Poe SixteenIt was a sunny day, rich with the promise of spring, but little of the fine day penetrated the gloomy hackney in which I rode down Broadway. With my gloved hands folded upon my reticule like a trussed bird, I breathed in the odor of cigar smoke and sweat—a souvenir from previous passengers—and listened as Mrs. Poe recounted the details of the ball that she and Mr. Poe had attended the previous night. It seemed that neither the food nor the acclaim that she and her husband had received there had its parallel in modern history, or so one would think, hearing her glowing account as we jounced along.“Everyone who was important was there,” she was saying in her silvered voice. “The William Backhouse Astors, the Coopers, the Vanderbilts. Do you know them?”“Yes.” They were the new-money crowd whom Samuel had courted vigorously. The coal of fury smoldering in my heart reddened at the thought of him.“Oh, the ladies were so lovely! Do you know that Mrs. Vanderbilt’s dress, including her jewels, cost thirty thousand dollars?
