might wend her way into Poe’s confidence faster than you could bludgeon your way in,” said Miss Fuller.
Mr. Greeley stretched his lips in a grin. “Bring us back a report.”
“While you’re at it,” said Mr. Brady, “convince him to come sit for me.”
Miss Fuller rubbed my arm companionably. “Rufus, get her some tea. You will tell us all about it, won’t you, Frances?”
I accepted the cup that Reverend Griswold frowningly poured. I would have liked milk in my tea, but it was so unusual to be served by a man instead of serving one that I kept my peace.
“So you’ll give us a report?” said Miss Fuller.
I looked into the brown liquid in my cup and then up at the group silently waiting for my answer. At Eliza’s house, two little girls depended on me to make a life for them. It was not as if I would learn anything that would harm Mr. Poe by its revelation.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Good,” said Miss Fuller. Then pushing back her headband, she speculated whether the new president’s wife might indeed be with child, when it had long since been thought that an operation for kidney stones had left Mr. Polk as sterile as a jug of boiled water.
Seven
I walked down lower Greenwich Street, giving wide berth to the hog feasting on a rotting pumpkin shell. Across the way, a well-dressed Temperance lady handed out tracts to the men emerging from one of the saloons that dotted the neighborhood like the dark kernels on an ear of Indian corn. A peddler trudged by, leaving a trail in the refuse-strewn pavement with the wheel of his barrow. The block, now fallen upon hard times, had once housed merchants and bankers in plain sturdy homes built of brick. But when yellow fever had swept through the city twenty-some years ago, many of those wealthy enough to flee had departed for the village of Greenwich or the countryside surrounding it, and have continued to settle northward ever since, making it passé to live downtown. In the dwellings they left behind, now four families crammed instead of one—families from foreign shores, most often Germany and Ireland.
Now I passed a German man carrying a pile of white cloth followed by his kerchiefed wife, who would be turning the heap into collars or cuffs at their kitchen table. Worn clothing flapped from lines strung above an alley down which a pack of Irish children kicked an empty patent-medicine bottle; a baby in rags toddled after them. At the end of the street several blocks away, the masts of sailing ships could be seen cruising behind the naked treetops of Battery Park, where the island gave way to the sea.
I came to the address that Poe had given me, Number 154. I had to be mistaken.
It had been a long while since a merchant had taken pride in this home. A fist-size hole in the glass of the window nearest the door had been stuffed with rags. Nearly slatless shutters sagged at the upperstory windows and the door was shaggy with peeling paint. Even the doorknob, hanging by its stem, was in an advanced stage of neglect. Surely the poet who had captured the imagination of the city lived in a more comfortable situation than this.
Reluctantly, I climbed up the steps and tapped on the battered door, cringing at the thought of the lout who I might be disturbing in error. When no one answered, I turned away in relief. At that moment, a handsome private carriage pulled up to the building several doors down. I watched as a heavily veiled figure left the vehicle. Before she could enter the building, the driver whipped the horses and the carriage rumbled off, not waiting for its passenger.
The door of Number 154 opened behind me, sending the knob rolling to my feet. With a gasp, I picked it up and turned around. Mr. Poe, dressed in a spotless black frock coat and holding a large tortoiseshell cat, stared at me as if I should speak.
“Hello,” I said stupidly.
He held out his palm. I placed the knob upon it.
He stood aside so that I could enter the dismal
Mr. Greeley stretched his lips in a grin. “Bring us back a report.”
“While you’re at it,” said Mr. Brady, “convince him to come sit for me.”
Miss Fuller rubbed my arm companionably. “Rufus, get her some tea. You will tell us all about it, won’t you, Frances?”
I accepted the cup that Reverend Griswold frowningly poured. I would have liked milk in my tea, but it was so unusual to be served by a man instead of serving one that I kept my peace.
“So you’ll give us a report?” said Miss Fuller.
I looked into the brown liquid in my cup and then up at the group silently waiting for my answer. At Eliza’s house, two little girls depended on me to make a life for them. It was not as if I would learn anything that would harm Mr. Poe by its revelation.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Good,” said Miss Fuller. Then pushing back her headband, she speculated whether the new president’s wife might indeed be with child, when it had long since been thought that an operation for kidney stones had left Mr. Polk as sterile as a jug of boiled water.
Seven
I walked down lower Greenwich Street, giving wide berth to the hog feasting on a rotting pumpkin shell. Across the way, a well-dressed Temperance lady handed out tracts to the men emerging from one of the saloons that dotted the neighborhood like the dark kernels on an ear of Indian corn. A peddler trudged by, leaving a trail in the refuse-strewn pavement with the wheel of his barrow. The block, now fallen upon hard times, had once housed merchants and bankers in plain sturdy homes built of brick. But when yellow fever had swept through the city twenty-some years ago, many of those wealthy enough to flee had departed for the village of Greenwich or the countryside surrounding it, and have continued to settle northward ever since, making it passé to live downtown. In the dwellings they left behind, now four families crammed instead of one—families from foreign shores, most often Germany and Ireland.
Now I passed a German man carrying a pile of white cloth followed by his kerchiefed wife, who would be turning the heap into collars or cuffs at their kitchen table. Worn clothing flapped from lines strung above an alley down which a pack of Irish children kicked an empty patent-medicine bottle; a baby in rags toddled after them. At the end of the street several blocks away, the masts of sailing ships could be seen cruising behind the naked treetops of Battery Park, where the island gave way to the sea.
I came to the address that Poe had given me, Number 154. I had to be mistaken.
It had been a long while since a merchant had taken pride in this home. A fist-size hole in the glass of the window nearest the door had been stuffed with rags. Nearly slatless shutters sagged at the upperstory windows and the door was shaggy with peeling paint. Even the doorknob, hanging by its stem, was in an advanced stage of neglect. Surely the poet who had captured the imagination of the city lived in a more comfortable situation than this.
Reluctantly, I climbed up the steps and tapped on the battered door, cringing at the thought of the lout who I might be disturbing in error. When no one answered, I turned away in relief. At that moment, a handsome private carriage pulled up to the building several doors down. I watched as a heavily veiled figure left the vehicle. Before she could enter the building, the driver whipped the horses and the carriage rumbled off, not waiting for its passenger.
The door of Number 154 opened behind me, sending the knob rolling to my feet. With a gasp, I picked it up and turned around. Mr. Poe, dressed in a spotless black frock coat and holding a large tortoiseshell cat, stared at me as if I should speak.
“Hello,” I said stupidly.
He held out his palm. I placed the knob upon it.
He stood aside so that I could enter the dismal
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