June 28, 1842
Mary Rose refused to let the sting at the back of her throat turn to tears. Instead, she drew in a deep breath and reached over her swollen stomach to pluck weeds from between the rows of cabbage seedlings.
Distant wedding bells tolled, calling the Saints to the meetinghouse for the ceremony sealing seven brides to fewer than half as many grooms.
As her knees sank into the loamy soil she gave little thought to the peau de soie gown she wore, one of the few stylish frocks that had survived the voyage and wagon journey to Nauvoo, and the only one with an Empire waist that could accommodate the child growing beneath her heart.
She plunged her hands into the wet soil and breathed in its soft fragrance, thinking of fertility, life, and growth. She would miss her garden; it had been a source of wonder since Bronwyn had helped her turn the first spade of soil. Throughout the winter and early spring they had talked about their plantings: radishes, beans, winter squash, corn, and herbs for cooking; and then they had convinced Gabe and Griffin of their need for an arbor, and amid laughter and loving conversation, all had worked together to build it. Neighbors had supplied them with healthy cuttings of grapevines and berries. With a sense of wonder, she had watched her early garden thrive and felt an almost motherly pride at the tender new growth.
Little more than a year earlier, back in England, the thought had never entered her pampered head that she might take such pleasure in the sun’s warmth on her shoulders, or the burial of a seemingly dry and dead seed that days later pushed its tiny sprout-self through the soil, reaching for the same sunlight that gladdened her heart.
From the henhouse, several yards beyond the garden, the low clucks of hens and higher-pitched peeps of the fresh-hatched chicks brought another wave of sorrow. How could she leave this place she’d grown to love in such a short time? How could she leave the man she loved with every ounce of her being? Especially now that she carried his child?
The gentle breeze cooled her warm cheeks, and she drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the rhythmic music of the farm: the breeze rattling the oak leaves by the creek out back, the low murmurs of hens and chicks, the nickering of a newborn colt, and the answering neigh of his mother in the pasture.
Her eyes filled, and her heart ached with longing as if she’d already hitched the carriage and driven off.
She tried not to think about Gabe’s decision as betrayal, but it crept into her mind anyway. Along with words from an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem…It was thy love proved false and frail. She pictured her love’s face, imagined him with Bronwyn, and for all her strength and determination to hold back her tears, this time she could not. She whispered the words to the last stanza of the poem. The words, as if driven deep with an ice pick, stabbed too close to the marrow of her bones.
Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go!
For if my face is turned too pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail,
It was thy love proved false and frail,
And why, since these be changed enow,
Should I change less than thou.
She drew in a shuddering breath to regain control. She needed every ounce of strength to get through this day. She plunged her hands into the earth, drawing comfort from the cool soil and willing away the pain in her heart.
Gabe had taken his time, first with his toiletries, then with the new trousers and gleaming white shirt Mary Rose had laundered just the day before. As he prepared himself to look his Sunday best, she’d fled to the comfort of her garden. Now she heard his footsteps and pulled the brim of her fancy bonnet lower to shade her face from the unblinking sun. And to avoid her husband’s eyes.
“Why are you out here? It’s almost time to go,” he said.
She kept her back to him. “You shaved twice.”
He laughed. “I often do that. Why should this be any different?”
“You know why.”
“I thought you’d decided to come with me,” he said. “I know it’s difficult for you, but you gave me your word.” If he’d yelled or cursed, it would have hurt less. But as always, he was too much of a gentleman, a loving, kind man, to resort to such behavior.
“I changed my mind,” she said as he helped her stand. She gave him a small half-smile. “A woman is entitled.” In truth, she had dressed for the occasion, planning to make an appearance so none would be the wiser when she hitched the horse to the family buggy and rode off in the night. But when he preened in the mirror and then pulled out his straight razor a second time, she knew that no matter what she and Bronwyn had discussed, Gabe had plans of his own.
He drew her into his arms. “Mary Rose,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “It isn’t right or proper that you stay away, today of all days. It is your duty to welcome Bronwyn into our family, standing by my side. I would not have done this without your consent.”
She slipped out of his embrace and, pushing back her bonnet, looked up at him in rage. But when he swept his hair back in that way he had, raking it with his fingers, her heart overflowed with the same love she’d had for him since the day they’d said their own vows.
“My consent?” She almost laughed. “As if, after Brigham told me my options, I had any say in it. You do not have my consent, regardless of what the elders—and you—might tell others.”
A fancy coach pulled by a single white horse slowed to a halt in front of the house. The groom tipped his hat toward Mary Rose and Gabe and smiled. He’d come to take Gabe to the marriage ceremony.
“Please, Mary Rose…” Gabe moved closer and lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I wouldn’t do this if it had not been decreed by God.”
Her grandfather had always said she inherited his ironclad spine. Today, her spine felt weaker than the stem of the milkweed that lay wilting in the sun at her feet.
She straightened, preferring the image of iron wrapped around her spine. “In your heart of hearts,” she said softly, “can you really go through with this?” She started to touch his cheek, but instead first brushed off her hands. When she lifted her hand again, he caught it and covered it with his own. Turning it he kissed her palm. “We love each other,” she said. “Our love has more to do with us than it does with the Saints. We fell in love before we even met the Prophet.” She searched his eyes for the response she longed to see—a love for her that would be strong enough to say no to the Prophet’s new edict. It wasn’t there.
“Love has nothing to do with it. I’ve already explained—and really, Mary Rose, I shouldn’t have to keep going over it.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve not fallen in love with Bronwyn. I don’t deny I care about her. Her husband was my friend. But every ounce of love in my heart is yours alone.”
He touched her face, letting the backs of his fingers trace her jawline. The gesture was so familiar, so intimate, she could easily have wept. Except for the image that came to her: her husband touching Bronwyn’s face with the same intimacy, perhaps as soon as this night.
She drew in a deep breath and then stepped back, crossing her arms. “Perhaps the Prophet has interpreted God’s edict correctly—and I’m not the only first wife in Nauvoo to wonder—but tell me, Gabe, why did it have to be Bronwyn? And why does it have to be marriage? We could bring her into our home, take care of her and Little Grace for as long as they need us. Surely you recognize my feelings in this matter and can respect them. I would be happy to have her join our family under those conditions.”
One didn’t go against the Prophet’s edicts, which came from God himself. But she also knew that the Prophet chose Gabe to care for an important martyr’s widow because of his rising status within the hierarchy of the Church. If Mary Rose hadn’t been so appalled over the whole thing, she would have laughed at the shading of the real truth: The strikingly beautiful Bronwyn, with her vivacious charm and hardy Welsh constitution, was a gift, perhaps a reward, for Gabe’s loyalty and friendship.
“Bronwyn and her child are alone and in need,” Gabe said. “She has no way to provide a home for herself or food for Little Grace. Bronwyn is a good woman. You are the dearest of friends, already as close as sisters.” He shrugged. “It will be a happy household, just as Joseph has borne witness of his own. Brigham reports the same contentment among his wives. Initially jealousy and backbiting prevailed, but now his wives love each other like family. Sisters.”
Mary Rose sighed. “The trial period has only been one month. That’s hardly long enough to tell what the outcome will be once the, ah, sleeping arrangements are made, children are born, tasks divided up.”
She hesitated, turning her gaze away from him. A butterfly landed on the dying milkweed then fluttered away. “We’ve talked about this, you know,” Mary Rose said, her eyes following the insect as it landed on a clump of squash blossoms. “Bronwyn and I.”
She didn’t like the way the corner of his mouth quirked into a slight smile. “And what was your conclusion?”
“Should you decide to go through with the wedding, you will have no…rights. Conjugal rights.”
“So you two have decided that for me.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “See, you’re behaving like sisters already.”
Mary Rose saw no humor in his words, but she had no time to voice her opinion before he continued, grabbing her hands again. “You know the Prophet speaks of anointing me as one of his chosen twelve soon. So, my dear, it is my honor and my responsibility as a priest, as an apostle of God, to carry out the revelations given by his representative on earth, our Prophet. I have no choice.” He paused, then added, “If I did have a choice…”
“You would go through with it anyway,” Mary Rose said softly. “But I have a choice. I can accept Bronwyn into our household or not.”
She looked into Gabe’s eyes without flinching, and when she spoke it was with quiet but desperate firmness. “If you go through with this, I won’t be here when you return.”
Silence fell between them as he stared at her. “Surely you can’t mean that,” he said. “You’re…with child. Where would you go, what would you do?” She looked deeper into his eyes, trying to fathom the emotion she saw there. He paused and then swallowed hard. She had indeed taken him by surprise. “I love you. No matter what else happens, I swear to you I will always love you. You can’t leave me, Mary Rose. Please say you won’t.”
“You leave me no choice, my love.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t wish to but I must.”
“Exactly where would you go?”
“Back to England, of course.”
For a long moment he didn’t speak. In front of the farmhouse, one of the horses whinnied and the other danced sideways, sending up a cloud of dust. “You do not want to do that,” he finally said.
His tone made her heart stop for an instant.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you forgotten?”
She frowned.
“Once sealed to me for eternity, you simply cannot leave. You would be accused of apostasy—”
“Which would bring harm to your reputation, to your authority as a priest and apostle?” She fought but failed to keep the bitterness from her tone.
He stepped closer, his eyes piercing hers. “That’s of little regard compared to what would happen to you.”
She tilted her head, still frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Apostasy is not condoned. Apostates, those who leave, are caught and returned.” His voice dropped. “Punished.” He stared into her eyes for a moment, and then turned to go.
Mary Rose stared after him, gaping. “I don’t believe you,” she said to his back. “I’m free to leave at any time.”
“I thought you loved me,” he tossed back, his voice thick with agony.
“I do. More than life itself,” she whispered, her eyes brimming. She doubted that he heard her. “But not enough to share you with another.”
She watched until he’d almost reached the carriage, and then she turned back to the garden. She knelt, and then gasped as a searing pang shot through her abdomen. She doubled over and attempted to shout to Gabe, but the sound wouldn’t leave her throat.
He didn’t break stride as he continued toward the waiting carriage. Seconds passed, then an even greater jabbing pain made her cry out.
A gush of water warmed her legs and soaked through the peau de soie into the garden soil around where she lay. She’d barely caught her breath when, too soon, another contraction came, pulling her into a dark velvet place: images of seedlings growing in the sunlight, of a blossoming milkweed torn from the ground and bleeding white blood, then, finally, of Gabe bending over her, his eyes filled with tears.
She heard him say to someone standing beside him, “The baby is coming. We need help.” Then the velvet black darkness enveloped her again, and she surrendered to it.
Mary Rose’s eyes fluttered open. She lay in her bed, on her side, facing the window. A soft breeze fluttered the gingham curtains, and a mockingbird trilled from somewhere near the apple orchard out back.
“Gabriel, let me take over for a while. You’re needed downstairs,” a soft voice said behind Mary Rose.
Her husband murmured something Mary Rose couldn’t make out, and then she heard the creak of the wood-plank floor as he moved across the room. A moment later the door closed with a click.
Bronwyn came around the bed. Her eyes swollen and red, she looked weary, as if she’d gone days without sleep. Or had endured something tragic.
Mary Rose searched her friend’s face. “The wedding…?” she breathed.
Bronwyn smiled gently and touched Mary Rose’s forehead. “You are improving,” she said. “You have had us very worried. You had a difficult time of it, but you’re healing now.” She turned to a small lace-covered table beside the bed, picked up a pitcher, and poured water into a glass. She slipped her arm beneath Mary Rose’s pillows to support her head, and then held the rim of the glass to her lips. “For now, you must continue to rest,” she said as Mary Rose gratefully took a drink. She returned the glass to the table.
Mary Rose settled back into her pillows and closed her eyes. She expected her friend to stay with her for a time, sit in the rocker by the bed, but instead Bronwyn’s light, quick footsteps crossed the floor, the door opened then closed, and all was silent.
Silence?
Shouldn’t she hear the sound of a fussing infant? Or his soft breathing in a cradle near her bed?
Where was her baby?