by Lauren Groff
By the time my mother walked into the gym manager’s office that evening, Philip’s mother had been threatening for an hour to sue the gym, and Philip was crying silently on the chair opposite me. I wanted to kick him for being such a wuss, for the way his mother looked at me, hot with hatred. The manager, normally a kind, round-faced man, had been worked into a purple fury by Mrs. Tzara, and so when Vi entered the room, he spun on her and spluttered out that I was forbidden, forever, from coming to the gym, that this was not acceptable, that a child as ill-raised as I was shouldn’t be allowed in public. My mother took a look at the situation, my bleeding hand (nobody had bothered to dress it yet), Philip’s ice pack on his mouth, Mrs. Tzara with her flying black hair and tight suit, the gym manager’s bulging eyes. And I saw Vi grow bigger in that office until she seemed larger than the rest of us put together.
She spoke so calmly and so quietly that we all leaned forward to hear what she was saying. “Nonsense,” she said. “Willie is the smartest person I know. If she hit this boy, she had a good reason to. Right, little boy?” she said, turning to Philip.
And Philip, whose tears were dripping freely down his face, gave a little shuddery gasp and said, “I just called her a bastard…”
With this word, and with what everyone in town knew already about me, Philip punctured the adults’ anger, and it went visibly hissing out of all of them. His mother’s shoulders sagged and she wailed, “Oh, Philip,” and the gym manager shook his head. “Oh,” he said. “Well, in that case, I’m so sorry, Ms. Upton. I didn’t really know.”
“May I take my daughter home and make sure she hasn’t broken her hand?” she said, coldly.
“Certainly, certainly,” he said, and Mrs. Tzara hustled Philip out, and the manager, apologizing profusely, said I wasn’t, actually, forbidden from going to the gym, of course, he was so very sorry for everything.
In the car ride home, I looked at my mother, wondering. So many nights I had held her head in my lap and comforted her after someone had slighted her in town, after her own delicate ego had been shattered yet again. The strong, huge woman driving our car across the dark town seemed foreign to me. Only years later did it strike me that however weak Vi could be about her own sorrows, when faced with others’, she became spectacular. This is what allowed her to soothe the dying into calmer deaths, this largeness of Vi’s, this softness.
In the hallway as Vi talked Clarissa off her ledge, I put a finger under the ancient envelope flap. I shook the little packets of letters in their dusty velvet ribbons out of the envelope and into my hands, and imagined Vivienne Upton filling all of Averell Cottage with her glory, until everything held the color and viscosity of honey in the sun. I held the old packet of letters in my hand and imagined Vi filling all of Lake Street with her goodness, then pouring and pouring out until she filled all of Templeton, entire.
Charlotte Franklin Temple
Watercolor from the mid-1850s.
Cinnamon Averell Stokes Starkweather Sturgis Graves Peck
A photograph taken in 1860, between her second and third husbands.
16
Cinnamon and Charlotte
TO WHOMEVER READS This Collection of Letters: Be warned. This is material that should not, by any means, be released to the general public, for fear of shaming two prominent Templeton families. These letters were discovered separately by me, over the span of two decades. I found Charlotte’s packet from Cinnamon in a small trunk in the attic of the Franklin House as a young boy. Twenty years later, while searching for a missing stud-link, I found Cinnamon’s packet in an old wardrobe of my wife’s old Templeton family, the Averells. One can imagine my shock when I saw they went together. These are not, obviously, all the letters in the correspondence. Most were flippant and full of feminine nothings, which I donated to the New York State Historical Society. These few letters are selected from the many. Although they provide proof supporting my life’s work, I have opted to keep them private. I have tried for many years to destroy them, but find I cannot destroy such history. I fear that these will fall into the wrong hands, but fear more terribly their destruction. I beg of you, whatever your affiliation with our family, to please be a good steward of these secrets.
George Temple Upton, 1966
From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House, Blackbird
Bay, Templeton
The Thirteenth of November, 1861
My dearest friend,
How my heart aches for you in your time of need! I could not bear the depth of your sadness today, as you stood there in your crepe, your beautiful small face composed so bravely as you watched the bearers lower your fourth husband into the ground. And I, who cannot imagine having, let alone losing, one husband, I had to hurry away at the sight of your pain, after I heard all those whispers from those terrible gossips. I wept in the carriage all the way home to Franklin House, and am weeping still for you. This is why I did not go to the gathering at Averell Cottage this dark afternoon: I could not have borne seeing you try to be strong under the false sympathy of those same gossips who whispered so scandalously about you at your own husband’s funeral. They should be throttled! Shame on them! Shame on me, for not being a true friend to you, for neglecting my duty to stand beside you in your want. Should you forgive me? I wonder. Please forgive, also, my hasty missive; my heart overflows and I could not keep my pen from scratching through the paper with my emotion.
Your loving friend,
Charlotte Temple
Averell Cottage, Templeton
November 20, 1861
My dear Charlotte—
I hope you will disregard the week that has passed since I’ve received your note of sympathy—I had so much to do! I wanted to save yours for last and to wallow in the writing of it, so as to think of you, my dear friend, the whole time.
Other than being melancholy for my poor Godfrey, I am also terribly bored. I must be in heavy mourning for a year and a day—this decreed by the Graves family, a stipulation for receiving my share of dear Godfrey’s estate. After the year of heavy mourning, we agreed on six months of full mourning, then six of half-mourning. But it’s the heavy mourning that bothers me so—one full year of wool and crepe and jet jewelry, one full year without music or dinners or balls, or any pretty laces or ribbons—one year without visitors, without seeing your sweet face, my dear Charlotte—and this is almost worse than Godfrey’s death!
Ah! You know I didn’t mean that—I said it to shock you. I do love to shock you, how your face pales and you look at me sternly and you sigh, “Oh, Cinnamon,” as if I were hopeless! I am laughing now at the thought of it and this, too, is unsuitable, it seems—that French Canadian maid I’ve got, that Marie-Claude is frowning at me under her heavy brows. Her ugly face is the only one I suppose I shall see until next November, alas. At least I have you to write to.
What am I to do while I am interred here, do you think? I could paint, but the cottage only has a limited number of windows, and I am afraid I shall exhaust them all before January. I could read the Freeman’s Journal, but all that talk of meerschaum pipes and Vulcanized Rubber Teeth drives me quite mad. I could maybe knit socks and bandages for our soldiers dying in the South. What more? Perhaps I could find you a husband, dear Charlotte—what do you think?
You with your devout heart will surely be appalled at my carrying on, I imagine. I cannot help it—Charlotte, I am giddy, and I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is the shock of losing Mr. Graves. I fear I shall go mad here in this dark house. You should move to Temple Manor on Second Street, as your nearness alone would soothe me.
How my heart longs for fun—I just saw a gay little party go walking down Front Street. Pretty girls on their way somewhere, mincing past the soldiers, making the eaves of my old house ring with their merriment. How it reminds me of us, Charlotte, when we were so young. I think of how pretty and flushed and sparkling you were at that party just before poor Godfrey passed, when he was feeling poorly, that gay affair at Lydia Clar
ke’s with the sugared-violet petit-fours and the harpsichord music and that new ugly old French teacher at Dr. Spotter’s Academy, Le Quoi. He was so very like a vulture, wasn’t he, with his bald head and beady eyes—how he stank of old flesh—he is a rogue, I am utterly sure of it. He said he came from Nantes, where Henrietta Bezier is from, my dear friend I know from Mrs. Beasley’s Finishing School in Albany. I have already written to her to inquire as to whether he is what he says he is, or not. I suspect not. We shall see, and delight in the drama.
Please write, Charlotte. Fill pages and pages with your words. Tell me stories, of anything—write to me of that terrible incendiary burning down all the mansions in Templeton. Speculate on who it is—old Apothecary Mudge with his hideous face? Fat Lacey Pomeroy with her affected little giggle and boiled walnut hair (don’t protest—I myself have seen the concoction she makes to dye it)? The idiot son of Dirk Peck, that big lumpy boy who touches himself shamelessly in the presence of ladies (I shock you again!)?
You shall forgive my frivolity—this is a difficult time for me, and it seems the only way I can manage. You understand me, if no one else does.
Your very affectionate,
Cinnamon Averell Stokes Starkweather Sturgis Graves
From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House, Blackbird
Bay, Templeton
The twenty-third of November, 1861
Dearest Cinnamon,
I admit that I have spent the last few days wondering at how I was to respond to your letter of the twentieth. It is not like you to seem so cruel to your husband’s memory. At last I understood, however, that yours is still a fresh grief, and you had been driven to distraction by your sorrow. I do understand you, my dear friend; but I pray that you only show your nerves to me; there are plenty in this town who do not wish you well.
I have sent, with this letter, some muslin as you have requested, and a tincture from Aristabulus Mudge. He tells me that one drop a day will calm you. He is a queer little fellow. I do not wish to speak ill of a cripple, but he makes me shiver. And have you noticed how he does not grow old? My father noticed this, bless his heart; one day, we were working in his study, and he saw Mudge out on the lake, fishing, and frowned his fine frown, and said, “Charlie, beware of that man. You cannot trust a man who does not age.” I laughed then: I agree now.
Why do I tell you this? Perhaps because only you know how terribly I have missed my father for these eleven years. No other man could fill my heart as my father did, you know. I am destined to die a virgin. No, Cinnamon, you must not exert yourself to find me a husband.
I cannot write to you of the incendiary, for I know nothing of it. We must be Christian and believe that it is someone who is troubled and is in need of the Lord to help. I cannot move to Temple Manor because I do not like it—it is cold and haunted—and my father loved Franklin House, and I must stay in the place my father loved.
Also, I am very sorry that I cannot write the hundreds of pages you asked for today. I must be off in a moment: the George Hydes have invited me to Hyde Hall for the week-end, and I believe it is to pump me for more funds for Dr. Spotter’s Academy. I believe the Pomeroy girls and Solomon Falconer will make up the party. I believe the Frenchman you were speaking of will be there as well. I wish you wouldn’t mock him. He does not look so very like a vulture, and is said to have been of a noble family that lost everything under Napoleon. He is the only one in town with whom I can chatter along in my neglected French.
Now, don’t sigh for envy at my week-end; I am sure it is to be dull, my dear, and you know my horrible shyness and how I loathe such things. If only I had your vivacity and beauty! Alas, what we love in others does not always suit ourselves. I shall get through the weekend by wishing you in my place.
I hope this letter finds you more calm and easy of mind, my dear.
Your faithful friend,
Charlotte Temple
Averell Cottage, Templeton
November 28, 1861
My darling—
I am dying to know about your weekend at Hyde Hall! It is already Wednesday and you have not written. I should think you know my loneliness better. Write—I implore you.
Your fondest friend,
Cinnamon Averell Graves
From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House, Blackbird
Bay, Templeton
The Second of December, 1861
Dearest Cinnamon,
I have not written you for I have spent this time wondering what had happened at Hyde Hall. My head is all in a jumble; I thought if I gave myself time, I could straighten it out; but I am still as confused as I had been when I left the Hall so precipitously on Sunday morning.
First, I forget that you have never been to Hyde Hall. It is a tasty manor, indeed, a stone edifice on a natural swell on the North part of the lake, an English mansion. In the Spring and Summer, the gardens are lush and well-tended, though now, in the Winter, rather sad. The outbuildings are simple and lovely. There is a strange air to the place, however, almost of desolation, though all is quite new and fresh.
Then there are the people: Susanna and George Clarke: she beautiful, high-spirited, treacherous; he staid, stern, blindly in love. Might I say that she had the gall to invite her impoverished “friend,” Nat Pomeroy, for the weekend, without inviting his sisters? Alas, she did. And the air of discomfort this raised in our breasts is important, I think, for understanding what happened later. Also, to complete the women, there were Minnie Phinney and the Foote girls, Bertha and Bettina, special friends of Susanna’s. For the men, there were Nat Pomeroy, Solomon Falconer, Peter Mahey, Dr. Spotter with his clammy hands and blinking eyes, and his new French instructor, Monsieur Le Quoi.
On the first night, little happened. We arrived, settled, changed for supper, played whist, listened to poor Minnie Phinney wrestle with the piano, and went straight to bed.
After we arose the next morning and ate our breakfasts, someone suggested we while away our time at taking a walking tour of the grounds. We heartily agreed, and spent a nice two hours in the air. Susanna, you see, loves the outdoors, and although some of we ladies were rather frozen, she insisted on pressing further. It was lovely. The early snow had melted and the ground was firm and hard; the trees were filled with the whispers of wind in the boughs, our feet made wonderful sounds in the dry leaves. Somehow, we were paired off halfway through the walk: George with Bettina, Susanna and Nat (scandalous!), Solomon with Minnie, Doctor Spotter with Bertha, Peter Mahey with Susanna’s nippy little terriers. That left Monsieur Le Quoi to fall back and offer his arm to me.
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.
