by Lynn Cullen
Release date: April 1st, 2013
Published by: Gallery Books (Simon & Schuster)
Genre: Adult Women's Historical Fiction
Format: Hardcover, Paperback, eBook
SUMMARY
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 Allen 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 fledging 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 its elf.
Much like The Paris Wife,
MRS. POE combines literary fiction with reimagined historical drama; much like
Poe himself, Lynn Cullen captures his mysterious and macabre tone. While
providing a voyeuristic peek into the heart and mind one of the history’s most
fascinating literary figures, Cullen explores the themes of artistic
expression, social standing in the 1800s, and the self-ownership of women.
EXCERPT
Two weeks later, I was tucked
beneath a thick buffalo robe, riding downtown in Miss Fuller’s carriage. I had
been too nervous to enjoy the trip or to appreciate Miss Fuller’s 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 man’s tomahawk?
Miss Fuller jerked on the reins.
“Here we are.” She looked at me expectantly, as if I should climb out of her
trim little gig without her.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the doormen
to take your reins?” I asked.
“Take my reins? Oh—did you think I
was coming with you? No, no, dear, I’m 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.”
“Would you rather I came with you
to the slum?” I asked.
“And have you jilt Mr. Poe? I
wouldn’t dare.” Miss Fuller steadied her horse, then waved me toward the hotel.
“Go on. It will be good for your books.”
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
someone’s presence behind me. Before I could move, a man said, “Lord help the
poor bears and beavers.”
I turned to find Mr. Poe, his
black-lashed eyes trained upon the building before us. Without a hello he said,
“Davy Crockett’s words, upon first seeing this pile.”
I hesitated. “Because of Mr.
Astor’s fur trade?”
He continued as if I had not
spoken. “But Crockett was mistaken. It wasn’t the bears and the beavers that
made Astor’s fortune. It was the opium he bought from the Chinese.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Mr.
Astor deals in opium?”
He kept his gaze upon the hotel.
“Whenever you see this much wealth, assume that someone dirtied his hands.
Fortunes don’t come to saints.”
“I’ve never thought of that.”
He gave me a sharp glance. “Really?”
I drew back, chastened.
“Mr. Astor prefers to be known for
the slaughter of animals rather than for his association with opiates. I wonder
why that is.” He lowered his sights to me. “Shall we enter, Mrs. Osgood?”
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 ne’er-do-well’s
abandoned wife, although my gown was as fine as anyone’s. What a sham I was.
I stopped to face him. “Congratulations
on the success of ‘The Raven.’ ”
He frowned as if insulted.
“People love it. I hear talk of it
everywhere I go.”
“‘People’ have no taste. Don’t tell
me that you think it’s a work of genius.”
Was this a trick? I scanned his
dark-rimmed eyes for clues.
When I did not answer he said,
“Thank you, Mrs. Osgood. You’re the first honest woman I have met in New York.”
He shook his head.
“It is my luck that I will become
famous for that piece.”
Still not sure that I shouldn’t be
gushing, I switched to safer ground. “May I ask what you are working on now?”
“A book on the material and
spiritual universe.”
I laughed.
He watched me coolly.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were
joking.”
“I never joke.”
“Of course not. Excuse me.”
“Although I wish I were. It will
never sell.”
“Your work always sells,” I said
lightly.
“Not any of my works with a true
idea in them. People want to be titillated or frightened. They don’t want to
think.”
I smiled hesitantly. What did he
want with me?
“This is why I singled out your poems
in my lecture,” he said. “They have real feeling in them, if one reads between
the lines.”
I could not help but be disarmed.
“Thank you. I find that the thoughts spoken between the lines are the most
important parts of a poem or story.”
“As in life.”
I reluctantly met his intense gaze.
“Yes.”
“I am particularly taken with your
poem, ‘Lenore’:
So when Love poured through thy
pure heart his lightning,
On thy pale cheek the soft
rose-hues awoke—
So when wild Passion, that timid
heart frightening,
Poisoned the treasure, it trembled
and broke!
I swallowed my surprise. “You
memorized it.”
An elegant couple drifted by, he in
succulent wool and she in layers of costly lace. Mr. Poe frowned. “It spoke to
me somehow, and not just because I had written a poem with the same title and
had used the name in ‘The Raven.’ ”
“A coincidence.”
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.
“You are probably wondering why I
wished to meet you.”
I drew in a breath.
“Actually, it is on behalf of my
wife.”
“Mrs. Poe?”
He frowned slightly at my
unnecessary question. “She 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.”
I pictured the pretty woman-child I
had seen at Miss Lynch’s conversazione. I wondered if it was my poems for
adults or for children that she admired.
“Thank you for your kind words, Mr.
Poe. I wish she were here so that I could thank her, too.”
His expression hardened. “She has
had bronchitis. Her recovery has been long and difficult. There was no question
of her going out today.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“The few times she has ventured
beyond our home have only served to set her back.”
“I am truly very sorry.”
He glanced away, then glared as if
I’d offended him. “You will not hear her complain. She’s a brave, good girl. If
I could only take her to Jamaica or Bermuda or some such hot clime, I’m certain
she would become well.”
Why did they not go, then? With his
success, surely he had the money.
“I hope she gets well soon.”
His expression settled back into
cool civility. “It is bold of me to ask—we are perfect strangers, and you have
obligations to your husband and family—but 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.”
That was why he wished to meet with
me? Ashamed of my disappointment, I exclaimed, “I should like very much to meet
her! Might I have the pleasure of visiting her at your home?”
“Mrs. Osgood, you are too kind.
Yes. Yes, we’d like that very much.”
“When would you like me to come?”
“At your convenience.”
“Would next week suit you?”
“Name your day. Any day. I will
arrange my schedule around you.”
“Monday? In the afternoon?” 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. “We would be so grateful.”
He gave me directions to his home
on 154 Greenwich Street, then bowing again, left me in Astor’s parlor with all
the frippery that bears and beavers and opium could buy.
BUY LINKS
GIVEAWAY
5 paperbacks of MRS. POE (U.S. Only), directly from publisher.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR - Lynn Cullen
Lynn Cullen is the author of The Creation of Eve,
named one of the best fiction books of the year by The Atlanta Journal-
Constitution; and Reign of Madness, nominated for the Townsend Prize for
fiction.
She is also the author of numerous award-winning children’s books,
including I Am Rembrandt’s Daughter.
An avid traveler and historian, she lives
in Atlanta, Georgia.
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