It all started because Frances Osgood wanted to sell her poetry....
Frances is trying to survive in 1845 in New York City. Her husband, a philandering painter, has abandoned her and their two young children while he woos the socialites of the time. Unfortunately, Frances is encountering only rejections from every publisher as all they are clamoring for are more Edgar Allan Poe tales, particularly in the vein of "The Raven". When Frances has the opportunity to meet the infamous poet, she agrees to do so, never knowing the cycle of events that will follow. Will the forbidden attraction that arises between them destroy them both? And how will Frances handle the repeated attempts at friendship from MRS. POE?
MRS. POE is a darkly seductive book, one that draws the reader into the mysterious relationship between Frances, Edgar, and Virginia (Edgar's wife). Lynn Cullen does a beautiful job crafting an atmosphere befitting the Master of Horror, Edgar Allan Poe. I love the sense of mystery Lynn Cullen evokes in MRS. POE, even as we know just how the tale will end. The added twist of danger adds a very Poe-like quality to the storyline and kept me up late reading long past my bedtime.
MRS. POE is the best historical book I've read in quite a long time and one that leaves me wanting to read more, even as I know the story has fully ended. A sign of a good historical book to me is one that makes me want to dig further into the time period and MRS. POE succeeds with this. I like the addition of other historical figures, such as the oily Mr. Griswold and the somewhat cutting Ms. Ellet even as we see a more vulnerable side of Edgar Allan Poe than is normally portrayed. MRS. POE is highly recommended!
A vivid and compelling novel about a woman who becomes
entangled in an affair with Edgar Allan Poeβat the same time
she becomes the unwilling confidante of his much-younger wife.
It is 1845, and Frances Osgood is desperately trying to make
a living as a writer in New York; not an easy task for a
womanβespecially one with two children and a philandering
portrait painter as her husband. As Frances tries to sell
her work, she finds that editors are only interested in
writing similar to that of the new renegade literary
sensation Edgar Allan Poe, whose poem, βThe Ravenβ has
struck a public nerve.
She meets the handsome and mysterious Poe at a literary
party, and the two have an immediate connection. Poe wants
Frances to meet with his wife since she claims to be an
admirer of her poems, and Frances is curious to see the
woman whom Edgar married.
As Frances spends more and more time with the intriguing
couple, her intense attraction for Edgar brings her into
dangerous territory. And Mrs. Poe, who acts like an innocent
child, is actually more manipulative and threatening than
she appears. As Frances and Edgarβs passionate affair
escalates, Frances must decide whether she can walk away
before itβs too late...
Set amidst the fascinating world of New Yorkβs literati,
this smart and sexy novel offers a unique view into the life
of one of historyβs most unforgettable literary figures.
EXCERPT
Two weeks later, I was tucked beneath a thick buffalo robe,
riding downtown in Miss Fullerβs carriage. I had been too
nervous to enjoy the trip or to appreciate Miss Fullerβs
carriage, pulled by a clopping bay. That Miss Fuller was the
only woman in New York to support herself by writing, let
alone to have enough leftover to buy her own buggy, mattered
little to me at that moment. Why had I agreed to meet Poe?
And why would he want to meet me? He had already made and
broken an appointment the previous week. I had been relieved
by the cancellation, only to become agitated once more when
he set up a different date. As suddenly and inexplicably as
he had championed my poetry at the New York Society Library,
he could withdraw his support if I said something wrong. Who
knew what triggered the manβs tomahawk?
Miss Fuller jerked on the reins. βHere we are.β She looked
at me expectantly, as if I should climb out of her trim
little gig without her.
βShouldnβt we wait for the doormen to take your reins?β I asked.
βTake my reins? Ohβdid you think I was coming with you? No,
no, dear, Iβm off to investigate a slum on Hester Street.
You really thought I was coming with you? I only meant that
I would take you
here. I thought your husband would appreciate my escorting
you since he is, as you say, out of town.β
βWould you rather I came with you to the slum?β I asked.
βAnd have you jilt Mr. Poe? I wouldnβt dare.β Miss Fuller
steadied her horse, then waved me toward the hotel. βGo on.
It will be good for your books.β
Reluctantly, I climbed out from under the heavy robe. I held
my breath as the carriage rattled away.
I found myself on the sidewalk before the hotel,
contemplating an immediate about-face up Broadway when I
felt someoneβs presence behind me. Before I could move, a
man said, βLord help the poor bears and beavers.β
I turned to find Mr. Poe, his black-lashed eyes trained upon
the building before us. Without a hello he said, βDavy
Crockettβs words, upon first seeing this pile.β
I hesitated. βBecause of Mr. Astorβs fur trade?β
He continued as if I had not spoken. βBut Crockett was
mistaken. It wasnβt the bears and the beavers that made
Astorβs fortune. It was the opium he bought from the Chinese.β
I looked at him in surprise. βMr. Astor deals in opium?β
He kept his gaze upon the hotel. βWhenever you see this much
wealth, assume that someone dirtied his hands. Fortunes
donβt come to saints.β
βIβve never thought of that.β
He gave me a sharp glance. βReally?β
I drew back, chastened.
βMr. Astor prefers to be known for the slaughter of animals
rather than for his association with opiates. I wonder why
that is.β He lowered his sights to me. βShall we enter, Mrs.
Osgood?β
So he did recognize me. I preceded him inside, into the hot
maw of the lobby. As we walked past impressive people
dressed in beautiful clothes, I felt low and insignificant,
a neβer-do-wellβs abandoned wife, although my gown was as
fine as anyoneβs. What a sham I was.
I stopped to face him. βCongratulations on the success of
βThe Raven.β β
He frowned as if insulted.
βPeople love it. I hear talk of it everywhere I go.β
ββPeopleβ have no taste. Donβt tell me that you think itβs a
work of genius.β
Was this a trick? I scanned his dark-rimmed eyes for clues.
When I did not answer he said, βThank you, Mrs. Osgood.
Youβre the first honest woman I have met in New York.β He
shook his head.
βIt is my luck that I will become famous for that piece.β
Still not sure that I shouldnβt be gushing, I switched to
safer ground. βMay I ask what you are working on now?β
βA book on the material and spiritual universe.β
I laughed.
He watched me coolly.
βIβm sorry. I thought you were joking.β
βI never joke.β
βOf course not. Excuse me.β
βAlthough I wish I were. It will never sell.β
βYour work always sells,β I said lightly.
βNot any of my works with a true idea in them. People want
to be titillated or frightened. They donβt want to think.β
I smiled hesitantly. What did he want with me?
βThis is why I singled out your poems in my lecture,β he
said. βThey have real feeling in them, if one reads between
the lines.β
I could not help but be disarmed. βThank you. I find that
the thoughts spoken between the lines are the most important
parts of a poem or story.β
βAs in life.β
I reluctantly met his intense gaze. βYes.β
βI am particularly taken with your poem, βLenoreβ:
So when Love poured through thy pure heart his lightning,
On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awokeβ
So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening,
Poisoned the treasure, it trembled and broke!
I swallowed my surprise. βYou memorized it.β
An elegant couple drifted by, he in succulent wool and she
in layers of costly lace. Mr. Poe frowned. βIt spoke to me
somehow, and not just because I had written a poem with the
same title and had used the name in βThe Raven.β β
βA coincidence.β
He stared at me.
I looked away. Why had Mr. Poe called this meeting? Surely
he had better things to do than to raise the hopes of an
unknown writer.
βYou are probably wondering why I wished to meet you.β
I drew in a breath.
βActually, it is on behalf of my wife.β
βMrs. Poe?β
He frowned slightly at my unnecessary question. βShe is a
great reader. I have taught her all of the classics. I like
to encourage her when she shows interest in good work, and
your poems, Mrs. Osgood,
delight her.β
I pictured the pretty woman-child I had seen at Miss Lynchβs
conversazione. I wondered if it was my poems for adults or
for children that she admired.
βThank you for your kind words, Mr. Poe. I wish she were
here so that I could thank her, too.β
His expression hardened. βShe has had bronchitis. Her
recovery has been long and difficult. There was no question
of her going out today.β
βI am sorry to hear that.β
βThe few times she has ventured beyond our home have only
served to set her back.β
βI am truly very sorry.β
He glanced away, then glared as if Iβd offended him. βYou
will not hear her complain. Sheβs a brave, good girl. If I
could only take her to Jamaica or Bermuda or some such hot
clime, Iβm certain she would become well.β
Why did they not go, then? With his success, surely he had
the money.
βI hope she gets well soon.β
His expression settled back into cool civility. βIt is bold
of me to askβwe are perfect strangers, and you have
obligations to your husband and familyβbut might you come
visit her someday? I know
from looking into your eyes that you are a good person, and
kind, and that your gentle association might help her.β
That was why he wished to meet with me? Ashamed of my
disappointment, I exclaimed, βI should like very much to
meet her! Might I have the pleasure of visiting her at your
home?β
βMrs. Osgood, you are too kind. Yes. Yes, weβd like that
very much.β
βWhen would you like me to come?β
βAt your convenience.β
βWould next week suit you?β
βName your day. Any day. I will arrange my schedule around you.β
βMonday? In the afternoon?β I saved my morning hours for
writing . . . writing, that is, what I hoped would be my
imitation of his work.
He bowed, as stiffly formal as if in a royal court. βWe
would be so grateful.β
He gave me directions to his home on 154 Greenwich Street,
then bowing again, left me in Astorβs parlor with all the
frippery that bears and beavers and opium could buy.
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