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Mrs. Poe
Mrs. Poe
Mrs. Poe
Ebook446 pages6 hours

Mrs. Poe

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5/5

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Inspired by literature’s most haunting love triangle, award-winning author Lynn Cullen delivers a pitch-perfect rendering of Edgar Allan Poe, his mistress’s tantalizing confession, and his wife’s frightening obsession in this new masterpiece of historical fiction to which Sara Gruen says, “Mrs. Poe had my heart racing...Don't miss it!”

1845: New York City is a sprawling warren of gaslit streets and crowded avenues, bustling with new immigrants and old money, optimism and opportunity, poverty and crime. Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” is all the rage—the success of which a struggling poet like Frances Osgood can only dream. As a mother trying to support two young children after her husband’s cruel betrayal, Frances jumps at the chance to meet the illustrious Mr. Poe at a small literary gathering, if only to help her fledgling career. Although not a great fan of Poe’s writing, she is nonetheless overwhelmed by his magnetic presence—and the surprising revelation that he admires her work.

What follows is a flirtation, then a seduction, then an illicit affair…and with each clandestine encounter, Frances finds herself falling slowly and inexorably under the spell of her mysterious, complicated lover. But when Edgar’s frail wife, Virginia, insists on befriending Frances as well, the relationship becomes as dark and twisted as one of Poe’s tales. And like those gothic heroines whose fates are forever sealed, Frances begins to fear that deceiving Mrs. Poe may be as impossible as cheating death itself…

And don't miss the next captivating novel from Lynn Cullen—Twain’s End—where the acclaimed author tells a fictionalized imagining of the relationship between iconic author Mark Twain and his personal secretary, Isabel Lyon.

Editor's Note

A literary love affair…

Darkly romantic, this fictionalized account of the rumored affair between the poets Frances Sargent Osgood and Edgar Allan Poe is a spellbinding tale of literary love, composed in Gothic prose worthy of its subjects.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherGallery Books
Release dateOct 1, 2013
ISBN9781476702933
Author

Lynn Cullen

Lynn Cullen camped in Harriman State Park when visiting New York City as a thirteen-year-old. Like Harris, she braced herself for embarrassment: "I felt like a neon sign was flashing over our ancient canvas car carrier: Tourists! Tourists!" Lynn Cullen grew up in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

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Reviews for Mrs. Poe

Rating: 3.662561466009852 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I was initially disappointed in this one, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I enjoyed it. To get my initial thorn out of the way: I wanted the main character, Fanny Osgood, to be more Scarlett O'Hara and less Melanie Wilkes. Once, in a scene involving Fanny, at the height of decorum, I thought of the quote by Scarlett about Melanie, "...silly little fool who can't open her mouth except to say 'yes' or 'no' and raise a passel of mealy-mouthed brats just like her." However, I realize after reflecting on the story, characters, and writing that I was completely wrong. Fanny is acting exactly how she was raised, to be respectful, kind, and acquiescing. The fact that Virginia is emboldened in both word and deed is eventually explained by Poe by explaining that she stayed as a child. The tension between Poe and Fanny was evident, as was Virginia's increasing awareness of their relationship. While I admit that I did want Fanny to be a little more free to allow herself these illicit feelings, the time and culture did not permit that she act on her feelings. Her concern for Virginia was yet another testament to her character. And speaking of characters! What a wonderfully colorful collection of REAL historical figures in this story! When historical fiction drives a reader to do more reading and research, there is no greater compliment to an author. I loved reading about Griswold's penchant for hand adornments, Fuller's growing friendship and trust with Fanny, Bartlett's interest in Southern colloquialisms, and Ellet's drive to ruin anyone who wronged her. The fact that these were real people has driven me straight to historical references to learn more. All-in-all, when my friend Kerri recommended this book to me, she did me a favor! Recommended.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    As enamoured as I am of Edgar Allen Poe and the beauty of his writing, it was a no brainer that I would read Mrs. Poe. To see the love of this man through the eyes of the one woman who never really existed. What would she have been like? What would he have seen in her? And what of the real Mrs. Poe?Lynn Cullen had me wishing that the story was true. The saddest heart finding its one true love, finding a moment of solace in what is otherwise a very dark and lonely existence. All of this revolving around a poem that many of us define as our favorite…”The Raven”.We see Poe as we may never have seen him before. He is happy and enjoying life as best he can. He plays with the children and recites poetry to the love of his life. This turns the rest of his life upside down. He no longer wants the sorrow of his home life. He sees the sorrow that is his in reality and he is no longer happy to stay that way.Mrs. Poe now sees the threat of his joy. She realizes that as he becomes happier he gets further away from her. Mrs. Poe’s mother lives with the young couple and who really understands if it is for her benefit or for her daughter’s? The pair are unusual to say the least. It is hard to say if the daughter is following the mother’s lead or the other way around but their combined personality would drive anyone crazy.Frances Osgood, the presumed Lenore is a writer of poems, mother and very unhappily married. She is looking to the poetry to find happiness and she finds Poe. He fills her heart as only a misery can. She finds a reason to be happy beyond her children.The relationship between the four adults is complicated will keep you on the edge of your seat. If only Poe found his happiness. What a dream that would be…
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A dark romantic tale fitting for Edgar Allan Poe. I had not previously encountered Frances Sargent Osgood, a female writer rumored to have had an affair with the famous Poe, but I am now intrigued by this fascinating lady, and by Poe's young wife Virginia. Parts of this novel strike me as implausible, but overall the author has excelled at creating a story which fits with the 19th-century literary movement.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Lynn Cullen's combines history, romance and a dash of mystery in her latest release - Mrs. Poe. The result? An excellent read. 1845 New York. Edgar Allan Poe's poem The Raven has just been published and it is a hit with both the literary set and the man on the street. Frances (Fanny) Osgood is also a poet, struggling to support her daughters after being abandoned by her philandering husband. She has found minor success with her children's poetry (Puss in Boots), flower and love poems. But an editor encourages to write something that he can sell - something shivery for the ladies. "You'd like me to be a sort of Mrs. Poe? Ha! Yes.That's the ticket." And somewhat prophetic. For Fanny does meet Poe - and there are immediate feelings of attraction between them. "I knew that I should dislike the man, should fear him, should keep my distance at all costs. I knew that I would not." The real Mrs. Poe takes a liking to Fanny as well. Or is she simply keeping a rival close to hand? Taking on actual historical figures as the main characters in a novel is a delicate dance. Of course, there has been much written about Poe. Cullen shows us a man who has achieved notoriety, but struggles with accepting and embracing it. His struggles with his personal life are no less challenging - alcohol, finances and of course the health of the real Mrs Poe. Poe married his thirteen year old first cousin, Virginia, when he was twenty three. Virginia's mother and Poe's aunt Mrs. Clemm, lives with them. I liked Fanny right from the first pages - she's ambitious, pragmatic, curious and intelligent. As the book progresses, we see her romantic side take the upper hand as she follows her heart, ignoring the whispers of society. Virginia Poe is bit of an enigma. Cullen chooses to reveal her through actions and dialogue. The supporting cast was wonderful as well, again incorporating many historical figures. I was particularly drawn to Eliza Bartlett and her warmth, as well as Sarah Fuller and her early women's rights activism. Cullen's language and dialogue was wonderful, capturing the time period and social mores. The dancing within words was such fun to read - barbs couched in acceptable form, underlying meanings just below the surface and more. Her descriptions of the settings were vivid, bringing 1845 New York to life. The literary references were fun - Clement Moore despairs that he will only be remembered for "his children's poem A Visit From St. Nicholas and not for his professorship in Oriental languages at the college that he founded." The discussions held at Anne Lynch's “conversaziones,” were fascinating. I learned so much from this novel - I stopped reading many times to head for the net, to follow up on a reference or character. The romance between Poe and Fanny builds slowly but inexorably, leading down dangerous paths. The actual facts point to a true affection between these two historical figures. Poe's poem, A Valentine, was written for Frances Osgood. Cullen takes literary license and imagines an alternate journey and ending for Edgar, Frances......and let's not forget Virginia. Cullen comes up with her own twist on things and surprised me in the last few chapters. Mrs. Poe is definitely recommended reading.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Lynn Cullen has penned a not-half-bad fictional account of the alleged relationship between Edgar Allen Poe and poet Frances Osgood, both married at the time, that allegedly took place during the mid-19th century amongst the glittering literati of NYC. She does them both honor for the most part and Poe, especially, is presented in a very sympathetic (and dare I say it, rather sexy) light. The Mrs. Poe.....not so much. Well worth the read if only for the name-dropping. Poe and Osgood hung out with folks who would go on to make their mark on American arts, although they didn't know it at the time. Without penning a spoiler, I will say there is one brief scene near the end that was utterly ridiculous and unnecessary. Thankfully it only lasted a few short pages and I forgive the author because the rest was so enjoyable.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen is a 2013 Gallery Books publication. I was provided a copy of this book by the publisher and Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.Everyone is aware of the tragic story of Virginia Poe who died at twenty-four of consumption. (TB) In our minds we feel nothing but complete sadness at the loss of life at such a young age. Most of us are also aware of Edgar Allen Poe's life story which was drenched in death and sorrow. Rumors did surface that "Eddie" was having an affair with the children's author and poet Frances Osgood. There is much debate today among historians as to whether or not there was really an affair. Chances are it was as Frances tried to explain- a publicity stunt, more or less. If the two were having an affair it would seem odd that Poe's ailing wife would strike up a friendship with the very woman her husband was infactuated with. Again ,over the years this has sparked much debate. Frances was married herself, but her artist husband was seldom at home. He was a notorious philanderer and pretty much abandoned Frances and their two daughters. Frances was given hospitality by a married couple who let her live in their home with her children. Poe and Virginia lived with Poe's aunt and Virginia's mother in moderate financial circumstances. Poe never achieved any great wealth and in the last years of his life he was quite poor. It is said he always treated his wife kindly and gave in to her readily. This book paints a very different version of events that opposes what we would like to believe. Poe is painted as a man who runs from the reality of his wife's illness, lies to his alleged lover about the seriousness of Virginia' health, and quite bluntly tells Frances he has grown weary of Virginia. He leads Frances to believe he only married Virginia because he was young and lonely and it was merely conveinent at the time. Virginia , a girl still, despite the fact she has been married for ten years and is in her twenties, has always been a figure of great sympathy. The way Edgar mourned her after her death would hint at his having strong emotional ties to her, but this novel paints Virginia as a possible villian. A girl well aware that her husband has begun a rather public flirtation with Frances and is more jealous than people were lead to believe. In fact, little Virginia, who is weak, sickly, and frail couldn't possible be responsible for some of the things Frances has begun to suspect her of... or could she?Frances is ridden with guilt over the affair. She doesn't love her husband, but for the sake of her daughters she keeps up appearances, or at least tries to. So, the only guilt she has over her feelings for Eddie , is for his wife. In this version of events, Virginia may appear obtuse and socially awkward, but in fact she is quite cunning. Dangerous, in fact. But, is Virginia really responsible for these events or is it Frances's guilty conscience? Is Edgar right- have they all gone mad? No matter how you portray Virginia, it still seems that she adored Eddie. If indeed he was having an affair, and if Virginia did rise to the occasion and attempt to put an end to it, I still couldn't help but feel badly for her. I could also imagine Edgar finding a woman that had the same interest as himself and being a little more worldly appealing to his intelligence and being human, he may have had an attraction to Frances. But, then again, he may have only wished to help her career along. Frances could have had a little crush on Poe, after all she didn't have a love match with her husband and by all accounts Poe was fond of her. Either way, it is not beyond the realm of possiblities that the two found comfort from each other. No one really knows for sure and that is why these novels are so interesting. I liked the idea the author gave us that Virginia may have been less naive that people thought, that she had a backbone, and that she may have been as dark as her husband. This is what makes historical fiction so fun. Sometimes we were left with a bare amount of real fact about certain things and this gives us the chance to speculate on how things might have been. The author actually paints a believable and plausible story, especially when we finally get to the end of the book and see that all the participants were indeed a little mad. You know that the story is not going to end well. After Virginia's death, there were still many more tragedies. Poe, Frances and a child that could have been Eddie's all died quite young and in the prime of their lives. I was engrossed from start to finish. If you like historical fiction, this book will certainly give you plenty to speculate about. This would be a great Book Club read as well.Over all this one is a 4.5 star rating - A
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Title - Mrs. PoeAuthor - Lynn CullenGenre - HistoricalStory Summary - It is New York City, 1845, and poet Frances Osgood is struggling to feed her family and keep a roof over her head. Saved from life on the streets for herself and her children by a well to do friend, she is fighting to provide for her young family after her philandering husband has disappeared. But no one is looking for poetry. New York and the literary world is taken by a very different kind of poet. A very different kind of writer. Edgar Allan Poe. Unlike so many others, Poe is vastly different from the rest of the literary poets Frances knows and slowly they develop a friendship. Soon she is the only one who seems to know him and his young ill wife at all. A friendship that turns into something even more."...I peered ahead. My heart leaped as I caught sight of Mr. Poe, hatless among the river of black stovepipes. And then I saw his wife. They were promenading in our direction, along with Mrs. Clemm. "Why does he not stay at home?" said Reverend Griswold. "Does he not think of the health of his wife? She is obviously consumptive-I think he wishes to hasten her to her grave!" I felt a stab of guilt. Did her condition seem that severe? I recalled Mr. Bartlett's accusation that Mr. Poe's characters often murdered their wives..." As Frances and Poe carry on their affair, the ailing Mrs. Poe is far from weak as there seems to be far more to Mrs. Poe as meets the eye. Strange happenings carry on and there are fires and near accidents that happen only when she is there or has only just left. Strange portents of things that are yet to come."...Mr. Brady turned the plate to our group. On it was a perfect reproduction of my body standing before the curtain on the stage, with my dress flawless and my clenched hand lying upon the table. But where my head should have been was a blank. It was a portrait of a headless woman..." Frances begins to suspect that Mrs. Poe is behind the dangerous accidents or should she listen to others and believe that it may be Edgar Allan Poe himself.Review - Sometime back I had read and loved Lynn Cullen's book: Reign of Madness. So I came into the reading of Mrs. Poe with some pre-conceived standards for the writing. Cullen did not disappoint, the prose and skill with which she handles the tale of Poe and Osgood is detailed and forlorn as a love that cannot be. As a married woman of the time, Osgood could not divorce her husband and for all intents and purposes, was still his property. There could be no future for her and Poe. Then there was always the ever present spectre of Mrs. Poe. Dying and weak yet as terrifying in her sweet innocence and anyone could be. Soon, Osgood must come to a decision for herself and her children. Mrs. Poe is very well written and detailed. The New York and Boston of the 1800s is as much a character in this novel as the protagonists themselves. A very good read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Though not every Poe scholar agrees, evidence including their poetry suggests that Edgar Allan Poe may have had an affair with Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood, the abandoned wife of portrait artist Samuel Stillman Osgood, and this heartfelt, thoroughly researched novel imagines what might have happened between them. Like any Poe story, it’s a sad by fascinating tale. For me the most enjoyable aspect of the book is being immersed in rich culture of 19th century New York City, when passenger pigeons still darkened its skies and farm animals still roamed some of its streets. Many, many historical figures are made human on its pages, including John Audubon, Walt Whitman, Margaret Fuller, Horace Greeley, Matthew Brady, and Louisa May Alcott, and fads of the day, like hot air ballooning, conversazione discussion gatherings, and phrenology, are worked into the plot. The relationship between Frances Osgood and Poe is passionate but conflicted, and though beautifully written their story drags on a little bit, perhaps because the author is constrained by actual events. Mrs. Poe still has many charms, and should be of particular interest to anyone curious about life in the earlier days of New York City.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    If you are expecting an exact historical account of Edgar Allen Poe's life, this is not it. Whilst there are a significant number of historical references the author takes literary licence when depicting this historical romance. However, this is an interesting tale of (a possible) romance between Frances Osgood and Poe around the time of the publishing of "the Raven", his most famous poem. Osgood herself a poet was hoping Poe would help her writing and career in an era where women did not put pen to paper; or if they did they posed as men. Not a bad story.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A bit repetitive and heavy-handed for my taste; it feels like this novel is trying a bit too hard, or something. I wanted to like it, but just wasn't ever able to quite get into the spirit of the idea.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I received this book as an arc through a Goodreads giveaway. It was a light, breezy read that I mostly enjoyed. I did, however, have a problem with how repetitive it became. It almost seemed that every chapter had the narrator(Frances Osgood) professing her desire to be with Poe, almost letting it happen and then deciding that it could not be. After the third or fourth time of reading this sentiment relayed it became tedious. Having said that, I did enjoy the book and would recommend it to fans of Poe and/or Frances Osgood.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    I quit 70 pages in. I could not, for the life of me, find anything the least bit interesting about the main character. She is whiney and self absorbed, complaining about her situation and waiting for a man to swoop in and save her.

    I became more and more frustrated by her constant struggle with her writing. Clearly, she had seen success in children's stories but was trying to write something more prolific that would pay more. I am not one to bash artistic endeavors, but perhaps in attempting to put a roof over the heads of your children you might deem to lower yourself to write something THAT ACTUALLY SELLS! She spends countless pages moaning about her monetary situation but decides to spend her time attending frivolous parties and walking the streets of New York rather than actually writing anything.

    I was also bored and appalled at the characterization of Poe and his wife. They were simplistic characters with little color and nothing to hold one's interest.

    With a plot that crawls and characters that make my skin do likewise - I quit.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    It's always interesting when writers try to humanize famous (or infamous) deceased writers. Cullen herself writes very beautifully but she takes tremendous historical license with this story, so keep that in mind -- definitely much more "fiction" than "history."
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I found this book ultimately disappointing. Cullen is a talented writer who gives Frances Osgood a strong voice that's relatable to a modern woman. Her struggle to create a life for herself and her daughters in the aftermath of a poor marital choice makes the reader pull for her. It's fun to see her hobnob with literary figures of her day. The story falls apart for me in the romance with Edgar Allen Poe. I just don't buy it. Frances is warm, complex and interesting. Poe is one-dimensional and cold. He's an incredibly unhappy man trapped in toxic family situation. I think we're supposed to see him as dark and brooding and therefore interesting. I just didn't. Once the novel takes off on the doomed romance between Frances and Poe it starts to feel like melodrama and stops feeling like a story with any real depth. Hope Cullen finds better material in the future.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Thank you First Reads for sending me this wonderful novel to read!

    Fans of Poe have heard or read about his tragic life, his beloved cousin and wife Virginia, his mysterious death, and his writings but who really knows what really happened? Lynn Cullen has taken this famous American writer and spun an enchantingly haunting fictional tale of love, tragedy, and literature. Written in the perspective of the long-forgotten American poetess, Frances Osgood, this novel follows her interest in Poe and how he can write such macabre stories. With an estranged painter husband and the need to support her two young daughters, Frances turns to her own writing and must learn how to make herself marketable. This novel is the story of how her life is effected by meeting Edgar Allan Poe, his wife, and aunt. It is without a doubt spellbinding and will draw its readers into the lives of its characters until the last page. Lynn Cullen does an excellent job of using known historical details, actual writings, and daguerreotypes to create this amazing story between a now forgotten writer (Frances Osgood) and the inventor of the detective story (Edgar Allan Poe). This is a novel of what could have been, a supposition of possibility which no one will ever know the truth of. A story of love, romance, creativity, the bonds of society, the horrors of tuberculosis, and fate.

    This was one of the best books I have read thus far this year! (A warning to future readers though; be sure to allot time for this novel because once you pick it up, you won't be able to put it down.)
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is the story of Frances Osgood, a married lady, who had an affair with Edgar Allan Poe during a several month period of 1845. Virtually every famous person of that ear peoples the pages of this book and Mr. Poe was quite the celebrity of that era. The book reads like a Poe story as it is filled with mystery and intrigue - especially with regard to the real "Mrs Poe" and her mothers suspicions about this illicit affair. A few month ago I read Mr. Freud's Mistress which is somewhat similar but the heroine here is far more engaging and the plot is much more captivating. I really recommend this book highly to anyone who enjoys historical fiction.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Mrs. Poe is a historical fiction novel that suggests Edgar Allen Poe had a love affair with Frances Osgood, also a poet. When the novel opens, Frances and her two children are living with friends as her husband has absconded to Europe with a wealthy lover. Frances is trying to get her poetry bought at a time when Poe has recently released his famous poem, "The Raven". No one is interested in her poetry, they want something dark, like Poe writes. Frances meets Poe at a gathering and eventually he invites her to his home at the request of his wife, Virginia. Mrs. Poe is portrayed as very erratic and childish and jealous of Frances and Poe's relationship.I don't care when liberties are taken with historical fiction. So whether or not this affair actually happened is not important to me. What is important is good writing. The author seemed to find it more important to shove as much history of new York City and name drop as many people as possible. What would have made this book better was more character development and a better story. It seemed implausible that her characters, Frances and Poe should fall in love so quickly and with such little contact. Poe is a fascinating historical character but in Mrs. Poe he is incredibly dull as is Frances.The novel isn't very long so that is the only reason I kept reading even though the first half is rather slow. There is a bit of mystery but not much. I had hoped for so much more. I was disappointed. I'm not sure why so many people seem to love this book. I feel that it fell flat as a romance, as a mystery, and has historical fiction. If you still want to read this, save your money and use your local library.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Okay, here's the strange thing about this book. I started reading the eBook in October, but I stopped after a few chapters because it just wasn't clicking with me. Then I got the opportunity to review the audiobook and decided to give it another try. I'm so glad I did, because I ended up enjoying MRS. POE. Go figure! The characters and story were compelling, and Eliza Foss gave a brilliant audio performance.MRS. POE was an intriguing blend of fact and fiction, telling the story of the doomed love affair between Edgar Allan Poe and Frances Osgood. Like Poe, Frances Osgood was a writer and poet (she wrote Puss in Boots), and she was a member of the New York literary society. Their paths first crossed at a literary conversazione hosted by a mutual acquaintance. Though Frances was less than impressed with Poe's famous poem The Raven, he was smitten with Frances and her work. A flirtation began between them which grew into something stronger, but unfortunately they were both married to other people.Oddly enough, it was Poe's wife Virginia who first wanted Frances in their lives. Virginia was a curious character. She was Poe's first cousin and child-bride (she was 13; he was 26), and even in her early 20s she had a child-like quality. Virginia took a liking to Frances that bordered on obsession. Even though she appeared frail and innocent, Virginia had a dark, ominous quality just under the surface that was so creepy. I had to wonder what she really wanted with her husband's mistress.I love 19th century historical fiction, and I thought Ms. Cullen did a marvelous job drawing me into 1840s New York City and the lives of Poe, Osgood, and the literary elite of the time. MRS. POE was an alluring tale of desire, devotion, and duty, and it made me want to learn more about the ill-fated lovers and poor Virginia.Rating: 4.25 StarsSource: Review copy provided by the publisher.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Historical fiction is not my go-to genre, but after reading so many rave reviews of this novel, I had to give it a shot. Besides, I can't turn away from anything related to Edgar Allan Poe.Since I haven't read much historical fiction, I don't have many examples to compare this to. I can't say whether or not this book did a good job of portraying historical figures, or whether it twisted the historical record in order to create a satisfying fictional account. But what I can say is that this book had me captivated from beginning to end, and that I kept thinking about it long after I finished.The story revolves around the dark love triangle between Poe, his young bride (and cousin!), and Frances Osgood, a struggling poet who meets Poe at the height of his success and finds him just as intriguing as his poetry. Frances is still legally married, even though her husband left months ago and has been seen in the company of several women. And in 1840's New York, the idea of a woman carrying on an adulterous affair has severe and far-reaching consequences.This conflict between Frances' situation and the moral standards of the time propels much of the story, and is surprisingly poignant when viewed from a modern perspective. Frances' frustration is palpable and though we may wish for her to make different decisions, we understand why these decisions had to be made.Although the novel is told from Frances' point of view, the eponymous Mrs. Poe is the source of the novel's most suspenseful moments. From the start, Mrs. Poe attempts to befriend Frances, although Frances is quite sure that there is an ulterior motive behind the friendship. Her off-putting nature creates a sense of instability, and I found myself feeling just as unbalanced as Frances whenever Mrs. Poe was around.But beyond this, there were two things that impressed me the most: that the author managed to create a passionate relationship without being explicit or contrived and that she portrayed Poe as a flawed and complex person, not the dark and brooding caricature from pop culture. At several points, I had to remind myself that there were indeed fictional elements to the story. It felt that realistic.This is a novel that I could theoretically suggest to anyone, with its minimal explicit content and superb storytelling. And despite the novel's pervasive chill, there is something quite magical about seeing these historical characters brought back to life. I will definitely be reading this one again.Readalikes: Poe & Fanny - John May- Another atmospheric fictionalized biography of Edgar Allan Poe that imagines a love affair between Poe and Frances Osgood.For other novels featuring Edgar Allan Poe as a character, try The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard or The Poe Shadow by Matthew Pearl.Or for other atmospheric Gothic tales, try The Thirteenth Tale or Bellman and Black by Diane Setterfield.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I am a great fan of smart historical fiction. I expected to like Lynn Cullen's novel about the experiences of a mistress of Edgar Allan Poe very much; Mrs. Poe met or exceeded all of my expectations. This book offers plenty of romance and suspense for fans of those genres to enjoy. The primary focus, which I found was most interesting, was the efforts of a young woman determined to be a writer at an inopportune historical time (that is, most any historical time, for women).

    Some historical fiction is narrated in a romantic or at least nostalgic third-person voice. One thing that impressed me about this novel was the decidedly down-to-earth first-person narration. The authoress protagonist is literally comparing her lot to that of a hooker, in good humor, on the first page!

    Another attraction of this story, which I didn't know before I read it, is that it's based on a historically real woman, Frances Sargent Osgood, who did indeed have a relationship with Edgar Allan Poe. This book is about as well-researched and informative as it is purely fanciful, more or less.

    I was able to read an electronic galley of Mrs. Poe through generous permission of the publisher, Gallery Books of Simon & Schuster.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Amazing historical fiction
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Mrs. Poe follows the life of a Mrs. Samuel Osgood, a somewhat successful writer of poetry and children's tales who has been left by her painter husband in New York. Edgar Allen Poe has lately published "The Raven" to the delight of all New York. Mrs. Osgood meets Mr. Poe and his wife at a social gathering and starts off on a bizarre relationship with the both of them. The plot grows more sinister as the novel progresses and I, for one, was quite surprised by the denouement. Ms. Cullen does an excellent job of writing in a period voice as well as gently leading the reader to strongly feeling the dread and panic that grows for Mrs. Osgood. An extraordinarily well done literary thriller.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I have always been intrigued by Poe, his tortured genius, his dark character, the fact that while he was the toast of the town he was always broke and died destitute. Just never seemed fair.So this book recounts a big time in his life, The raven has been published and he is terribly in fashion, all hostesses want him for their soiree's and though many hate him for his cutting remarks, he is still someone everyone wants to know. This book is easy to read, but so many of the ideas presented I had trouble believing. For some reason I never felt these characters in depth, but the events and conversations featuring Poe were definitely this author's strength. I did get a more than a surface feel of Poe but he was the only one. I had a hard time buying many of this author's assertions. My favorite parts where when poetry was discussed, the poems related and it is here that I found the dialogue most stimulating. This was a quick and easy read, just expected a bit more.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    When Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" hits the market, it is an instant success. Frances, an aspiring poet, is struggling to raise her two young children while hiding the fact that her husband has left her. After meeting Poe, the two are instantly drawn to one another. Under the pretext of visiting Mrs. Poe, Francis and Edgar become close friends.I thought this was a fascinating book. It was well paced, the characters were full and robust and overall an intriguing plot. I was very impressed by the authors writing style, and look forward to reading more of her books.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Lynn Cullen’s Mrs. Poe delivers the passion for characters that I had found in Anna Karenina, the tragedy that I discovered in Splendor In the Grass, and the thrill ride that I experienced in Poe’s eerily written stories. Mrs. Poe is most undesirable in personality. She is childish and annoying all the way around. In fact, I liked her so little that I really wasn’t shocked that Mr. Poe would seek another woman. I yearned to find some redemptive qualities in her. Whether I found them or not, I can not say, lest I take away the your own yearning, which is part of the suspense of the book. I found Osgood to be a wonderfully strong character and Poe to be very much how I might have imagined him, deeply troubled but likable.
    The story line elements are abundant with history, literary references, and real life characters, all contained in a gripping romance that is full of conflict. I loved Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen. May you enjoy it as much should you have the chance to read it.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Historical fiction that focuses on the relationship between Frances Osgood, a poetess, and Edgar Allan Poe, newly famous for “The Raven,” and complicated by the attempts at friendship between Poe’s wife and Frances.Well, I wanted to like this. I enjoy historical fiction, and especially those works that explore a little-known coincidence or relationship. Cullen clearly did much research into her two main characters. There is more information available about Poe, as he was the more famous writer and his works are still taught in high school English classes today. But there is much misinformation about Poe; his first “biographer” was his rival Rufus Griswold, who wrote out-and-out lies in an effort to besmirch Poe’s reputation (and perhaps, elevate his own). Osgood’s story is less well-known, but her poetry remains, and in the author’s notes at the end of the novel, Cullen states that she tried to let Osgood’s and Poe’s own writings “speak for themselves.”I just never really felt any love between them. I got tired of the longing and yearning and attempts to stay apart, only to be inextricably drawn together. I never could figure out the role of Virginia, Poe’s wife (and younger cousin). I think this is in part a result of Cullen’s doing down the path of “dark, mysterious, horror” that everyone associates with Poe. She states in her author’s notes that she never intended for this to be a dark tale, but that Poe’s story just naturally led in that direction. I wish she has found a way to resist that pull. The result is that this is neither a good “mystery / suspense” story nor a good love story. I never knew about the connection between these two; heck, I didn’t know anything about Frances Osgood at all. I’m glad to have learned a little about it, though I learned much more from the author’s notes than from the novel itself.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I was not familiar with this book or author until it was picked for our bookclub this month. I am so happy that they did for it gave me a chance to read this beautifully written novel. Set in 1845 at the peak of Edgar Allen Poe's fame from the Raven this novel is laced with intimate details of a love triangle. Not knowing if things will work out and with who will keep you reading straight though. I adored this book.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    When one is asked to name a tragic literary figures, Edgar Allen Poe has to be in the top 10. Much of the depiction of Poe as a drunkard and philanderer was the result of a libelous obituary written by Rev. Rufus Griswold, a literary rival, on Poe's death at 40 years of age. Another source of the animosity between the two men was their competition for the affections of Frances Osgood, a struggling poet and the subject of this historical novel. The novel is entitled Mrs. Poe as an indicator for the close friendship between Edgar and Frances. Although each loved the other, both were married to another. During 1845, the two exchanged love poems which was published after her death by Frances's husband. The author's research was evident in creating the culture of the mid-19th century NYC. I enjoyed reading about the conversaziones, scholarly social gatherings for the discussion of literature and art. I was introduced in the novel to such contemporaries as Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and photographer Matthew Brady. The author's depiction of the storefronts, parks, and rural landscapes as the two walked the streets or traveled in carriages made the city come to life.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I loved this book! I was introduced to characters I was unfamiliar with, and saw Poe from a different perspective than I had imagined him prior to reading this. Cullen creates a character in Poe that readers can be empathetic of. Definitely a book to recommend.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    First and foremost, Mrs. Poe is a story of a doomed love affair between two married people but in telling her story, the author, Lynn Cullen also manages to shine a light on the ambitions and rivalries of literary New York in the 1840’s. In these pages you will meet authors such as Clement Moore, Herman Melville, Louisa May Alcott and, Edgar Allan Poe.It was however, the main character, Frances Osborne, who drew my sympathy and attention. At this time, she had been deserted by her artist husband, and had to rely on the kindness of her friends to house both herself and her two young daughters. She is a published poet and a writer of children’s stories but due to the popularity of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” publishers are asking her to change the style and content of her writing to be more like Poe’s. They are looking for a “Mrs. Poe”. Meanwhile she meets the original Mr. Poe at a literary gathering and a spark is ignited.I found Mrs. Poe a very layered read, full of atmosphere, tension, passion and mystery. A gathering of interesting and original characters, one of which, the real life consumptive Virginia Poe deserves special mention, this will be a character I long remember. With Mrs. Poe the author has created a masterful blending of history and fiction and served up a compelling story.

Book preview

Mrs. Poe - Lynn Cullen

Winter 1845

One

When given bad news, most women of my station can afford to slump onto their divans, their china cups slipping from their fingers to the carpet, their hair falling prettily from its pins, their fourteen starched petticoats compacting with a plush crunch. I am not one of them. As a lady whose husband is so busy painting portraits of wealthy patrons—most of whom happen to be women—that he forgets that he has a family, I have more in common with the girls who troll the muddy streets of Corlear’s Hook, looking to part sailors from their dollars, than I do with the ladies of my class, in spite of my appearance.

This thought bolted into my mind like a horse stung by a wasp that afternoon at the office of The Evening Mirror. I was in the midst of listening to a joke about two backward Hoosiers being told by the editor Mr. George Pope Morris. I knew that the news Mr. Morris was obviously putting off giving me must not be good. Still, I laughed delightedly at his infantile joke, even while choking on the miasma created by his excess of perfumed hair pomade, the open glue pot sitting upon his desk, and the parrot cage to my left, which was in dire need of changing. I hoped to soften him, just as a Hooker softens potential customers by lifting a corner of her skirt.

I struck when Mr. Morris was still chuckling from his own joke. Showing teeth brushed with particular care before I had set off to confront him after a silence of twenty-two days, I said, About the poem I sent you in January. . . . I trailed off, widening my eyes with hopefulness, my equivalent of petticoat lifting. If I was to become independent, I needed the income.

No sailor considering a pair of ankles looked more wary than Mr. George Pope Morris did at that moment, although few sailors managed to achieve the success he had at toilet, particularly with his hair. Never before had such a lofty loaf of curls arisen from a human head without the aid of padding. It was as if he had used his top hat for a mold. Whether by design or accident, one large curl had escaped the mass and now dangled upon his forehead like a gelatinous fishhook.

Might you have misplaced it? I asked lightly. Maybe he would appreciate putting the blame on his partner. Or perhaps Mr. Willis has it.

His gaze slid down to my bosom, registered the disappointment of seeing only cloak, then snapped back to my face. I’m sorry, Mrs. Osgood. To be quite frank, it is not what we are looking for.

I’m certain that your female readership would enjoy my allusions to love in my descriptions of flowers. Mr. Rufus Griswold has been so kind to include some of my poems in his recent collection. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

I know Griswold’s collection. Everyone does—he’s made sure of it. How that little bully got to be such an authority on poetry, I’ll never know.

Threats of death?

Mr. Morris laughed, then waggled his finger at me. Mrs. Osgood!

Quickly before I lost him: "My own book, published by Mr. Harper, The Poetry of Flowers and the Flowers of Poetry, sold quite well."

When was that? he asked distractedly.

Two years ago. Actually it was four.

As I thought. Flowers are not what is selling of late. What everyone is interested in these days are shivery tales. Stories of the macabre.

Like Mr. Poe’s bird poem?

He nodded, causing the great greased curl to bounce. As a matter of fact, yes. Our sales soared when we brought out the ‘The Raven’ at the end of January. Same thing happened when we reprinted it last week. I suspect we could reprint it ten times and it wouldn’t be enough. Readers have gone Raven-mad.

I see. I didn’t see. Yes, I had read the poem. Everyone in New York had since it had first been published the previous month. Even the German man who sold newspapers in the Village knew of it. Just this morning, when I asked him if he had the current issue of the Mirror, he’d said with an accent and a grin, Nefermore.

My dearest friend, Mrs. John Russell Bartlett, part of the inner circle of the New York literati, thanks to her husband, a bookseller and publisher of a small press, would not be quiet about him. She had been angling to meet him ever since The Raven had come out. In truth, I had thought I might get a glimpse of the wondrous Mr. Poe in the office that morning. He was an editor at the Mirror as well as a contributor.

Mr. Morris seemed to read my mind. Evidently, our dear Mr. Poe is feeling his success. He is threatening to leave the magazine. Wherever he goes, I wish them luck in dealing with his moods.

Is he so very moody? I still hoped to cajole Mr. Morris into friendship and, therefore, into indebtedness.

Mr. Morris gestured as if tipping a glass to his mouth.

Oh. I made a conspiratorial grimace.

He’s really quite unbalanced, you know. I suspect he’s more than half mad, and it’s not just the drink.

A shame.

He smiled. Look, Mrs. Osgood, you are an intelligent woman. You’ve had some luck with your story collections for children. My own little ones loved ‘Puss in Boots.’ Why don’t you go back to that?

I could not tell him the real reason: money. Writing children’s stories did not pay.

I feel that it’s important for me to expand my writing, I said. I have things I would like to say. Which was also true. Why must a woman be confined to writing children’s tales?

He chuckled. Like which color brings out the roses in one’s complexion, or how to decorate at Christmas?

I laughed, good Hooker that I am. Still smiling, I said, I think you might be surprised at what I am capable of.

His parrot squawked. He fed it a cracker from his pocket, then wiped his hands on his pantaloons, his sights making their habitual rounds from my eyes to my bust and back again. I forced myself to keep a cheerful gaze, although I wished to slap the curl off his forehead.

He frowned. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t have to trouble your head with this sort of thing, but what if you came up with something as fresh and exciting as ‘The Raven,’ only from a lady’s point of view?

Do you mean something dark?

Yes, he said, warming to the idea. Yes. Exactly so—dark. Very dark. I think there might be a market for that. Shivery tales for ladies.

You’d like me to be a sort of Mrs. Poe?

Ha! Yes. That’s the ticket.

Will I be paid the same as Mr. Poe? I asked brazenly. Desperate times call for uncouth measures.

He marked the inappropriateness of my question with a pause before answering. I paid Poe nothing, since he was on staff. I should think you’d want to do better than that.

Although already envious of Mr. Poe for his recent success, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. Perhaps he was independently wealthy, as was Mr. Longfellow or Mr. Bryant, and did not need the money or my compassion. In any case, he was not wed to a philandering portrait painter.

Mr. Morris led me to the door. "The Mirror is a popular magazine, Mrs. Osgood. We’re not interested in literature for scholars. Bring me something fresh and entertaining. Something dark that will make the lady readers afraid to snuff their candles at night. You do that, and I’ll see what I can do for you. Just don’t turn your back on us when you’ve reached the top, as did our Mr. Poe."

I wouldn’t. I promise.

Poe’s his own worst enemy—he no sooner makes a friend than he turns him into a foe.

I wonder what has made him such a difficult character.

He shrugged. Why do wolves bite? They just do. He held open the door, letting in a cool draft. Give my regards to Mr. Osgood.

Thank you, I said. I will. If he ever tired of his current heiress and came home.

•  •  •

I soon found myself on the sidewalk of Nassau Street and, it being a mild day for February, ankle-deep in slush. Gentlemen passed, encased in buttoned overcoats and plugged with top hats. They flicked curious gazes in my direction, not sure whether I was a lady to whom they should tip their hat or a Hooker who had wandered into their inner sanctum. Few females of any sort ventured into the hallowed business precincts of New York—the engine room of what was becoming the greatest money factory in the world.

I bent into the biting wind, ever present in winter in this island city, and rounded the corner onto Ann Street. A landau clattered by, its wheels flinging melted snow. Across the way, a hog rooted in refuse, one of the thousands of pigs who plied the streets, be it rich district or poor. The wet had brought out the smell of the smoke rising from the forest of rooftop chimneys as well as the stink of horse manure, rotting garbage, and urine. It is said that sailors can smell New York City six miles out at sea. I had no doubt of it.

Two short blocks later, across Ann Street from Barnum’s American Museum, with its banners advertising such humbuggery in residence as President Washington’s childhood nurse and the Feejee Mermaid, I arrived upon the shoveled promenade of Broadway. Vehicles poured down the thoroughfare before me as if a vein in the city had been opened and it was bleeding conveyances down the bumpy cobblestones. The din they made was deafening. The massive hooves of shaggy draft horses clashed against the street as they pulled rumbling wagons bulging with barrels. Stately carriages creaked by behind clopping bays. Hackneys for hire rattled alongside omnibuses with windows filled with staring faces. Whips cracked; drivers shouted; dogs barked. In the midst of it all, on a balcony on the Barnum’s building, a brass band tootled. It was enough to test one’s sanity.

Clutching my skirts, I hurried through a gap in the thundering traffic. I landed breathless on the other side of the street, where the Astor House hotel, six stories of solid granite gentility, sat frowning down its noble pillars at me. It seemed aware that I had only two pennies in the expensive reticule on my arm.

Just a month previously I had been one of its pampered residents. I had been among the privileged to bathe in its hot-running-water baths. I, too, had enjoyed reading by the gaslights and dining with the rich and beautiful at the table d’hôte. Samuel had insisted that we take rooms at the Astor House when we had moved to New York from London, to make a good impression.

Had I known of the ruinous state of our ledgers, I would have never agreed to it. But Samuel thought that as the daughter of a wealthy Boston merchant, I expected no less of him. He could never get over the inequality of our backgrounds, no matter how much I assured him that it didn’t matter to me. I, on the other hand, had gotten over it the moment he first kissed me. I had no care if we took up housekeeping in a soddy, as long as I spent the night in Samuel Osgood’s arms. Samuel, though, could never quite believe this. There is no more prideful creature than a man born poor.

Now, hunched against the icy wind and feeling the pinch of my thin pointed boots and the stabbing of my corset stays, I marched up the assault on the senses that is called Broadway. The loud swirl of striving people and their beasts dazzled the eyes, as did the brightly painted establishments bristling with signs that bragged LIFE-LIKE DAGUERREOTYPES! WORLD’S FRESHEST OYSTERS! MOUTH-WATERING ICE CREAM! FINEST QUALITY LADIES’ FANS! The stench of rotting sea creatures commingled with the sweet scent of perfumes, as did the spicy odor of unwashed human flesh and the aroma of baking pies.

Soon the flapping awnings of tobacconists, haberdashers, and dry-goods emporiums gave way to mansions with ornate iron fences that fringed their foundations like chin whiskers. Although the richest man of them all, Mr. Astor, refused to budge from his stone pile at Broadway and Prince, the fashion was to show off one’s newly minted money by constructing a castle in the neighborhoods north of Houston Street. It was in this vaunted district that I turned westward on Bleecker. In boots made to stroll across a manicured square, not march up a mile and a half of flagstones, I minced painfully past ranks of stately brick houses at LeRoy Place, in many of which I’d had tea. Near the writer James Fenimore Cooper’s ostentatiously large former home on Carroll Place, about which his wife liked to complain often and loudly that it was too magnificent for our simple French tastes, I veered right onto Laurens Street.

With an end in sight, I picked up my pace as much as my cursed corset and destroyed feet would allow. I hobbled elegantly by a tumbledown row of stables, smithies, and small wooden dwellings meant for those who served the denizens of the palaces around them, until at last, a block short of Washington Square, I came to Amity Place, yet another enclave of new four-story Greek Revival town houses caged in by black ironwork fences. From a third-story window, through an oval that had been cleared in the frost by the sun, peered two young girls.

My heart warmed. I opened the wrought iron gate, climbed the steep flight of six stone steps, and pushed open the door.

Five-and-half-year-old Vinnie was running down the narrow staircase as I entered the hall. Mamma, did he buy your poem?

Hold on to the railing! I exclaimed. Behind her, my elder daughter, Ellen, three years older than her sister and worlds more cautious, took the stairs at a more judicious rate.

Vinnie threw herself against me. A loud crash descended from an upstairs room, followed by a wail and the exasperated voice of my friend Eliza.

Ellen made a safe landing and held out her arms to take my mantle and hat. Henry is being bad.

I glanced above her. Yes, I can hear him.

Mamma, Vinnie demanded, did the man buy your poem?

He didn’t buy that one. But he did ask to see more. I opened my gloved palm, upon which lay two peppermint drops. I had taken them from a dish on Mr. Morris’s desk when I had waited for him to arrive.

Vinnie’s grin revealed a newly naked arch in her upper gums. She popped in the candy.

Ellen shifted my things in her arms, then took her piece. Not yet seven and she was as somber as a Temperance lady on Christmas. You should write more stories for children, she said as I peeled off my gloves. They always buy your children’s stories.

I’m trying to spread my wings. What do I say about birds who don’t spread their wings?

The candy rattled against Vinnie’s remaining teeth as she moved it to her cheek to speak. They never learn to fly.

You don’t need to fly, Mother, Ellen said. You need to make money.

How did she know these things? At her age, I was dressing paper dolls. Blast you, Samuel Osgood, for stunting her with worry and spoiling her childhood. I could spin all manner of tales about his care and concern for us and she always saw right through them.

What I need to do now is to help Mrs. Bartlett, I said cheerfully. Vinnie, how is your ear?

She gingerly touched the ear with the tuft of cotton sprouting from it. Hurts.

Just then, a young boy in a rumpled tunic trampled down the stairs, followed closely by a plain but kindly looking gentlewoman of my age, who was in turn followed by a pretty red-cheeked Irish maid carrying a toddler.

Fanny! cried Eliza. Thank goodness you’re back. I have news!

Although I had lived with Eliza Bartlett and her family for several months, my heart still swelled with gratitude at the sight of her. She and her husband had taken me in when the Astor House had turned me out. It seemed that prior to decamping for lusher pastures in November, Samuel had not paid the bill for the previous three months. After I showed up on Eliza’s doorstep with my shameful story, she made no verbal judgment, just said, You’re staying with us. Nor did she speak up when our other friends inquired about Samuel, but silently sat back and let me lie about his imminent return. She thus saved me from the pity that our circle would have rained upon me for being the abandoned wife of a ne’er-do-well. I would have gained their sympathy but lost my place and my pride.

She took little Johnny from her maid. "Mary, please take Mrs. Osgood’s things downstairs to dry and Henry along with you. Henry: be good. To me she exclaimed, Goodness, you look frozen. Why didn’t you take a hackney home?"

What is this news?

She removed little Johnny’s hand from inside her blouse. Mr. Poe is coming!

Here?

She laughed. No. Not unless he wishes to change a diaper. He’s going to appear at the home of a young woman named Anne Lynch—this Saturday! And we, my dear, are invited.

I found my excitement to meet the renowned writer was tempered by the fact that I had just been encouraged to be his competitor. Wonderful! Do we know this Miss Lynch?

Eliza gave little Johnny to Vinnie, who’d been silently begging for him with open arms. She’s new to this city from Providence—she’s a friend of Russell’s family. She stopped in his shop and told him she was attempting to start a salon—not just for the usual bon ton but for artists of all kinds, rich or poor. I daresay she might have a chance at success after having snagged Poe.

I wonder how she lured him in.

"She might come to regret it. He’s sure to be horribly ruthless. Poe doesn’t like anything."

It was true. I had seen his reviews in The Evening Mirror. Prior to The Raven, he was best known in literary circles for his poisoned pen. For good reason he was called the Tomahawker, happy as he was to chop up his fellow writers. He regularly tore in to gentle, gentlemanly Mr. Longfellow with a savagery that made no sense. In truth, I had wondered about his sanity even before Mr. Morris’s accusation, or at least his motives for such abuse.

The gathering is to be at seven. Say that you’ll come with me. I told her about you— She saw my wince. That you are a poet.

Bless you, Eliza. I’ll go, if the girls are well by then.

Vinnie jogged little Johnny on her hip. I will be!

There you have it, I said with a nonchalance that I did not feel. If I became his competition, I, too, might soon be on the wrong side of the dangerous Mr. Poe.

Two

I woke up the next morning shivering from the cold. Leaving the girls curled up together under the quilts in our bed, I went to the window and cleared a spot in the frost. Snow was coming down, muffling sidewalks and streets, blanketing rooftops, capping the ornate iron railings of the stoops across the way. The milkman passed in a sleigh, the mane of his horse thick with icy crystals, as was his own hat and shoulders.

Wrapping my robe more closely around me, I went to the fireplace, uncovered the banked embers, and gave them a poke. One of Eliza’s Irish maids, the second girl, Martha, the cook’s and parlor maid’s helper, slipped into the room with a bucket of coal and a can of water, then whispered her apology when she saw me crouching there. As she took over tending to the fire, I wondered once more how I would have survived without the generosity of her employers and where I would go once my welcome wore out. There was no question of returning to my mother. She had never gotten over the disappointment of my marriage to Samuel. Father’s death the following year had further turned her against me; she blamed the blow of losing me for weakening his health. The doors to my sisters’ and brothers’ homes were equally closed, nor could I find shelter in the arms of another man, at least not a decent one, if I divorced Samuel for abandonment. No one wanted a divorcée as a wife. I did not even have the luxury of conducting an affair. Should I fall for a man while still married, Samuel had legal right to take the children. Only the Bartletts stood between me and deepest poverty and isolation.

As Martha finished stoking the fire and began pouring water into my pitcher, I thought of the ragged children I had seen outside the neighborhood coal yard, scrambling to pick up nuggets that spilled from the wagons as they left to make deliveries. Even as I imagined myself among them, scurrying to beat a waif out of a lump in my destitution, I saw the image of my husband before a cheerfully crackling fire, helping himself to marmalade for his toasted bread, his current mistress, young, blond, and very rich, smiling as he ate his egg. Was there a man ever born who was more supremely selfish than Samuel Stillman Osgood?

I was twenty-three when I met him, ten years ago. He was twenty-six, tall, and handsome in a rough, raw-boned way. He had hair and eyes the brown of fresh-turned earth, the high cheekbones of a Mohawk, and a strong, straight nose. I had come upon him in the paintings gallery of the Athenæum in my native Boston, where I had gone to write some poetry, hoping the art would inspire me. Little did I know that this confident young man with the fistful of paintbrushes would forever disrupt my comfortable life.

He was working at an easel set up before the famous Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington. I walked by quietly as to not disturb him, noting the nearly finished copy of the portrait upon his easel. I had just passed him when my pencil slipped from my notebook and clattered on the marble floor.

He looked up.

Sorry, I whispered.

He retrieved my pencil and held it out to me with a gallant flourish. Madame.

I could feel the heat rising up my neck. He was much too handsome. Thank you. Sorry to disturb you. I turned to go.

Don’t leave.

I stopped.

He smiled. Please. I could use your opinion.

Mine?

Does Mr. Washington seem to be holding a secret?

I peered at the portrait that I had seen so often as to ignore it. The eyes did seem wary. Only the slightest trace of a smile animated the president’s sealed lips. It was the face of a man under strictest self-control. With a start, I wondered how well we knew this most famous of men. Is he?

Yes. Do you know what it is? He leaned forward. When I stepped closer, he whispered, His teeth are bad.

I stifled a laugh. No! I whispered back.

Shhh. He pretended to scan the room for eavesdroppers. They say that even in his youth, he was so conscious of his teeth that he rarely smiled, even though he was quite the ladies’ man, believe it or not.

Old Martha’s husband?

He put hands on hips in mock protest. I’ll have you know that ‘Old Martha’s husband’ kept a lady love across the Potomac from Mount Vernon when they were young. His best friend’s wife.

Maybe it’s Martha who didn’t feel like smiling.

He chuckled, making me feel witty. You’d think so, but as it happens, Old Martha was wild about him. All the women were. They fought to be his partner at dances and elbowed their way to shake hands with him in reception lines.

Even though he didn’t smile?

Maybe because of it. Women do love a mysterious, brooding man.

I don’t.

He laughed. Good for you. Then maybe you won’t be disappointed to know that the reason Dashing George was sullen at the time of this picture was because he hadn’t a tooth left in his head.

Poor George.

Poor George, indeed. His new dentures were a fright. It seems his dentist never could get the springs on the hinges to fit.

Ouch. I put out my hand. You are quite the authority on Mr. Washington and his dentistry, Mister—?

He gave my gloved fingers a genial tug. Osgood. Samuel. And you are—?

Frances Locke.

Nice to meet you, Miss Locke. In all seriousness, I’m not really an expert on either Mr. Washington or his teeth or even his lady friends. I just did a little research because I had to know why his jaw looked so misshapen in Stuart’s portrait. He gave the original portrait a loving glance. Stuart wouldn’t have painted such an awkward smile on Washington’s face unless it truly was awkward. In case you can’t tell, Gilbert Stuart is my hero.

I studied his reproduction of the Stuart. Your copy of his painting is perfect.

You are probably wondering if I can paint originals as well as copy from masters.

No, I protested with a laugh, although that was precisely what I was thinking.

May I borrow your notebook and pencil, please?

I gave them to him. He studied my face as if I were a statue or a painting, not a living woman, then, as I winced under his scrutiny, he held up my pencil, took a measure of my features, and made a few markings before setting to drawing rapidly. In the time it takes to brush out and braid one’s hair for bed, he finished his sketch and turned my notebook toward me. It was a perfect quick likeness in pencil, down to the skeptical look in my eye.

Do I really look this doubtful?

He only smiled.

"I must show this to my family. They accuse me of being outrageously impetuous but it’s not impetuous to bring home a stray dog or to feed the cats roaming in the alley or to give one’s allowance to orphans, it’s reasonable and practical. Actually, I do have doubts, all the time. Any thinking person does. There are so many sides to every question."

You must have trouble in church.

I met his grin. And then there are times, Mr. Osgood, when one must just let go.

His gaze softened. I believe, he said after a moment, that those are the happiest of times.

We smiled at each other.

He bowed. Would you allow me to paint you, Miss Locke? It would be a great honor. I must have looked leery of his intentions because he added, I would do it right here. The librarians could serve as chaperones.

I trust you.

The great doubter? I’m flattered.

We both laughed. We made arrangements to meet there the next day. Before my portrait was completed, he had proposed to me. We were married within a month, in spite of my parents’ strenuous objections. I thought they would come around to see his true worth in spite of his negative ledger, but they never did. Love was not everything to them, as it was to me. My father cut me out of his will. My mother refused to see me. I was so drunk with love that I didn’t care. Before our honeymoon ended, I was with child.

It had been in the eighth month of this first pregnancy, while we were in England so that Samuel could paint the cream of British society, that I had learned the reason why he was so popular with his female sitters: he bedded them with the same enthusiasm that he painted them. I found that I was just one of many, although, as far as I know, and for my daughters’ sakes I hope, I was the only one that he married. He claimed that I was so beautiful that he had to possess me—a dubious honor.

Now the girls were awake. After a quick washing at the basin, they were dressed, swathed in shawls, and settled at Eliza’s basement family room table with their books after breakfast—no school for them that day, as Vinnie’s ear was still draining and Ellen’s cold had not improved.

Eliza had gone out to pay a call upon an ill friend; the younger Bartlett children were upstairs being tended by the maid. Mr. Bartlett was at the little bookshop he ran in the Astor House to satiate his own mania for the written word. My girls and I had the cozy, low-ceilinged room to ourselves, with the homey sound of banging pans murmuring through the wall shared with the kitchen. With a glance out cellar windows so frosted over that they revealed only a shadowy glimpse of the trouser legs and skirts of the passersby on the sidewalk, I took out a copy of The American Review and spread it open to my own lesson for the day: The Raven. Tapping my finger in time with the rhythm, I silently recited the verses.

Barely into the poem, I muttered, What trickery. It’s just a word game. Out loud I read:

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Quoth the raven, Nevermore.

Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

Doubtless, said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster—so, when Hope he would adjure,

Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure—

That sad answer, Nevermore!

I stopped when I saw that the girls were listening.

Are you writing a new poem? asked Vinnie.

No. This is one by a Mr. Edgar Poe.

Read us all of it!

Shouldn’t you be working on one of your own? said Ellen.

Yes, I said. I should. Go back to work. If you’re able to go to school tomorrow, you won’t want to be behind.

I started again at the beginning, with the hope of understanding how this silly piece captured the imagination of the reading public. I came to the next verse.

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking Nevermore.

That’s it! I dropped the magazine.

What, Mamma? asked Vinnie.

This silly alliteration—it’s clinking, clattering claptrap.

Ellen’s face was as straight as a judge’s on court day. You mean it’s terrible, trifling trash?

I nodded. Jumbling, jarring junk.

Vinnie jumped up, trailing shawls like a mummy trails bandages. No! It’s piggily wiggily poop!

Don’t be rude, Vinnie, I said.

The girls glanced at each other.

I frowned. It’s exasperating, excruciating excrement.

Mamma! breathed Ellen.

What’s that mean? Vinnie cried.

Ellen told her. And thus a torrent of alliterative abuse was unleashed on Mr. Poe’s poem. The girls were still trading outrageous insults as I got out paper and pen and opened an inkpot. Banter does not fill a pocketbook.

Something fresh, Mr. Morris had asked for. Something entertaining. Something dark that will make the lady readers afraid to snuff their candles at night.

But try as I might, with two little girls giggling at my table, no

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