proceeds will go to your empty pockets.”

I trail her to the grand foyer and shuffle through my poems, unsure of which will lead to the most sales, as Mrs. Mackenzie stands on the stairs drawing the crowd. A striking woman in an emerald dress halts my breath. Sea-green eyes find me from the back of the room, a slight smile assures me of her identity.

“Let me grace you all with a reading from Richmond’s own famed poet, Mr. Edgar Poe.”

I locate the poem I’ve wanted to read to her for years and I step up on my stage. I utter it only to her.

“The Song
I SAW thee on thy bridal day —
When a burning blush came o’er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:”

Her face trembles as I look straight at her. All her pain and guilt trickles in two delicate rivers down her beautiful face.

“And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.”

“That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame—
As such it well may pass—
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!”

“Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o’er thee,”

“Though happiness around thee lay,”

I say the last words slowly for her, to her. She shakes her head back and forth, mouthing, I’m so sorry. Her crystal tears fall as she blinks.

“The world all love before thee.”

The eruption of applause breaks the intimacy of the moment—so strange that we feel so alone in such a crowd. The raving ninnies cluster about me immediately as I try to make my way through the cooing obstructions. If I can just get to her now, I can tell her that she’s still mine—

“Mr. Poe! That was wonderful! I felt it in my core.” A bosomy matron blocks my way.

“Thank you.” I attempt to step past her, but another fawning madam clutches my lapels.

“Oh, how hauntingly romantic. I felt your very pain.” At the word pain, she fondles my chest with her finger, discreetly hidden beneath my lapels.

I try to break free from her molestation, but she clings to me with eager fervor.

She grasps tighter and I get on tiptoes to see over the buzzing crowd, in search of Elmira’s peacock-green dress, but the molester yanks me back close to her, the smell of her expired perfume catches in my throat and sends me into a choking fit.

I push the molester away so forcefully that she screams as she backs into another doting fan, but all I can say is, “I’m going to be sick. Excuse me.”

The crowd finally parts and I rush to the back of the room where she stood. However, Rosalie is only there, leaning over the refreshment table. She sticks a finger sandwich in her mouth and points out the front door.

I throw open the door in time to see her footman close the door of the coach so abruptly a corner of her dress catches in it. She collapses her head into her hands, and the coachman cracks his whip for his team to start. The footman clambers for the dickey seat.

The coach still pulls away. I run after it, but when I hear the ladies file into the courtyard after me, I fall to my knees. They pull me up, fanning me with their pocket fans, and cluck like mother hens. Someone releases a cap of smelling salts and the assault brings me back in time to see the coach lanterns disappear as it turns at the end of the drive.