Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3)

by L. E. Waters

  “A grievous error on my part, clearly.”

  She smiles again and brings the handkerchief back to her face. “Ether,” she explains but takes another breath.

  “Are you ill?”

  Why am I drawn so to the pallor and aura of those dancing toward death?

  “A heart condition. But it has not gotten the best of me yet.” The life in her shines out her eyes and smile—a fire that can be so easily snuffed out.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” I rise to get one for myself. She watches me with weary eyes as I sip my gin-sling, as if I would turn into a raving lunatic after one sip.

  “I know what you’ve probably heard, but I do not have a problem.”

  “Some say it is your downfall.”

  I appreciate her candor. “It is only to numb the pain. If I could only be happy again, I would not need it.”

  Her lips twist in determination. We talk the rest of the night as she recites her writing of high caliber and her favorite lines of my poems. She knows them better than I and says them with a theatric passion. Time elapses far too fast and I haven’t even found the opportunity to ask about her morbid jewelry, when Sartain dances up to us, letting me know it’s time to return me to Muddy.

  “I must finally get a chance to give you a tour of my rose garden, Mr. Poe.”

  “I shall redeem myself there.”

  Once in the carriage, Sartain smiles at me for some time.

  “What?” I ask, returning a smile.

  “I’m waiting for you to thank me.”

  “Thank you, although I do not know what is left of my sorry life.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You have a long time ahead of you, and many more poems for me to publish and get rich from. Just don’t get too merry, we both profit well from your beautiful misery.”

  Chapter 37

  Getting ready to go on the train to visit Helen, I have to drink much more than usual to calm the tremors that rage whenever I’m drying out. There is no way I can travel with such quakes and no way I can drink the necessary amount while I’m visiting Helen and her family. I decide that a good dose of laudanum soothes my nerves, but two doses might allow me to sleep on the train. The train conductor shakes me awake. The passengers stare from the other end of the car.

  “Sir?”

  A surge of nausea rises and I get sick in the aisle, to the trainman’s dismay.

  The conductor calls out, “Get a doctor immediately.”

  Someone, their face hazy, asks, “Who are you visiting?”

  “Helen Whitman.” I answer, without thinking.

  I go in and out of sleep, only coming to under brutal force, usually slapping and yelling. Then all is quiet and I settle into a peaceful sleep.

  “Edgar?” A sweet voice calls.

  I open my eyes to a crisp and clean Helen, looking worried, with the ether permanently beneath her nose.

  “Helen?” I try to sit up, but they have strapped me to the bed. “Where am I? What has happened?”

  She checks with the doctor, and replies. “You have overdosed.”

  “Overdosed? On laudanum?”

  The doctor approaches my bedside. “Was it accidental?”

  “Taking the laudanum?” I can’t understand what he is angling at. “I needed it to…um”—I wish Helen hadn’t been called—“assist with an overly zealous night of spirits.”

  “How much did your doctor prescribe?”

  “It was of my own allotment. One dose too great I fear. I will know better next time.”

  “It is nothing short of a miracle that you have a next time.” He walks out of the room and I return my focus to Helen.

  “I’m sorry our visit has been delayed a day.” I search around to where my clothes hang. “If you’ll fetch the nurse for me, I’ll see to getting discharged so we can return to our reunion.”

  She stares at me, bewildered. “You have been here for three days.”

  “Three days?” How could I have slept for three days? “We only have two more before I have to return.”

  “Not only that, but Mother has gotten wind of this through her sharp-tongued friends and practically forbid me to visit here.”

  I grasp her free hand. “Oh, but you didn’t obey her. You are here for me.”

  She breathes her ether in deep. “How could I abandon you at your weakest hour?”

  I pull her down to me in an embrace, made awkward by the chest straps. Her French perfume encircles me and takes the sting out of the smell of ether. “Good girl. I will impress your mother still. Coax her into reason. This is all a silly mistake.”

  “She’s heard you rely heavily on drugs and ardent spirits. Everyone is saying you tried to take your life.”

  “That is all gossip. I only partook of laudanum for the long trip, and I am a very temperate drinker.” I pat her bouncy, curled head. “No need to worry. I will correct the misunderstanding.”

  She stays with me the rest of the day and is there with her carriage in the morning when they finally deem me fit to leave.

  The Whitmans live in one of the largest estates in Providence. No wonder I declined to enter their rose garden previously. I can’t tell if I begin to shake from withdraw or nerves, but I keep my hands deep within my pockets to keep any impression of addiction at bay when I greet her fine parents.

  Although I’m celebrated in the largest cities of the world, I still feel unwelcome in the presence of such wealth and pedigree. I try my best to entertain them with my wit and play with words but their looks of distrust remain. Helen excuses us to the garden where I fill my lungs with the concentrated smells of acrid fertilizer and sweet roses. We walk out beneath an arbor of climbing, pink roses and through a gate that leads us to an old cemetery. The lichen-covered old angels pray in somber melancholy, while crows and songbirds perch on solace stones and little marble lambs lay where tiny souls were lost. The ground becomes spongy under our feet, covered in well-fed moss and shaded with sticky pine.

  “You couldn’t have picked a more beautiful place.”

  She smiles widely. “I knew you’d love it here.”

  The small graveyard rolls pleasantly down a few knolls, with two wooden benches facing each other beside a grand family plot, allowing for one of the best spots to watch a sunset. I bring her to the bench and sit as close as I can across from her.

  “Your parents are hard to please.” I take my handkerchief out to wipe the beads of sweat that cling to my mustache.

  “Good thing I care little of their approval.” She lifts the coffin necklace up. “She threatens to rip this off and nearly faints when she hears of the séances I hold in her parlor.”

  “No wonder you enjoy my writing so.” I smile upon her; the statues and mausoleums frame her heavenly face. “Graveyards and mournful angels become you.”

  “You become me.” She grants a coy smile that surges through my veins.

  I take her hand, and turn the pretty thing in my palm a few times. The birds sing to us, happy in their birdbaths. “I know it is sudden, and I’ve only known you a short while, but I have never been more sure that you are a missing piece in my life.” I go down to bended knee and she fumbles for her handkerchief, gulping in clouds of ether. “There is something common under all of this, something familiar and comfortable. I sense that I have known you longer than a few days. Something stronger that connects us in the greater cosmos.”

  I remove the handkerchief from beneath her nose and kiss her softly, focusing all my attention on her thick bottom lip. As I pull a way, I’ve never seen such a healthy blush to her face.

  “Will you save me, and make me your husband?”

  She huffs, forgetting her ether. “Immediately.”

  Chapter 38

  Muddy is thrilled with my announcement of such a suitable and upstanding fiancé. She dreams of moving to Providence and basking in all the luxuries that Whitman’s late husband’s wallet can provide. She busies herself with sewing the finest
dress she could make, while I dream of how many novels, poems, and short stories I will produce if I can leave the editing tasks far behind. I’m sure I could double Sarah’s fortune in no time. Through our letters, beneath impassioned poems we profess to each other, we agree upon a Christmas wedding.

  I arrive for a reading in Richmond and Mrs. Mackenzie and Rosalie meet me at the train.

  “Edgar!” Rosalie waves to me eagerly. I haven’t seen her in years. She looks older in dress but not in her mannerisms. The child still shows in the many bows she picked for her hair and the way she bites her lips in excitement.

  Mrs. Mackenzie beams. “I insist you stay with us.” She points for her coachman to fetch my trunk. I agree, thinking it’s a bit telling that she never insisted I stay with her before my fame. I sit across from them and Rosalie can’t keep her legs still. “Rosalie, your fidgeting is making me nervous. You’re shaking the seat off its springs.”

  “Tell him, Ma,” Rosalie says with a sheepish grin.

  Mrs. Mackenzie places a gentle arm behind her pinched shoulders. “Rosalie’s a teacher.”

  Just when I think Rosalie’s grin can’t get wider, it does.

  “That is wonderful, sister.”

  Rosalie describes each room at the school she works at, in painstaking detail, braying when she describes the peanut brittle and pralines that she helps herself to every day after lunch. I’m happy she found her place. What would have become of her had Ma survived, without the cushion of the Mackenzie’s wealth? Some good has come out of Henry’s and my misfortune.

  As soon as Mrs. Mackenzie sees to my room and supper, Rosalie tugs on my coat sleeve. “Psst,” she says, and waves me over to the smoking room. I join her in the cloud of residual pipes and cigars merged with old leather and snuffed out fires. “I have something to tell you.”

  She looks like the cat that ate the canary, but I fear it would be more prattle about her school. “What is it?” I care little and wonder how long I should wait before excusing myself to escape to a gentleman’s club.

  “It’s about Elmira.”

  Hold on there. My head whips up from my watch, I no longer cared for the time. “What of Elmira?”

  Pleased to catch my complete attention, she toys with it. “It’s something that will make you happy.”

  I step closer to her than I ever have and place my hands on her narrow shoulders to look her square in the eyes. “Tell me at once.”

  She drops her chin slightly and gives me a half-smile. “Elmira’s husband died.”

  I’m unprepared for the bolt that shoots through me. I never dreamt of such a thing, but then all breathing ceases. “Are you sure of it?”

  She giggles. “I should know. I went to his funeral.”

  “How long ago?” I speak in gasps.

  “A few years ago.”

  Even if she had told me two months ago I wouldn’t have proposed to Helen.

  My heart sounds in my ears, akin to the whooshing inside a large shell. How have I not heard of this? I should have written to Rosalie more. All the while Virginia was passing, Elmira was alone already. She had not sought me out.

  I don’t realize how tight I grip Rosalie’s shoulders until she tries to wrangle out of my hands.

  “Why didn’t you write me about this?”

  She steps away from me. “I don’t know. I was busy.” She plays with the tassel on the velvet curtains.

  I sigh and try to calm myself before she runs out of here with all her information. “Has she come to speak to you?”

  She spurts out in laughter. “Why would she do that?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. This is useless. Why am I trying to use Rosalie as a go between? Nothing is keeping me from going directly to the source.

  “What street does she live on?” I demand and Rosalie immediately responds.

  “Grace Street.”

  It’s fitting that such a poised beauty lives on such a street. I make up an urgent excuse as to why I need to skip dinner and Mrs. Mackenzie is gracious enough to allow me use of her carriage. As soon as the proud, bricked townhouse emerges, with ornate windows and wrought iron fences, a mixed emotion sets in. It would have been the most miserable place to look upon that very morning but now, the most beautiful widow lay within.

  My palms sweat so I remove my gloves, but their clammy dampness makes me put them back on. I step out of the carriage, happy that it looks so grand. I check my coat and straighten my necktie. I turn to check my mustache in the mirror. How I wish I had not drank so much the night before so that sleep could have improved how sunken my eyes are. I guess it hasn’t been so long since she’s seen me and papers have been printing my picture all over the country. I leap up the stairs and hesitate at the knocker. Then rap strongly upon the freshly painted, mallard-green door. I hear footsteps rushing to answer.

  Oh, how will she receive me?

  My heart drops when I see her maid.

  “An old friend here to see Widow Shelton.” I pause after I say widow, just to be sure that Rosalie hasn’t conjured the fantasy up, but her swift nod and welcome to sit as she runs upstairs to her mistress fills me with much hope. I hear the shuffling of her many petticoats before I see her stand at the top of the grand staircase. I walk out for her to see me and she stills like a statue then brings a shaking hand to her mouth. I smile and rest my hands on the base of the railing, my hat in my hand.

  Realizing how she froze, she forces herself to make her way to me at the landing. I can’t tell if she is shocked in a pleasant or worried way. Could she have loved her husband more than me? Would she rather have him waiting at the bottom of this stairs?

  “Edgar,” she says in her buttery voice. I want to drop my hat and finally take her in my arms, arms that still recall her embrace.

  “Elmira.”

  The words seem to speak volumes. The only two names that matter in this world.

  We both don’t hear her maid until she startles both of us. “Should I put some tea on for you and your guest?”

  “Oh.” She looks back at me from a memory haze, which the maid seems curious about. “Yes, that would be what you should do.”

  The maid keeps lowering her chin, bewildered by her strange appearance, but checks back on me again and makes her way for the kitchen in a hurry.

  The grandfather clock clicks like my heartbeat from the foyer. My eyes swell to take all of her in. She is still just as beautiful, maybe more so. Gossamer strands now shine in her dark hair, as if a delicate painter deliberately placed them there for improvement. I can still see the child in her face but with the wisdom of the world now bringing pleasing lines around her smile and happy eyes. At least she has been happy.

  It’s wonderful we don’t need words. We drink each other in and I hope she is kind in her acceptance of my aging. The maid returns with tea and can tell we haven’t even talked. She set the little table in the parlor and bows to her mistress. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

  I laugh since it only now occurred to me that we haven’t. I sit down as near as I can to her and she allows it. “It is an understatement to say how nice it is to see you, Elmira.”

  “I’m happy to see you as well.”

  But what are her eyes saying?

  “I’m sorry to hear of your husband’s passing.” I look down at the lie, but she studies me closely as I say it.

  Once I can look back up, she says quickly, “Rosalie has told me of your poor wife’s departure as well. It must have been so difficult for you.” She holds my eyes through the whole sentence and I wonder at her true feelings.

  I remember to swallow but too late. Spittle rushes down into my lungs making me spurt out in a coughing fit. I have to lay my tea down before I spill it and she frets to get me a handkerchief. Once I can stop, I put my hands up in surrender, tears coming out of my eyes from the fit. “I apologize for the horrible interruption. My mechanics have failed me in the shock of being so near to you again.”

  She smiles the loveli
est smile I can imagine and my heart surges in strength that she welcomes the faintest acknowledgement of my true feelings.

  Helen.

  I forget all about her. I try to push her from my head but know I cannot. I can’t say more of what I want to say. I look at her sparking green eyes and wince as I swallow down the declaration I’ve planned all these years, all ending with the proposal to never leave her side until angels rip her away from me, like they always set out to do.

  I can’t say these things, jeopardizing that she may reject me and tell the whole city, which would in no time reach Mrs. Ellet’s enormous ears for gossip and break Helen’s already failing heart. I cannot harm such an innocent soul. No matter how much I crave this moment. No matter how much I fear never seeing her again or how much my questions need to be answered. If only I can know for sure how she might react to my need for her.

  She waits for me to continue, but after I drink far too long from my teacup, she relaxes toward me. “I’ve been following all your publishings and accolades.” Her beautiful eyes reach across the sea between us and kiss me with their spark.

  I know I have to distance myself from this all since I can hardly keep from falling on my knees, grabbing hold of her skirt and never letting go. I put down my cup and barely force myself to bring out my watch.

  Once she sees me perform this rude action, she straightens immediately. “Do you have an obligation I’m keeping you from?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I have an obligation, but I couldn’t keep from stopping in to see you on my way.”

  Disappointment. I see the disappointment in her eyes.

  “Oh. Well, I’m so glad that you did.” She stares at the door as if she is preparing herself to go and open it for me to leave.

  I stand up and bow to her, replacing my hat. I reach out for her hand and bury it between both of mine, wishing I can take some part of her with me. “I have to supper with some gentlemen tonight and I have a reading tomorrow.”

  “A reading? I might try to attend that.”

  I can tell she won’t. The stars have gone out in her eyes.