The Monsters of Templeton (24 page)

I must disabuse you; he does not smell like an old man; his scent is fresh, like cucumbers, not like "old flesh," as you said. His smile is kind and his manners sublime, much like my father's. And, Cinnamon, we had a grand time talking together. He spoke of his family in France (he is the son of a marquis; for once, the rumors are well founded!), his lovely, smart students, his adventuresome life--he has tried everything, and he even was a Jesuit seminarian at one point. I spoke of my family's early travels to France. It seems we know quite a number of people in common.

I forgot my cold hands and feet, and was rather sorry when we turned, and the men switched partners, and I found myself babbling thoughtlessly to that handsome rake, Nat Pomeroy. He looked at me, amused, and smoked all the way back to Hyde Hall.

All afternoon, I and the other ladies sat in the drawing-room. I tried to read, but Susanna talked to me so much, inserting the Academy everywhere, that I was convinced I had been correct in assuming it was a week-end to raise funds for the school. She drove me mad, and I retired to my room for the hours before supper. Imagine my surprise when I saw, on my bedstand, one blooming pink rose, a rose from the Hall's conservatory. There was a small card beside it that said, From an Admirer. My heart pounded, Cinnamon. I could not rest.

I needn't tell you how I could not speak at dinner, for terror of blurting out my surprise about the rose. How grateful was I that there was music and dancing all night, Bettina happily taking the piano from Minnie! As there were more men than women, I never sat one dance out. I had three dances with Solomon Falconer, who reminds me so of my father--physically only, of course, the man is morally a menace--two with Nat, two with George, one with Dr. Spotter, and one with Monsieur Le Quoi.

At last, I was able to take a rest when Dr. Spotter engaged Mr. Le Quoi in the corner for a conversation, and I slipped outside to cool down. I went wandering a little in the gardens, as they were astounding, silver and eerie in the moonlight, like the gardens of half-malign fairies. I was looking at the long slate of the lake when I heard a footstep behind me. I closed my eyes, drew my shoulders in, took a deep breath. A finger in a leather glove touched my chin very gently. And, when I opened my eyes, nearly swooning, I looked into the smiling face of Nat Pomeroy.

You, who know my heart so well, will understand what an extraordinary disappointment this was. Oh, Cinnamon. First, because I had expected another to follow me. And then, in the briefest of breaths, I was disappointed doubly, for I suddenly understood what the week-end was to be: Susanna was making a play to marry me to her impoverished lover, Nat. They would have chuckled over it, believing he could charm the ugly little spinster, give her enough attention so that she would be forever grateful. And then, when she had fallen under his spell, and they married, he would use her money in the pursuit of his beautiful Susanna.

Oh, wicked, wicked! I saw it all. I said nothing, turned, fled inside to my chamber. That night, a little outbuilding on the grounds burned down and all the men were needed to try to put it out--they returned at dawn, shivering in their wet clothing, clomping over the floors. And when they had fallen into their beds, and it was a decent hour, I left a note, explaining I had to return to Templeton for sudden business, and I rode back over the hills of East Lake Road in my little carriage, squeezing my handkerchief in my two hands.

Another confession: I am in despair. Perhaps I have been too precipitate by proclaiming that I do not ever wish to marry. I have been trying, perhaps, to flirt with Mr. Le Quoi, but I can't seem to. He is so charming, though not necessarily handsome, that all the women try to flirt with him, and I am stuck in the corner, burning when Bertha or Minnie giggle and chatter and make him say such gallant things. I think, perhaps, my heart is filling with him. Please say nothing about this to anyone. You probably laugh at me. Please don't. I am not like you, Cinnamon: I know I am plain and solemn and shy. Perhaps you could teach me how to flirt, how to make myself as appealing as possible. Please don't laugh. I do want to learn, quite desperately, and you are the perfect candidate to teach me. Do you think you could?

My face burns with embarrassment. I will end this letter and send it to you, in the hope that you do not laugh too much at me.

With great affection, Charlotte Temple

Averell Cottage, Templeton December 5, 1861

My dearest Charlotte---

You have given me so much joy! Here is a worthy project--I have often wanted to suggest to you a small improvement here or there, for if I am good at anything, it is at making myself agreeable to men--and I am certain that when we are finished with you, you shall be married. In fact, I guarantee it! But, first, I must scold you--take from your heart any silly affection for the bald old Frenchman--he is so below your station that you should barely notice him, even in the best society. Oh no--when I am finished, you will have wed a prince! We shall use your sisters' high places in society--you will make a brilliant match!

I have carefully considered and below is my advice. Follow it as best as you can.

Appearance:

1) Hair--My darling, we must do something about your hair-style. Though you were charming at eighteen with your long masses of curls framing your face, you have a very young face, and the out-of-date style only now serves to make you look childish. Consider putting your hair up at your nape and cutting and curling small frizzes around your cheeks.

2) Dress--We must get you out of black, my dear. Although I understand you are in mourning for your father, no man dares to approach a woman whose whole heart is invested in a dead man. I should know. Your colors are purple or dark green. Zina Mix is Templeton's best dressmaker, but you must ask your sisters to send you the latest style-books from Europe. Also, please order slippers--one cannot wear the sturdy boots you wear and expect a man to marvel at your delicate feet.

3) Jewelry--My darling, at their very cores, men are all still the boys who built castles of sticks and gutted clocks to see how they worked. They are fascinated by whirling, clicking things. Earrings that dangle and tinkle like bells are your friends--bracelets that chime when you move and fill the air around you with music. This must be discreet, however--otherwise, you will sound like a one-woman band!

Flirtation--We shall work with, not against, your natural shyness, as if we were to work against it, you would only be full of artifice. And you know artifice, since you know Susanna Clarke, and how it is not attractive in the least.

1) When a man comes into the room, allow yourself to blush. Now, I know you have little control over your blushing, but you usually hide your cheeks by ducking your head down so your hair covers them, or you ask hasty questions so attention is diverted to another. Instead, hold your head high, give a small, private smile, and try very hard not to look at the man of your choice. It will be apparent that this is what you intend to do--good!

2) When he speaks only to you, look at his lips or his eyes--you tend to gaze at a man's collar when you speak in a tete-atete. Delicately bite your lip, smile up at him, through your lashes again, and mimic the way he is sitting on his chair or standing, taking care to make it look ladylike--everyone loves a mirror, even if one doesn't know one does.

When you have mastered these points, you will be well on your way. I shall teach you then how to write a love-note, how to arrange for a secret rendezvous (don't be shocked--everyone does it), how to convince your servant how to keep a secret, et cetera.

I hope this is not overmuch. I am only interested in your happiness! Please write to me as soon as you have mastered some of these effects. Also, do not worry about stupid Susanna Clarke and her paramour. They are not subtle, and so they are not dangerous.

Your loving, Cinnamon Averell Graves

From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House, Blackbird Bay, Templeton December the Ninth, 1861

Dear Cinnamon,

Thank you for your kind advice. I admit that I am overwhelmed by all the changes I must make to my person and manners. I did not know I had so much to improve. I have ordered the books and slippers from my sister Marguerite. I am not at all sure of my eventual mastery of the art of flirtation, but I shall try.

Also, I am afraid that I cannot dislodge Monsieur Le Quoi from my heart. I have tried. But I saw him at Church on Sunday, and his eyes are so kind that I wanted him near me again. Please say you'll help me, even with him as my object. Please do.

Your friend, Charlotte Temple

Averell Cottage, Templeton December 11, 1861

Dear Charlotte--I have considered, and I will help you, even with the Frenchman as your object. Sometimes the heart cannot listen to reason. I was like you with my first husband, dear Paul Stokes, and thought I'd die when he was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. I shall renounce all hope of a prince for you--for this husband, at least! I joke, but the Frenchman is quite a bit older than you, my dear, and you should be prepared for anything.

Remember, il faut souffrir pour etre belle. I have been reading in French again, so that I can practice with you when I come out of heavy mourning in November.

I shall write more later,

Yours, Cinnamon Averell Graves

Mon Cher Monsieur Le Quoi-- [rough draft, unblotted]

Please listen to the song of a small bird who would like to inform you that you have an admirer--the highest lady of the town. This little bird wishes for her happiness and would sing gladly to see you escort her on her walk home after Church on Sunday. She says she walks the miles to her mansion as a penance for her sins--but this little bird knows that she has no sins, and that you, monsieur, could turn her penance into a blessing.

A Friend

The eleventh of December

My dearest, kindest, most beautiful friend, Cinnamon,

Forgive the scribbled note. I am beside myself. Oh, Monsieur Le Quoi walked me all the way to Blackbird Bay from Church! Your advice works wonders, my dear. You are the most wonderful friend I could imagine. I must send this now with Joseph, who is going into town in a moment, and must go to my room and be by myself until my elation is gone.

Your loving (!) Charlotte

Averell Cottage 19th Dec. [rough draft in a wild hand]

Oh, Charlotte--I don't know what to do--I am all in a muddle--I must write to you immediately--something terrible has happened--I had a letter, a long one, twenty pages, I was to send it to you in the morning, all flirtation advice, but it is useless now--I threw it in the fire. Now I fling this missive at you--you must help me!

You will get this as soon as I finish--I will send one of the stableboys with it immediately--I hope he can make it over the snowdrifts. I have not slept, I am all a-tremble. Oh, Charlotte, you remember the blizzard last night. The terrible wild wind and snow and the cracking branches--Marie-Claude went home early to care for their cows--I was eating my little supper, when there was a terrible knocking at my door, a pounding. And before I could stand, it was flung open, and there, a bear stood in the door, covered in snow!

No--not a bear, it advanced into the room, and grunted and took off the odd hat, with the long muffler, and shook itself, and suddenly, under the snow, I saw the face of my sister, Ginger. Ginger! Do you remember--so huge and bossy, Ginger who made you cry by forbidding you to play base-ball with her and the boys because you were a rich girl, Ginger, who ran away from my father when she was fourteen. Rawboned Ginger, grinning at me in the firelight, dressed in a man's clothes--she looked like a man, and if I hadn't known her face, I would have said she was one. She had not changed, just grew more massive. Ginger had come back to Templeton.

Before I could unfreeze from my place, to spring up, to close the door, to embrace my sister, she bellowed out, "Come in!" And suddenly there was a mess of people clomping in, all across the floor that Marie-Claude had just scrubbed that morning, there were only four, I counted later, but at that time, it seemed like a veritable army. All shook snow off, took off boots, jackets, all rushed in, a great babble of voices toward the fire. I had stopped breathing, and when I could start again, Ginger turned to me. "Cin!" she boomed, "I'm home!"

I gasped. "Welcome," I said, and one of the others with Ginger said, "Fine one, your sister, Papa Gin. Lady, in't she?" and it was a woman, I saw. And, I saw, they were all women--all in dresses so bright under their wrappings that my eyes were dazzled, and there was a strong smell, cologne and bodies, rolling up in the steam from their clothing by the fire. Ginger turned to the woman who spoke, and the woman ducked her head, like a cur. Ginger said, "Let me introduce you. Cinnamon, meet my girls. This here's Lolo--she's French from New Orleans. This two is twins from Indiana, Minerva and Medea. This last one is my best, Barbara, but his name's really Samuel." And then they were shaking my hands with their cold hands--the fat, indolent redhead with bright cheeks, the skinny ugly blondes, the beautiful boy I would never have known was a boy, for he wore skirts and had a long collar that covered his Adam's apple. I looked at them, dazzled, and looked at my sister, who was grinning at me.

"Oh," I breathed. "Ginger, what in the world are you doing in Templeton?"

"Been a long time," she said. "Lots of life happened. I done a lot of things, some I'm shamed of, some proud. Sit down," she said to me, and I obeyed her command, if only in shock. I was close to swooning--I had the queerest feeling then--as if I saw every characteristic of my parents isolated, boiled down, distilled, then pressed into the opposite molds of my sister and me. Ginger has my father's height and dark skin and flashing eyes--his strong jaw, his bad temper, his craftiness--though my mother's stout figure and straight chestnut hair, and--perhaps--a glimmer of her madness. I have my mother's petite height, rosy skin, her kindness and gentleness, but my father's thin build, coppery hair, his fluted voice, his cleverness with money. My sister and I--we are divided as people are who cannot be related.