The Monsters of Templeton

by Lauren Groff

  Then came the night our father caught us. I, shaking, weeping, trying to look away, she not letting me, the lantern swinging light, one apprentice grunting like a pig behind her, the other two laughing, lolling on the pile of bark, then my father, big, quiet, in the doorway. His one eye gleaming.

  “Cinnamon, to the house,” he said. I flew, the lantern wild in my hand, the apprentices behind me, fleeing across the meadow. I watched from our bedroom window as my father came out, dragging Ginger by the hair. She’d fall, he’d tug her up by the hair to her feet. Dark blood on her face, on her legs. He slapped her against the side of the house so hard she fell down. He went in. I saw her lying there, in her white nightgown in the dark grass as he went inside. His footsteps on the stairs. I shuddered until he was shut in his room, reading the Bible aloud in his high voice. I went to bed. In the morning, she was gone.

  Nobody ever said a word about her. Nobody—not my mother, not my father. It was as if she had never existed. And when she returned, that blizzard, I saw my first ghost—and she is real, here, and I feel her near me, dark and sickening, it is sickening us all, what I did not do to save her, what I couldn’t do, what I can’t do now. She sickens this town. She is infecting this town with her vice. She is calling my husbands up. I see the town sickening from my window—a pallor, a jaundice on it, men walking with venery on their minds. Sick, sick.

  You will be shocked. Good. You will be made ill by this. Not nearly as ill as I. And you still think your Frenchman matters after this tale, do you? Pathetic, you little girl.

  No, I won’t send you this. It is too mad, even for your kind heart to bear. I can’t send this. I will close it up, put it alongside your charming, banal letters. It will infect your letters. It will make them sick. This letter is too mad even for me, a woman you stare at, fascinated by the wildness in me—I know it—I feel it. Oh, Charlotte Temple, with your prissy little face, you wish you were wild as me. You have no secrets, you have no depth. Without your family, without your money, you are nothing, nothing. I could teach you a thing or two.

  And as this will never go to you, I should say it—I hated, hated, the one novel I read of Silas Merrill, your alter ego, your pen-name. Stupid inanities. You call yourself a writer—you don’t know a thing. Why sign this? It won’t be sent. It would shock you to the very death, and I don’t want you to die.

  From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House,

  Blackbird Bay, Templeton

  The twenty-eighth of January, 1862

  My dearest Cinnamon,

  Oh, my dear, I am so worried about you! It has been three weeks and you have not responded to my letter. At first, I was afraid you were angry because I did not write for so long. But then I remembered how distraught you were with your sister’s return, and now I understand that you are simply sick with worry. I went to your house today, and purposefully waylaid Marie-Claude to press her about you. I don’t know why you complain; she is a dear girl, actually quite pretty with her dark hair and pink cheeks. She babbled so excitedly to me about you, and I must say her French is so garbled and Canadian, that I had difficulty understanding her. Still, I understood that you were very ill, that you do not sleep, that you barely eat, that you have lost so much weight that your clothing hangs upon you and she can see your bones. She says that you have covered all the mirrors and windows and are burning twenty candles a night. She wept, Cinnamon; you have a good servant in her. She frightened me so that I almost ran into your house, in the broad daylight, propriety be damned!

  I don’t mean that, of course. I care about your reputation in this town, and will be as proper as I must be; but I must admit I care for your health more.

  I will take this action: if you do not respond by the end of two days, I will steal over the ice the way I did when I comforted you about your sister’s return. And I will nurse you back to health every day until you can stand again. We need you in town, Cinnamon; I heard Nat Pomeroy is looking for a rich wife. There! I am sure I made you laugh.

  About your sister: I have not heard much. Of course, with all of the troops coming into town, there is little attention left over for strange women. What a terrible noise the young soldiers make. You wouldn’t recognize Templeton; there is public drunkenness in the streets, and gambling, and the silly Templeton girls with their heads all in a whirl with the handsome officers paying them attention. Thousands of boys chopping through the ice to bathe in the cold lake; they find it funny, but it’s a scandal, there is public nudity everywhere, in plain winter! Soon they will be gone, however, to the South, and some will never return to their homes again. I suppose we should have a little forbearance in the meantime.

  Now I am going to tell you some news that will make you swoon, my dear. On our walks, Monsieur Le Quoi has begun to push me against a tree and kiss me until my knees bend despite myself. And should I shock you, for once? He has begun to press for more. Here is a note he has written me, in its entirety (I have translated it: I do not know how good your French is, after all these years):

  My lovely violet,

  I have returned to my shabby chambers at the Academy after having frozen my feet in a marshy bit of your lawn, awaiting your signal in the window of your father’s study. I had urged you to adopt the plan so that bliss could be ours, but, alas, I waited in vain. Why do you torment me so? There are others in this town who have shown me some interest, but, still, I await you, my chaste little chickadee. As I have assured you, I do not need your money; when I come into my inheritance, I will have more than enough for ten wives; I only need you. Your pretty face! Your beautiful soul! Say the word and we will be as husband and wife. I shall await your signal every night until you can no longer resist me.

  Fondly,

  Your admirer

  Cinnamon, it took all the force in my body to keep my hands from lighting that lamp in my father’s study. Your little pupil is learning so well! I shall have a husband shortly, it seems. Should I give in before we have announced our betrothal? What do you think? Oh, this is so indiscreet. But you will keep my secrets, won’t you? I cannot wait to hear from you. Please do write, my dear heart. I am torn between my great elation and my worry for you.

  My fondest regards,

  Charlotte Temple

  Averell Cottage, Templeton

  February 5, 1862

  My dearest Charlotte—

  I am sorry to have been such a worry to you—I have been very ill, indeed, as you saw when you visited. I frightened you—I apologize. I do feel better after your ministrations. Perhaps you are right—perhaps I could not sleep for the noise of the regiments in the park below my house. Or, perhaps it was Mudge’s tincture—perhaps it wasn’t strong enough. Nevertheless, I have slept for three days entire, and feel as if in some part of me I am sleeping still. I no longer see my husbands. Forgive me, though, my superstition, as you called it, for I somehow know that they are still here. Knowing that they are near me, and not being able to see them—this is somewhat more frightening than seeing them everywhere.

  I wonder, though, why you seemed to take fright when you entered my chamber. How was it that your eyes followed my Paul as he paced from corner to corner of the room? Or that you seemed oppressed when Abraham was leaning over the bed? I don’t understand. Can you see them also?

  Charlotte, I need a pledge from you. I have a terrible thing weighing on me, but before I tell you, I must extract, in return, a secret from you. You must tell me the deepest thing within you, the thing you never would tell a single soul.

  Until you send me this proof of your affection, I shall tell you what I did just after your last visit. You will be shocked, I am sure. But, Charlotte, I dressed in my husbands’ clothing—Godfrey’s breeches, Sam’s waistcoat, Abraham’s boots, my darling Paul’s cap tightly on my head. Thin as I am now, I pass as a boy quite nicely, and with Sam’s false sideburns (he could never grow any himself) and the hat pulled low, I was quite convincing. And then—you shall be terribly surprised—and then I went o
ut of my cold, lonely house, and into the nighttime street.

  Charlotte—it felt so wonderful—I was set free. My soul felt unpacked, a dress unfolding from tissue. My darling, I walked in those busy, wintry streets (such teeming hordes of men! Oh, Charlotte, how the regiments and the Academy have quite filled this town up—men thronging the streets—handsome men, laughing men, drunken men, men in carriages, men on horseback, men trying to ride the back of the poor Peck boy as if he were a horse—he laughing—drool shining on the idiot’s chin!). I saw few faces I knew, none that knew me, boy that I was. I wandered, in my daze of humanity, drinking it in. I have been so lonely. And at last, I found myself before the Leatherstocking Hotel.

  Let me describe it—the shadows moving behind the curtains, dark across light in the night, the line of men stretching out onto the walk and down to the greengrocer’s, awaiting entry. I made my way, Charlotte, around the alleys, passed through the empty sheds behind the storefronts on Second Street, found the kitchen door of my sister’s establishment. There was no one there in the kitchen—I went in. It was filthy, with caked plates, sweets, cakes piled high, even flies, in the middle of winter!, dirt everywhere. I slipped into the parlor. There was a man in a plaid jacket playing the organ—it looked familiar—I do wonder if it weren’t the organ from the Temple Manor. I recall seeing one so very similar in your family’s house—so simple and unadorned and strange-sounding. It wouldn’t be put past my sister to steal from your family’s house. There was a large red parrot squawking at the men who were drinking in the parlor and laughing. My sister was there, in her men’s garb, mountainous, severe, the only concession to her femininity a peacock fan waving in her face, collecting money from men who came downstairs and went out.

  I hid behind a plant that offered a full view of the room, without allowing me to be watched. I waited.

  And the men I saw, Charlotte—some, I dare to shock you—those we know. Even Father Henrick, that German Catholic priest, though he hid behind a screen in the kitchen. Solomon Falconer. Nat Pomeroy. Even Dr. Spotter and his oily forehead. More I could name, but won’t. I cowered there for some time, and nobody seemed to see me in the room. I was certain Ginger did not see me—and yet, she stood at one point and said, in her deep voice, “I feel a draft. Would anybody like a little cake while I’m up?” And the men cheered—this must have been some sort of code, and Ginger strode and rumbled by me, looking at me as she passed and nodding, so I knew I was to follow her. I did, after a minute.

  Ginger was waiting for me behind the door as I came in. “So,” she said, shutting it, leaning her bulk against it, laughing. “So, Cin, you come to visit me at my place of business, I see. Breaking your sacred contract to your dead husband. In this garb. Sacrilege!” And she flicked at my collar.

  “I came,” I said, “to see my sister. To see how she is doing.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, surprised.

  For a moment, my sister and I gazed at one another. Then the boy in the green dress came down the kitchen stairs, the priest behind him, and he gave the old man a little kiss at the door as he went out. The boy turned to us, and his lovely face lit up.

  “Oh, Papa Gin,” he said, softly, “your sister, she looks so like a boy. I’m sure she’d hit it off good with the Academy boys.”

  Ginger laughed and kissed him on the lips, long, lovingly. “Go,” she said to him, “go back to work, my little love.” And when he curtseyed and went back into the parlor, my sister turned to me again, her eyes still shining. “What you say, Cin? Here for a job?” She stepped forward, as if to embrace me.

  I backed toward the door. “I am a respectable woman,” I gasped.

  Ginger pursed her lips and the smile died from her eyes. “Ain’t what I heard.”

  I was furious. “As if I care what you heard, Ginger,” I said. “You’re going to hell.”

  She snorted. And then she said, so softly it could have been a whisper, “Hell. Already there, aren’t we. And your husbands, they say hello.”

  I fled. At home, my heart pounded so loudly it drove me to distraction and I dosed myself with too much of Mudge’s draught. I awoke today, three days later, Marie-Claude frowning down at me in my bed, a bowl of soup in her hands. I ate it, and it gave me the strength to write now to you.

  Send me proof of your loyalty now, Charlotte, and help me ease my trouble. Do it quickly, as soon as you get my letter. Please, Charlotte—I am lost.

  Your friend,

  Cinnamon

  From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House,

  Blackbird Bay, Templeton

  The Seventh of February, 1862

  My dear Cinnamon,

  What a queer demand you make of me! I have had a fearful two days, debating if I should tell you what you ask of me, but I have decided that, yes, I shall. If anyone can help you ease your soul, I am the one who must try very hard to do so. Today I have not one, but two proofs of my love for you: two secrets, two confessions. I am sure you shall suspect the first. Last night, I lit the lantern in my father’s study, and Monsieur Le Quoi responded. Presently, I believe I shall be a married woman, Cinnamon. Oh, it makes me laugh with joy!

  The second I am sure you could never guess. Last night, do you remember the men shouting in the night, the fire brigades, the clang of bells? The courthouse burnt—perhaps Marie-Claude told you?

  It was I, Cinnamon. I am the incendiary. How, you are asking, did I do so? How, when I was in my house on Blackbird Bay, more than one mile away, in the arms of the man who will be my husband? You will not believe me. Cinnamon, I do not rightly know how I do it. It has always been this way for me. In times of great emotion, I somehow set fires. That night at Hyde Hall, after Susanna Clarke’s treachery, I set a fire in an outbuilding, though I did not leave my room: I set the fires in Phinney’s printing press on a night when Monsieur Le Quoi said he loved me: I set the fires before I met Monsieur Le Quoi on nights when I was so sad because I was old and lonely and would never be a spouse or a mother! I, the one you would never guess!

  It has always been like this; my first fire was in a field in France when I was just a little girl, and I was sure my father was about to leave my family. I stared at the field so fiercely, three bearded grasses caught fire and the flame spread but then the wind killed it when it was just born. And then in a hotel in London, when my sister Daisy slapped me for having cut her little dolly’s dress: I set a fire in the parlor there, though we were playing in the gardens in the back. And then, on our first night in Templeton, I set a fire to a barn, and on and on: I was slighted by Mr. Woodside, who was building the mansion on the hill; I set the foundations aflame; all of the recent fires in town, all I, under my emotion!

  Last night, I was so happy, the courthouse went up in flames. We are lucky the Phinney Brigade is so good, or else the poor prisoners would be only cracklings today. When I can control my emotions, I can control the fires, also. When I cannot, things alight, and the poor courthouse that my beloved grandfather built is now charred and gutted. I would like to feel sorry for this: I am too happy.

  I don’t expect you to believe this. Who could have such powers? But, Cinnamon, this is the truth. I shall show you. Build a fire in your grate tonight at eight o’clock, but don’t set it alight. At precisely the hour, I will set it, and it will flame up first green, then gold.

  You have them, my two dearest confessions. Now you know everything—now you can see inside my soul. Please tell me yours, for I am so eager to help you bear your burdens, my darling. I almost ripped this to shreds again—I have made this confession in other letters, but I could never before reach the end. No, I shall send it. I trust you completely.

  Your greatest friend,

  Charlotte Temple

  February 9

  Charlotte—

  Forgive my scribble—I do believe you—I saw the flames in my grate with my own eye. I am glad of your confession—here is mine. Oh, I pray you will not hate me—but I will die if I do not confess this to
a kind soul! Here it is—I poisoned my husbands, but only three of them, Paul died naturally, thrown from a horse. Godfrey and Sam, strychnine, Abraham, arsenic. All purchased from Mudge. He hissed, “Big rats, you have there.” I was simply tired, of the husbands, of their hands, always wanting, always wanting me, always coming into my room, never leaving me alone. I am a terrible person—I will go to hell. But now that I have told, they are leaving, I feel them drawing away—what relief. They are leaving! Yet I fear I shall harm Ginger, too—I am as worked up as I have always been when I decided to poison before—she is poisoning the town, I should poison her. We will be so peaceful when she is gone, Templeton will grow healthy again.

  There. I have done it. Now you know everything, everything. You shall forgive me—I know your secrets, also—and now you know mine. It is as if the burden of the world were lifted from my shoulders, Charlotte. I can breathe, at last!

  Cinnamon

  Averell Cottage

  10 March, 1862

  My darling Charlotte—

  You have cured me! Thank you for allowing me my confession. I was all in a fever for three weeks after I sent you my note, but over the last week, I have been better. You have not written—you are perhaps busy with the follies of love? I would be careful of the Frenchman, however—I did not have the chance to tell you this, but it is quite likely he has secrets. You have already given yourself to him, and that is regrettable, but I warn you very gravely—do not give your hand. I know this is not a sweet thing to hear in the midst of love, but I thought you should know from a friend of your heart. If you do not believe me, or if you request proof, I can provide it—I simply wish I should not have to.