Twenty-five
Samuel turned around, grimacing like a guilty boy. He lowered his strong-boned face in a charmingly sheepish smile. “Surprise.”
I felt Mr. Poe’s hand move to the small of my back.
“Mamma! Mamma! Look!” cried Vinnie.
“I see.”
Samuel wiped his hand with a rag as he got up from his easel, then reached out. “You must be Poe. The girls were telling me about you.”
Mr. Poe reluctantly shook Samuel’s hand, then glanced at me as if to see if I were all right.
I took off my hat, steeling myself. “Why are you here?” I said evenly. The girls were listening.
“Is that how a wife greets her husband after—what has it been?”
“Eight months.”
Vinnie hopped up from the chair in which she sat with Ellen. She ran over, draped Samuel’s arm over her, then peered at the canvas, all transgressions evidently forgiven. “That doesn’t look like me.”
Samuel bent down and kissed the top of her head. “No, it doesn’t, Vinneth, does it? Not yet. I work in layers, dark to light. The real you doesn’t come alive until I work in the lights. You’ll have to wait a few more days.”
I glanced at the picture. For him to have completed as much as he did, he must have arrived just after I’d left for the conversazione.
“What do you want, Samuel?”
“To see my family. I heard about the fire.”
“For you to have gotten here so quickly, you must have been close. Yet you did not come before now.”
“Would you like me to see him out?” asked Mr. Poe.
Samuel’s pleasant smile faded. “Remind me again who you are to this family?”
Below him, the next generation of Osgoods squinted defiantly up at Mr. Poe. How quickly Vinnie had changed allegiance, desperate to please her father. Ellen, slower to accept change, watched warily from her chair.
“Perhaps I need a few minutes with my husband,” I told Mr. Poe. “Since he won’t be staying long.”
Mr. Poe squeezed my clenched hand, then left.
Samuel shook his head as the door closed in the hall. “By God, it’s worse than I heard.”
“Girls,” I said, the pitch of my voice raising with anger, “could you please go upstairs and get ready for bed? It’s late.”
Their crestfallen faces broke my heart.
“You can come back down to say good night,” I said.
“As your mother says,” Samuel said when Ellen didn’t move. “Scoot, then hurry back.”
She took Vinnie’s hand and led her skipping sister away.
I folded my arms. “How long will it take you to finish?”
He picked up a paintbrush and started wiping it with his rag. “You mean this picture?”
“Because you aren’t finishing it here.”
“I didn’t think I would. I saw Bartlett this morning and he informed me that his wife was coming home next week. I have a feeling she won’t be rolling out the welcome mat for me. He wasn’t exactly the soul of cordiality himself.”
“And you thought I would be happy?”
“I know. I know. I have been too ashamed to even write you. I realized that if I even had a prayer for you to forgive me, I had to come back and take my medicine.”
I gave a dry laugh. “I love how I have become medicine.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What am I to do, Samuel?”
“We
are
married.” He plunked his brush in a jar of linseed oil, then shrugged. “Take me back?”
How did he manage to make his raw-boned weathered face so boyishly charming? “What—did your paramour in Cincinnati kick you out?”
“You heard about her?” He began cleaning another brush. “As a matter of fact, Fanny, I missed you. I missed our girls.”
“You’ve humiliated me, Samuel. You have shamed me to my core.”
“That was never my intention.”
“Worse than that, you left us destitute. Did you not even worry about us?”
He had the good sense to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, Fanny. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Yes, I did worry about you. A lot. But I had to disappear. Debt collectors were hard on my heels.”
“They tried to collect from me.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I knew they couldn’t make it stick on you. Me, they could toss in Blackwell prison. I didn’t want to go there. I couldn’t do that to the girls, to shame them like that.”
“Do you think it was easier on them to have abandoned them?”
He looked genuinely remorseful. “I’ve got to make it up to them. Do you think they’ll forgive me?”
I thought of Vinnie’s happy possessiveness of him just then. Ellen had been hurt more deeply, but her longing for him was sure to overcome her anger. “You don’t deserve it.”
He placed the brush in the solution and looked around the Bartletts’ comfortable parlor. “You’ve done a good job of protecting them from my failures, and I’m thankful for that. But then you have always been resourceful. And now you’ve linking yourself to the most popular man in New York—bravo.”
I stared at him in furious disbelief. “How dare you! You, of all people, making such an accusation.”
“No accusations,” he said, scraping his palette. “I’m just stating the obvious.”
“There have been no improprieties. We are friends, that’s all.”
“That’s the way you have it? ‘Friends’? ” He put up a hand when I started to object. “Don’t worry—I’ve lost my right to be jealous, although I would love to punch that arrogant faker in the nose.”
“How adult of you.”
He frowned. “So what are we going to do?”
“Do? Nothing! You can’t just walk in after eight months of silence and expect me to take you back as if you’d just gone out for a newspaper.”
“I guess not. Look, I am sorry for what I’ve done, Fanny. Truly. And now that I have a little money, I will make it up to you.”
“That hardly seems possible.”
“At least think about it, for the girls’ sakes. I’m their father. You can’t change that. As much as you might like to.”
A few minutes later, Vinnie ran back downstairs in her nightgown, Ellen following.
“I’m back, Poppy!” Vinnie sang.
He pointed to his cheek. “Good-night kiss.”
After receiving their affection, he shooed them toward the stairs. “Up to bed now. I’ve got to go.”
Vinnie’s crushed expression pierced my heart. “But—our picture. When are you going to finish it?”
“It all depends on your mother.”
I glared at him in disbelief. He had successfully managed to put the blame for our broken family on me. How perfectly Samuel Osgood.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Now go to bed. I’ll be right up.”
He had the good sense to not say another word.
“You can’t leave your paint things here.”
He put on his hat. “You’re right. I’ll move them.”
Did the man have a response for everything? Knowing Samuel, I knew the answer to that. After the day’s events, I was too drained to deal with him.
“Good night,” I said, then turned away. When I looked back, he tipped his hat and gave me the hangdog smile that had broken hearts halfway around the world.
How perfectly Samuel Osgood.
• • •
At Eliza’s insistence, I stayed on at their home when she returned from Providence, and Samuel, to his surprise, was allowed to visit. Oh, she knew what a bounder he’d been, what a cheat, what a reprobate, but she also knew that my girls yearned for their father. She
provided a civil ground upon which Samuel and I might meet, giving me a chance to figure out if I could ever trust him again. Mr. Bartlett, on the other hand, wanted me to banish Samuel altogether, to never forgive him of his unconscionable behavior. A husband must never abandon his family. What would happen if all men just up and left their responsibilities whenever they felt like it? He made a show of quitting the room whenever Samuel came, as if to chasten him—a wasted effort, since only Samuel Osgood could decide who could make Samuel Osgood unhappy.
As it was, Samuel cheerfully gave himself up for punishment, whether it came from me or Mr. Bartlett. He accepted my cold shoulder humbly. He nodded in regretful agreement when Mr. Bartlett recounted his crimes against me. When the girls asked when we could live together again as a family, he deferred to me, making the possibility of reconciliation seem more desirable to me than if he insisted upon it himself. Fighting with him was impossible. He was as uncontainable as a handful of water: if you squeezed, it trickled away.
Yet, it was not so simple to take him back. Even if I could trust him again, there was my relationship with Mr. Poe to consider. In this regard, too, Samuel was
maddeningly agreeable. Far from playing the jealous husband, he accepted Mr. Poe’s presence in my life, which was still outwardly as proper and inwardly as torturous as ever. Samuel never protested when Mr. Poe came to the Bartletts’ if he had been there first. Instead of removing himself during Mr. Poe’s visits, he joined in our discussions, a vexingly cheerful third wheel. By the second joint visit, it was Mr. Poe who had assumed the role of the wronged spouse, his tolerance of Samuel visibly fraying by the moment. After more than a month of Samuel’s cheerfully remorseful presence, everyone’s nerves had unraveled to the breaking point—save for Samuel’s. But even he showed surprise that stultifying dog day afternoon in early September, at who came to the house to call.
I was in the front parlor, fanning myself while ostensibly reading, as Samuel sketched our daughters for yet another painting. The girls had begged him to paint them once more, as if having him paint them was their only way to keep him anchored at home. He seemed anxious to please them, too, and relieved to have hit upon a way
of staying close. Canvases of the girls portrayed singly or together, wearing mischievous smiles or wistful gazes, leaned against the parlor walls, adding the oily stink of drying paint to the stiflingly hot air. I said a silent thanks to Eliza, now working on her needlepoint by the empty grate. I could not burden her much longer with my family, our problems, or our paintings. Was I wrong to not take up with Samuel again, as disastrous as that would be? But just the idea of completely giving up Mr. Poe made my chest ache as if scraped hollow.
The doorbell jarred me out of my thoughts. Moments later, the maid Catherine presented the silver calling card tray to Eliza, who put down her knitting to receive it.
Eliza held up the card to me. Black feathers fluttered from its borders.
A chill went over me as I laid down my book. “Mrs. Poe?”
Samuel looked up.
“With Mr. Poe and Mrs. Clemm, ma’am,” said Catherine.
“What do you say?” Eliza asked me.
Conscious of Samuel’s gaze, I smiled. “How nice that Mrs. Poe is well enough to be out again. Please do have her in.”
Samuel turned sideways on his stool as if to ready himself for a show. The girls had jumped up to see themselves on his paper when Mrs. Clemm tottered in, Mr. Poe following slowly with his wife leaning on his arm.
I fought to keep the dismay from my face. Mrs. Poe’s white lawn dress hung from her shrunken shoulders; its yellow sash cinched a waist no broader than a man’s hand. Within her black straw bonnet, her cheeks glowed scarlet from fever or excitement or both. What could raise such an ill person from her bed?
Eliza rushed to her. “Mrs. Poe, you’re looking well.
Mrs. Poe’s eyes glittered from disease as she received Eliza’s kiss and then mine. In a breathy voice, she said. “I have heard the famous painter is here.”
I glanced at Mr. Poe. The rigidity of his face gave more hint of his agitation than would have the blackest scowl.
Samuel stepped forward. “The famous painter—I like the sound of that.” He gently took Mrs. Poe’s hand. “And you would be the famous Mrs. Poe?”
She gave a wheezy laugh. “My husband is the famous one.”
“Oh, no, I assure you that you are the legend around this house.” He gave no hint of his irony as he kissed her hand. “It’s my pleasure to meet you.”
She barked into her handkerchief, then winced as if it pained her. “Will you paint my picture?” she said when she regained her speech. “My husband did not want me to trouble you, but when I told him it would be my last—” She broke off, coughing.
“It will only be your last if you have a daguerreotypist do your future portraits,” Samuel said gallantly. “Which I do not recommend.”
“Will you paint her?” Mr. Poe asked coldly.
Samuel frowned but would not look at Mr. Poe. “Madam,” he said to Mrs. Poe, “if you would like me to paint your picture, I would be honored to do so.” I grimaced at Eliza in apology for having turned her home into a studio.
She responded with a little shake of her head. “Ellen and Vinnie, would you like to go with me to the park? I’m to meet Mary and the children. Fanny, you are welcome, too.”
The girls, who’d been pinned down by a doting Mrs. Clemm, happily decamped. I rose to join them until I saw Mr. Poe’s desperate glance. I eased back down into my chair.
I watched, begrudgingly acknowledging the skills that had made Samuel popular with the opposite sex upon two continents. His glibness faded away as he earnestly listened to Mrs. Poe’s thoughts on how she would like to appear, nodding with tender seriousness at her various suggestions. He then gently arranged her on a chair and bid her to take her ease, assuring her that she needn’t worry about her position just yet.
“First,” he said, standing back with a soothing smile, “I must try to find the light.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Poe said harshly.
Samuel scowled at me as if I should remove Edgar from the room. “My main care as an artist,” he said, “is to notice and re-create the way light falls upon a subject. What you call color and form are simply patterns of light.” He paused. “Oddly enough, while looking for light on the outside, I often find a light from within. I cannot explain how that works. Instinct, I suppose.”
Mrs. Poe coughed into her handkerchief. “You should sit for a portrait, Eddie. Or are you afraid of what Mr. Osgood might see?”
Mr. Poe stared at her.
“Sure, Poe,” said Samuel. “Next time you need a portrait for a magazine, come on over.” He flashed me a sidelong look. “If anyone can capture the real Edgar Poe, I do believe it would be me.”