Chapter 8

She wore a yellowed nightgown underneath an enormous gray shawl. Standing in her dark doorway, she seemed little more than a shadow herself. Her skin was pale beneath its carpet of freckles, and her hair—the color of sunset—sprang from beneath a flannel cap in a mass of thick, coarse curls. Eventually, her thin, pinched face broke into a smile, revealing small, crowded teeth, and she flung the door open wide.

“Come in! Come in!”

I did, and we were immediately in each other’s arms, embracing as we always did, as if ages had passed since we last saw each other. This time, however, such sentiment was warranted, as we hadn’t seen each other since before my husband’s second marriage. We were almost the same age, Evangeline Moss and I, but as I held her in my arms that night, she felt infinitely older. There was a frail, brittle quality to her body, like she could snap beneath my touch, but when I attempted to pull away, she clutched me tighter.

“Oh, when I said my prayers tonight to Heavenly Father, I felt something in my spirit that you would come to see me.”

“Really?” I disengaged myself carefully and stepped back. Her entire upper arm—sleeve and shawl and all—fit comfortably within my encircling fingers. “Well, then, maybe we could go inside. You must be freezing out here.”

“Of course. And you too, I suppose, although you’re wearing a cloak and hood and everything, but still . . .”

She chatted nervously, giving me time to turn and send a final wave to where I assumed Colonel Brandon was watching. And then we were inside.

Truthfully, air on this side of Evangeline’s door was not much warmer than that in the street. The only light came from a single candle sitting on a small table just inside.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m afraid the parlor’s not very tidy.”

“Anywhere I can sit down.” The day’s ride and recent walk were beginning to take their toll.

“Parlor, then, but you must excuse the mess.” She picked up the candle, and only the long shadows on the wall indicated that we were not merely two friends visiting. We talked about the weather—the welcome break from snow and the pleasure of a mild winter afternoon. “So I’m surprised you didn’t bring the girls with you to visit.”

And that’s when I realized—Evangeline had no idea that I’d left my husband, that I’d been in hiding for nearly a month, that this was no ordinary call. But the lateness of the hour, the fatigue I felt clear to my very bones kept my conversation from plunging to anything deeper than polite replies to Evangeline’s chitchat. I balanced on the side of truth, saying I knew the girls were safe and sound at home, and I simply wanted to get away for a while.

“It’s getting a little crowded at our house,” I said, forcing a lighthearted tone.

“I can imagine.”

But I wondered if she could. I’d known Evangeline almost as long as I’d known Nathan. We’d traveled together in the same emigrant party and become as close as sisters during the journey. Her mother died of fever on the trail, and it was I who’d brushed and braided the woman’s hair to prepare her for the grave. Days after we arrived in the valley, Mr. Moss suffered a terrible stroke and Evangeline devoted herself to his care for the six long years it took him to die. Her younger brothers lit out for England the minute they were old enough to serve as missionaries for the church, leaving Evangeline utterly alone.

As the candle’s flame slowly filled the room with light, I began to see why she would be so reluctant to entertain a guest in her parlor. There never had been anything posh about her furnishings, and from what I could tell, she had the same threadbare sofa she’d always had, though there did seem to be a new addition of two upholstered chairs. I couldn’t be sure, however, because on this night the furniture wasn’t even visible. In fact, very little about the room would identify it as a front parlor. The floor was littered with blankets spilling down from what I knew to be a lovely floral-print sofa hidden underneath. Dresses and stockings draped over the matching chairs, and the short-legged oak table in the center was littered with assorted dishes. Even in this dim light I could see they were dirty.

“I mostly stay down here during the winter months,” she said, moving piles aside. “It saves on fuel if I only light one stove.”

“Very frugal of you.” I dropped my bundle on the floor next to the newly exposed chair before dropping myself down into it. From what I could see behind the cold grate, this room had known very little warmth.

“I’d offer you something to eat, but the fire’s already out.”

“That’s fine.” It took all my grace to ignore the rumbling in my stomach.

“Maybe a slice of bread? And I have a jar of pumpkin butter—” she drummed her fingertips together and glanced side to side—“but it’s late and one really shouldn’t go to sleep on a full stomach. Bad for the digestion. Unless you’re going to be leaving right away? Are you?”

It was the first question she’d asked of me since my arrival, and her utter lack of curiosity tore at my heart. Was she so lonely that the midnight visit of a friend prompted nothing more than an apology for a messy parlor? Her credulity swathed me in guilt. Short of those in ministry and my own husband, Evangeline was the most fervently dedicated Saint I knew, and had she any clue about the state of my faith, she never would have deigned to offer me bread and pumpkin butter. Still, though the darkness and cold outside were only marginally less inviting than those within her walls, I chose to hold my tongue. There’d be time enough for truth in the morning.

* * *

It certainly wasn’t the worst place I’d ever slept. Wagon beds, barn floors, even hard ground under a star-filled sky—all at one time had served as substitutes for a feather-filled mattress. But in terms of ironlike discomfort, nothing compared to stretching out on a threadbare quilt spread over the solid plank floors of Evangeline’s parlor. I couldn’t give my makeshift bed full credit for my sleeplessness. My left hand throbbed with cold, like a thin steel blade thrust clear to my elbow, and Evangeline’s distinctive snore—an endless succession of three short whistles—robbed me of any sense of peace. Sometime just before dawn, the cold and the noise and the pain surrendered to my exhaustion, and my eyes dropped down to the back of my head, smothered in sleep.

I dreamed of my daughters during those short hours. Our little home sat in the middle of a shallow basin, and whenever we came back from a church meeting or the trading post, they would run ahead, drop at the top of the swelling hill, and roll to the bottom—over and over again—while Nathan and I strolled, hand in hand, wrapped in their laughter. My dream captured such a scene, so real that I could feel Nathan’s fingers intertwined in mine. I awoke to find my own fingers laced across my heart and my daughters’ names caught in my throat. Oh, how I didn’t want to open my eyes, not while my mind echoed with Lottie’s sweet laughter, but soon enough another voice invaded, and I felt a twiglike grip on my shoulder.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Her voice was as close to singing as it could ever be. “I see you’re a late sleeper, too. I usually don’t get up until I absolutely have to. Sometimes it’s nine or ten o’clock.”

“Ten o’clock?” I struggled to my elbows and sat up.

“Relax. It’s just past nine. But you must have needed your sleep. Here, I’ll help you up.”

Evangeline stood above me, her hands extended down. Without giving it a thought, I reached up to grasp them.

“Camilla! Your hand—what happened?”

“Oh, that.” Even then I knew I was in for a lifetime of explanation, but I was not compelled to give my friend the entire story that morning. “Frostbite.”

“Oh, how terrible. I hope Nathan wasn’t affected the same way.”

“Nathan’s fine.” I was steadily on my feet by now and, short as I was, nearly a head taller.

“He wasn’t out with you?”

“No.”

“You were out alone?”

“Yes.” Already I longed for the girl from last night who seemed never to ask a single question.

“And so what did he use? I mean, was it Nathan? Or a doctor? Was it a knife? Or I’ve heard sometimes toes can be snapped off with your bare hands. But not fingers. Although yours are small—”

“Evangeline, please. This was not the most pleasant experience of my life, and I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.”

“Oh.” She sulked then, just as my daughter Melissa did whenever she couldn’t have her own way.

“I’m sorry,” I said, squeezing one of her hands with my whole one. “It’s just that we haven’t seen each other for ages. Surely there are more pleasant things to talk about.”

Immediately she was beaming again. “Of course. You must be half-starved by now. Come into the kitchen.”

I followed her into the small, gray room just past the stairway. Here, finally, a small fire in the stove waged battle against the icy room, and I took to it like a moth, alternately blowing on my hands and holding them out toward it.

“You know,” Evangeline said with pride, “Brother Brigham himself set my fuel allowance for the winter. I went straight to him and said, ‘Just because I live alone doesn’t mean I need to freeze in my own bed.’ He’s really the kindest man I’ve ever met. So generous. He says I’m to stay in this house until my situation changes.”

Had there been some way to capture the tone of her voice, the room would have transformed to a desert at high noon in July.

“That is quite generous of him.” The coolness behind my own words did not daunt her in the least.

“And I happen to know that he personally sees to it that his wives send their mending and washing to me so I can earn a little.”

“Enough to pay a tithe, no doubt.”

“As we all should,” she said, suddenly quite serious. “These are dark times we’re facing. But you might not realize, living as far away as you do. And now that we have this bright new day, you can tell me what brings you into Salt Lake City.”

“I don’t wish to be rude,” I said, inching away from the stove, “but perhaps we could have a little breakfast first?”

Evangeline slapped her palm against her forehead. “There, see how I am? I’ll get to talking and then I’m likely to forget my own head. You, you’re the guest. Sit.”

I obeyed, though it was difficult to relax in the wake of her nervous preparations. First on the table was a pitcher of milk brought over by a generous neighbor. It was, I could feel, still warm, and I longed to drink great gulps of it, knowing full well I’d not have the cup of coffee I’d grown so used to having in the morning.

Evangeline reached inside a larder and sliced two thin strips of bacon, which she set to sizzling in a large pan. She apologized for not having any eggs—they would have to wait until her next Ladies’ Aid basket arrived. She did, however, produce a loaf of bread from which she cut two lacy-thin slices. These she threaded onto a long metal fork and placed inside the oven to toast.

“Helps to melt the butter,” she said, giving the yellow ball in the middle of the table a convincing pat.

“No pumpkin butter?” My eyes went to the jar full of the orange stuff sitting on the shelf above the sink.

“Oh, I thought we’d save that for a treat with supper. If you’re going to be here for supper. You will, won’t you?”

“I will now,” I said, and she laughed, clapping her hands with girlish glee. Once again, her joy ripped at my heart, and I wondered just how long two people could live with an unspoken falsehood between them. Soon enough, though, I had a slice of bacon on the plate in front of me and a thin slice of toast so crispy the sound of my chewing drowned out whatever conversation came from the other side of the table. In between bites, I drank my fill of warm, fresh milk, and tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I thought of my girls sharing the same treat at home.

However, a meal can last only so long, especially one so meager. As we both swiped a finger across our plates to swab up our crumbs, Evangeline asked, “Why are you here, Camilla?”

My finger was actually in my mouth at the time, allowing me a few seconds of grace to phrase my response. “I want to stay here for a while. With you, if that’s all right.”

“Why? Did Nathan send you away?”

“No,” I answered, a little too quickly. The hunger in her question startled me, though it shouldn’t have. Evangeline had loved Nathan longer than I’d even known him, and her affections hadn’t altered after all these years.

She appeared unconvinced. “I can understand how he’d want a little time alone with his new wife.”

“They’ve been married four months.”

“So did she send you here?”

“Sister Amanda does not tell me what to do. If anything—” I stopped myself, knowing that giving in to my temper would lead me to reveal more than I wanted. “It’s just . . . all of us, in that small house. Like I said last night—we get so crowded.”

“You usually stay with Rachel when you come into town.”

I forced a casual laugh. “Well, Rachel’s house would hardly be the place for someone looking for solitude.”

“I see.” She stood abruptly, snatching my plate right out from under me. “So you figured poor old Evangeline needs the company, right? Never mind all the times I might like to have company, or even be a guest in someone’s home when it’s not time for a funeral.” She dropped the dishes in the sink basin and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Camilla. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”

“It’s all right.” I rose and placed my arm across her bony shoulders. “Remember, you were supposed to be there for the baby’s dedication. I would have spared you the funeral had it been in my power.”

“But doesn’t it give you great joy to know that your little boy has returned to Heavenly Father?”

I carefully chose my words. “I know he’s in the arms of Jesus, and yes, that gives me comfort.”

Evangeline pulled away and poured warm water from the kettle into the washing tub. Our simple fare didn’t call for soap.

“I’ll never have a baby of my own, you know.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, bringing our cups from the table. “You’re still a young woman—we both are. And I know you’ll find a husband sometime. Soon, in fact. As soon as you like.”

“You don’t understand.” She looked for all the world like a woman poised on the point of confession, like she was holding a hundred secrets at bay. I didn’t pry, having secrets of my own. Something told me that an ill-placed word might burst the dam of undesirable confession built up between us. Instead, I quietly helped her with the quick task of tidying up the kitchen, keeping my own story stopped up at the top of my throat.

“I won’t make you sleep on the parlor floor tonight,” Evangeline said, running a dry towel over the clean table. “You’re welcome to one of the rooms upstairs, for as long as you want.”

I placed the clean plates on the shelf. “I won’t be a bother.”

“You can take a bed warmer up with you. If you go to sleep real fast, you’ll be warm enough.”

“I’ll be fine, Evangeline. Remember, I live in the same winter as you.”

“And I won’t ask you about anything, unless you want to tell me. About why you’re here, I mean.”

“You’re a good friend. And that’s all I need right now.”

Seeming satisfied with both my answer and her kitchen, Evangeline led me back into her parlor. She stopped in the doorway, planting her hands on her narrow hips. “Well, it looks like we have a harder row to hoe in here, don’t we?”

“I’ve seen worse.” I picked up the tray of dishes from the small table and headed back to the kitchen, thankful we hadn’t tossed out the wash water. It felt good, having something to do. I shaved soap into the water and set the dishes to soak. I pictured Evangeline eating alone by the dim light of her parlor stove, steps away from where she would bed down for the night. Her situation made her every bit as much a prisoner as I’d ever been, yet there didn’t seem to be any hope for her release in sight.

By the time I returned to the parlor, she had folded up most of the bedding and placed it in a large wicker basket that she stashed behind the sofa. I opened the drapes, ushering in the morning sun, and the flooding light instantly transformed the room, giving it a cheeriness neither of us could echo.

“You can take your things upstairs,” Evangeline said, nodding toward my little bundle sitting on the high-backed chair. “Any room you like.”

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

She shook her head. “I don’t go upstairs very often anymore. I keep thinking I should take in a boarder or two. I guess I’ll practice with you.”

Her weak smile reassured me that her last statement was a joke, though I knew if I’d offered any sum of money, she would have snatched it from my hand.

I picked up my bag and mounted the narrow stairway, twisting around the narrow turn. The second floor had an unusual frigid mustiness, like an attic. From earlier visits I knew the far bedroom was that where Brother Moss had lain, motionless, until he took his final breath. Drawing my own shuddering one, I knew I could never stay in there. Just to my left was the boys’ room—both of its narrow beds stripped clean of linens, though the walls were still littered with drawings. Curiosity drew me in, and I stepped around, observing the childish yet sincere sketches of Mormon heroes. Samuel the Lamanite facing a sea of arrows; Ammon bearing a mighty sword. These men—these figments of Joseph Smith’s imagination—took precedence over the heroes of God’s holy Word. Little wonder their images were left intact, while every other personal belonging was tucked away in bureau drawers.

Shuddering, I moved on to Evangeline’s own room, though I didn’t like to think I was keeping her from sleeping in her own bed. Still, she’d stated her preference strongly enough, and I stepped over the threshold pleased at what I saw. A cheerful log-cabin-pattern quilt was spread across what looked like a soft bed with soft pillows piled against a white iron headboard. The curtains were drawn, but I pushed them aside to reveal a view of the now-bustling street below. The braided rug on the floor was well worn, and a thin layer of dust lay across the surface of the desk and dresser, but otherwise the room was clean and tidy.

I had few enough belongings to stow away. I wore my only dress, though I had a few underthings and stockings to stash in the bottom drawer. My Bible was given a new home on the table next to the bed and finally, the three stubs of candle Colonel Brandon had given me with his rather dire instruction. At the moment, standing in a pool of sunlight, I could not imagine what terror could befall me that I would need to summon his soldiers in the night. Then again, there was a time I never would have imagined myself anywhere but in the loving arms of my husband. And before that, in the protective custody of my father. So with just a hint of ceremony, I lined the three candles—each wide enough to stand without the benefit of a holder—along the windowsill. Just seeing them there gave me an added layer of comfort, and out of curiosity, I hazarded a glance out the window to see if I could get a glimpse of one of the men sent to patrol.

But no. No mounted soldier in uniform astride a noble horse. No collection of young men gathered to stand at attention. I pressed my head closer to the glass. How would I know what to look for in a military patrol? Colonel Brandon had donned civilian garb to bring me here; it stood to reason any troops he sent out would be similarly dressed.

Then, just as I was about to step away, I noticed a man standing across the street and two houses down. On this crisp winter morning, he alone stood perfectly still. All about him, men and women bustled about their business. Men hauled handcarts full of wood; women walked in groups of two or three, lost in conversation; children wove themselves throughout, running late toward the sound of the school bell ringing in the distance.

But this man—he wore a dark-blue wool overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. In fact, I might not have seen his eyes at all, save for the fact that his head was tilted straight up, and he was looking right at me.