Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen Page A

well with her.” He drew a breath. “She can be very judgmental.”
    “Of course.”
    He gave me a sharp look.
    “Any woman would react strongly,” I said. “It is a sad business.”
    I felt him withdrawing into himself. After a moment he said, “I must find other lodging soon. I can do nothing to set Virginia off.”
    “No,” I said earnestly, “you mustn’t.”
    A terrifying fierceness flashed through his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then seeming to think better of it, nodded his good-bye and strode away.
    I stood there shivering on the sidewalk with the kitten, its weightless bones trembling along with me. I knew that I should dislike the man, should fear him, should keep my distance at all costs. I knew that I would not.

Ten
    On Miss Lynch’s stone porch steps the following Saturday evening, Vinnie stopped and leaned against the scrolled plaster railing to look into her coat front.
    “What is it, Vinnie?” I asked.
    She pulled back the corner of her lapel to reveal what was slowing her progress: A kitten popped up, its pale eyes curious.
    “Poe wants to see.”
    As Eliza’s own young ones entered Miss Lynch’s house with Mary—children having been invited to a special conversazione that night—she paused next to us on her husband’s arm. “Is there a problem?”
    I sighed. “Vinnie brought the cat.”
    “Poe wanted to go to the party,” Vinnie explained.
    I sighed. “Well, we’re here now. Please tuck in Poe until we get inside.” I winced after I said it. When I had brought the kitten home and told the girls how Mr. Poe had saved it, after getting Eliza’s permission to keep it, they had insisted on its taking his name, even after we had determined that it was a girl. This is what happens when you let a child name a pet.
    We were greeted by Miss Lynch inside the vestibule. From within, came the melodious groan of a cello.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett! Mrs. Osgood! Are these your lovely children?”
    We introduced them to Miss Lynch, who shook each of their hands in turn.
    “I have a special treat for you,” Miss Lynch told them. “One of my friends has learned some very nice stories for children by a man who lives far, far away. She is going to tell them to you tonight.”
    “My mother writes children’s stories,” Ellen said.
    “Yes, I know,” said Miss Lynch. “These stories are by Mr. Hans Christian Andersen, all the way from Denmark. They are not as good as your mother’s, I’m sure, but you might like them, too.”
    Miss Fuller marched into the hall, her large bangle earrings—a gift from an Algonquin woman, she would tell us later—in full swing.
    She nodded to Eliza and her husband. “Bartlett. Mrs. Bartlett.” To me she said, “Hello, Frances. Are these your little girls?”
    I reintroduced her to them, though she had met them in seasons past. Miss Fuller shook their hands, and those of Eliza’s children, then waited as we removed our wraps and piled them in Miss Lynch’s maid’s arms to take upstairs.
    “What do you have there?” she asked when Vinnie took off her coat.
    “A kitty.”
    “Darling,” she said flatly. “What’s its name?”
    “Poe.”
    A sly smile slid over Miss Fuller’s face. “Oh?”
    “Mr. Poe saved her,” Vinnie explained earnestly. “Some boys were going to hurt her.”
    “Good for Mr. Poe.” She thumped the kitten on the head as one would a dog. “Be sure to give it some milk tonight.”
    “I will.”
    “Go on up, now,” I said.
    Vinnie ran up the stairs after Eliza’s brood, Ellen and Eliza’s maid Mary trudging after her. Miss Lynch left for the parlor with Mr. Bartlett. I threw a helpless glance at Eliza as Miss Fuller took my arm and ushered me toward the salon at a tortoise’s pace.
    “Should I assume that you kept your appointment with Mrs. Poe?”
    “Who is playing the cello?” I pretended to be listening.
    “Some Swede. Poe was there, yes?”
    “He dropped home before I left. It was all very