Chapter 15

Palmyra: September 1829

The summer passed in a long succession of happy days for me, and I am ashamed to admit that I involved myself far less than usual in other people’s affairs. My friends understood, I believe, and left me to my honeymoon idyll in peace—a peace disrupted, aptly so, by a quiet revelation so unexpected and so shocking as to at last divert me away from myself.

Would Phoebe have told me if I had not happened upon her at the market and asked, quite boldly, if I could come to her home for tea?

“Eugene is working long hours with his father. You know the demands on a blacksmith during the summer months. I will admit to missing him dreadfully,” I sighed. “And I must confess that my little house is in good running order,” I explained, “my garden is thriving, and some days I am bored.”

Phoebe shook her head. “You do not know what the word means, Esther.” She smiled. “Let me guess. You bake good things for Eugene each morning, right after you come in from the weeding you do very early, while the air is yet cool. If you have time on your hands in the hot, quiet hours of the afternoon, you read your loved books or write in that little journal I’ve seen you scribbling in. Then you freshen up, and perhaps pick fresh flowers for the table, so you are ready to greet your tired husband when he comes into the house.”

Before she was through I was shaking with laughter. “What a picture you paint!”

“Yes, it is lovely—mostly because it is so accurate.”

I leaned over and gave her a hug. And we scurried like children to pour glasses of tart lemonade and bring out fresh cheese and crackers and little glazed poppy seed cakes. It was only after we were seated companionably together that Phoebe said, “Esther, Simon has asked me to marry him, and I have consented.”

I answered nothing at all, but leaned back against her plump soft pillows, quite out of breath.

“Come, dear friend, you must have some opinion on the matter. Surely you must have thought of the—possibility.”

I shook my head. “Phoebe, did you?” That was an inane, silly question! I quickly added, “I have been most consumingly diverted, you remember. I have not been thinking, really, of much at all.”

“I have been thinking of little else.” She spoke the words simply, in a low tone, but the emotion behind them thrilled through me.

“My dear—”

“I have never stopped loving Simon, you know.”

“I did not think you had,” I replied honestly. “I know you too well.”

She stood and moved about the room in a somewhat distracted manner. “We have discussed the matter in detail.”

“Already?”

“Well, there is much to consider—not least being the soonest we dare set a date to be wed.”

“Yes, well, there will always be those who will criticize, no matter how long you wait.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “And what is considered ‘proper’ must be seriously amended, since there is a child in the picture who is in need of a mother’s care.”

“I hope people will see it that way and be generous.”

“Most will, I believe.”

We both paused. We both were thinking of the same thing. “Do you know what Simon has named the infant—well, the choice was Emily’s, really.”

“Eugene told me what he thought it was to be,” I said honestly.

“Yes, it is Esther.”

“I am deeply moved.”

“So am I. It seems fitting, somehow.”

“And will perhaps make it a little easier for you to love this child as your own, dear heart.”

“I truly pray, Esther, that I will have no difficulty there.”

“And the mother’s shadow, everywhere about you in the house?” I felt I had to say it.

“Trust you to face the hard issues head on!” Phoebe sighed, and the sound shuddered all through her system. “He loved me, you know he did. But he chose her before me. I cannot forget that. I have had to live with it this past year and more.” She drew her breath, as though the very speaking of the words had been painful. “But I never despised Emily for it. She had no more control in the matter than I did.”

“I believe that is true.”

“So heaven has ordained that her happiness was short lived, but that I should not be cheated out of mine. How can I not be grateful, Esther—and happy?”

How can you not be—angel that you are! “Does Simon know what a prize he has?” I cried. “Does he love you sufficiently, Phoebe?”

“He will. He is still mourning, and he turns to me in need. But the love is there, too. If I did not feel this, if I did not know this, I would have refused him.”

“Your wisdom is sufficient,” I said, reaching for her hand. “It satisfies me.” Her face lit with a gentle glow. “And when you are married, I shall sew your dress, as you sewed all of ours, and it shall be the plainest, most ill-fitting gown any bride in Palmyra has ever worn!”

We were giggling again, like girls. And I realized what a long time it had been since I had seen Phoebe truly at ease, and happy—and it made my heart sing.

Eugene’s mother was unrelenting. She would not believe it; she would not countenance it! She would give Simon no peace.

“You must do something!” I pleaded with my husband. “You are one of the few people she will listen to.”

“She will listen to no one in this matter.”

“Will you not at least try?”

He opened his mouth to refuse me, but I think he saw the misery in my countenance. I watched him struggle within himself. At length he said shakily, “Yes, it is right that you ask me, Esther. I will try, for your sake.”

How good a man you are, I wanted to say. But the words would have embarrassed him, so I merely kissed him instead, and tried to be especially kind over the following days to compensate for the sacrifice he was resolved to make.

It was in vain, however. His mother was intent upon being miserable and could entertain no view of things but her own. Eugene was frustrated; Simon was hurt; I tried not to think about it. But Phoebe was calm and serene.

“You cannot expect more from the woman right now,” she defended. “She is terrified to let go of her pain—I know how that feels. If the pain goes, her daughter will go with it, or so she believes.”

She soothed us all. Simon wanted the marriage to take place as soon as possible; a quiet ceremony with no one in attendance but the necessary parties and witnesses.

“That is not fair to Phoebe,” I protested. “Every girl deserves a wedding of some sort, and Phoebe has certainly earned hers.”

“She does not desire it,” Simon and Eugene assured me, sitting on my porch one late summer evening. “She feels it would be unseemly.”

“It is not unseemly!” I retorted. I had both husband and brother before me! “It is not Phoebe’s fault that Emily died. You are the most fortunate of men, Simon, and you will be for the remainder of your life if you have our dear girl. Can you not think of something to do for her?”

I think my words smote through his fog of loneliness and self-pity at last. I could see his mind thinking behind the shy blue eyes.

After that, I left them to make their own decisions, and the date for the marriage was set.

“What of your parents?” I asked Phoebe. “How do they feel about this?”

“They gave up on me long ago.” She said the words with one of her kind smiles. “I am not like them, and they cannot understand me. Lena and the boys, happily, do not give them such woes. Whatever is decided, they will agree with. I believe they will be relieved just to see me married and no longer a concern to them, you know.”

So there were less than a dozen of us in the nave of the chapel that Friday morning: Phoebe and Simon, his parents (who were relieved and grateful for this propitious turn of events), her parents (a little less enthusiastic), myself and Eugene, Tillie, Josie, and Georgie.

“All the beauty of the village gathered in one place,” Eugene teased me. “It is truly a feast for the eyes.”

But it was, in fact. We girls were dressed in a manner that had been customary on May Day mornings through the past ten years or more of our lives—ever since Phoebe discovered how gifted she was with a needle and thread! I had made sure there were flowers in abundance. And Phoebe, in a creamy gown trimmed sparingly with lace and embroidered lilies-of-the-valley in pale yellow and green, was as elegant a bride as I’ve ever seen. Her plain features, the straight lines of her face, the high forehead—all were softened by the beautifying effects of her happiness, which permeated us all.

And there was a surprise in store, influenced perhaps a little by my counsel to Simon. He had arranged a short boat trip on the canal; just a few stops, two nights away. But alone together. Just what they needed. I nearly cried at the happiness that came into her eyes.

We watched them go off together, waving and kissing our hands to them. Arrangements had been made for little Esther; the wet nurse would keep her. But when Phoebe returned they would wean the child onto goat’s milk, and she would be in the care of a mother every bit as good and tender as her own would have been.

That night, alone in bed with my husband, I snuggled close to his warmth, wondering what Power ordained this merging of man and woman into something inexplicably good and meaningful—something neither could hope to achieve on their own. It pleased me to think about people making each other happy. It pleased me to think about love—to relax and accept it, with all its limitations, as the most precious thing we possess.

Few men are as patient as Josie’s Alexander; perhaps he was too patient with her. During the long summer months, when time dragged on her hands, my sister took to dressing up and sallying forth in search of adventure. None of us could do such a thing; we would not even know how. In the afternoons she would visit the shops and establishments of business, sometimes upon the most flimsy excuse. There were several young men of our age upon whom she practiced mild flirtations—had not Josie always indulged in such ways? The difference was, of course, that she was now a married woman and dared not fly in the face of convention. When I mentioned my concerns to my mother, I was not surprised by her reaction.

“Josephine is bored and unhappy. You know that, Esther.”

“Why should she be unhappy? And, for that matter, why should she be bored?”

“Alexander has provided her with help, so she has little to do in the running of her household.” My mother glared at me in the old fashion. “She wants a child, Esther! It is so tragic that she cannot keep her babies, that—”

“She must not run away from it, Mother! We both know this is what she is doing.”

“What would you do in her place?”

“Appreciate the good husband I had and the many advantages he had given me. At least, I like to think I would.”

“You cannot judge.” Mother pushed her hair back from her forehead and looked around for Jonathan. “Will you check on the child, Esther? He went out the door while we were talking.”

“Mother—”

“Find him first, then we can continue.”

So it always went. I let things ride until Eugene came home from his work at the shop late one evening. “There was a hay ride tonight at Turner’s farm,” he blurted. “For the young folk.”

“How nice,” I said, turning the chicken I was frying and adjusting the flame beneath the mustard greens.

“Josie was there—alone, Esther.”

I dropped the wooden spoon I was stirring with, and it clattered to the floor. He picked it up for me and touched my shoulder gently.

“Did you see her yourself?”

“I did. Father sent me to take back a horse rake Dave Turner had him fit with new teeth. She was sitting beside Rob Sumpsion—and he had his arm around her.”

I sat down, feeling a bit sick. “What has gotten into her, Eugene?”

He shrugged. “I suspect she doesn’t let herself think about it. I suspect she looks at it only as innocent fun.”

He was right. I had not realized he saw through her so clearly.

“We must do something. I’ll ride out and talk to her tomorrow.”

“I think you should. But don’t work yourself up, Esther, and don’t go expecting too much.”

I did go expecting my sister to come to her senses. But she only laughed in my face.

“Heaven preserve us, Esther, you are making a mountain out of a molehill. I meant no harm. Because I am married, does that mean I cannot join in good times?”

“Yes, if you are without your husband and sitting with another man’s arm around you.”

“Another man? Rob is an old flame, an old friend—that is all.”

“Josephine!” I was shaking in my frustration and agitation. “You are jeopardizing all that is dear to you and doing Alexander a great injustice. I do not wish to see you hurt him.”

“Alex takes little notice of me, Esther. And you are making too much out of . . . nothing.”

I gave up. In the end, with Josephine, I always give up. I wondered—I hoped that her husband was oblivious of his young wife’s antics, and that this nonsense would pass.

Near the end of the summer I determined to make Tuesday my day to go calling. It was a splendid idea. For one day I could put all else aside and enjoy the sweet hours, letting them take me wherever they would.

One week Tillie and I decorated old leghorn bonnets together, making them over according to our own tastes, and were quite delighted with the results. I lined the broad inside brim of straw with rose-colored satin, then trimmed it with a feather dipped in rose dye and a little wreath of anemones. Tillie trimmed hers with bunches of dahlias and bright field flowers.

As we worked I learned that Gerard was doing well at the bank and that Peter had been promoted from the lowest rung of “fetch and carry” to an assistant custodian. And, of course, when school was in session he did not work many hours.

“What does Peter wish to do when he becomes a man?” I asked her.

“Anything but banking! He associates it with too many things he finds distasteful.”

“I can understand that.”

“Yet he is determined to prepare for a profession rather than common, paid labor. His days on the canal taught him that.”

Mere mention of the canal made us both choke up, and I ventured to ask if they had any intelligence whatsoever concerning Randolph. But, of course, they had not.

“It is so singular,” Theodora confided. “My mother never makes mention of him at all. I would expect that from Father. But even when we are alone together, and it would be quite natural, she will not speak his name.”

“Perhaps that is the only way she can bear it.”

“Esther, why does life have to be filled with difficulties so heavy they outweigh the joy?”

“Nothing could outweigh this joy,” I replied, scooping little Laurie up into my arms and kissing his plump cheek. “You can pour your heart and soul into this bright receptacle, and all your beauty and intelligence will live through him into generations you have not dreamt of.”

She had to smile at my rhetoric. “You make it sound easy and lovely,” she sighed.

“We must choose to see it so, else the darkness will get the best of us, and we cannot allow that.”

It was tacitly agreed then between us. We would struggle upward together, no matter what cruelties and heartaches combined to hold us back.

I walked to the office of the Wayne Sentinel to meet Eugene, kicking the new autumn leaves before me. I was happy for my husband. His father had agreed to try out a young apprentice, and Eugene had been training the boy, who was a quick learner and deft with his hands. Mr. Grandin had hired my husband to work on his newspaper, learning the trade from the bottom up but encouraged to write copy for the pages of the publication as well.

How much happier people are when they are doing something they love to do, I mused. A simple formula—yet a luxury afforded so few.

As I reached the handsome building on Main Street I paused, because there was a small knot of men gathered outside the door. The expressions on their faces were dark; their eyes, as they looked up and past me, hardened by anger. I found myself taking a few steps back and pausing, uncertain.

“I thought Grandin turned Jo Smith down.” The words were a growl. I could not tell who spoke them.

A few oaths followed; then another said, “We warned him. He’s got no business thinking he can publish this gold Bible of his.”

“Fool boy! He asked for what’s coming to ’im!”

“What’s coming to him?” I posed the question boldly, then shivered at my own audacity, for I had not intended to speak at all.

Two of the men tipped their hats to me, the others lowered their eyes and shuffled their feet uncomfortably. “What has Joseph Smith done that it concerns you men? Haven’t you something better to do with your time?”

I was annoyed at their anger, at the ugliness I had heard in their voices.

“With respect, ma’am, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave such matters to those that do.”

“If you know what’s good for you,” one of the mutterers added.

My ire was up and flaming! “You leave such matters alone! Joseph and his family are honorable people, and what they believe is their own affair.”

“Not when they try to shove it down our throats!” The largest man of the group stepped forward and confronted me, his whole stance combative, his face so close to mine that I could see the bloodshot lines in the whites of his eyes, and the tips of dark whiskers peppering his unshaven face.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped.

“Esther, how nice of you to meet me.” Eugene began steering me before him. “Gentlemen.” He tipped his hat to the glowering assemblage and fairly pushed me before him until we were safe away.

“Eugene!” I fidgeted in his grasp.

“Esther, what were you up to back there?”

“Do you know what was happening?”

He ignored my strident tone. “Yes. We’ve had protestors in and out of the office all day.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Grandin has agreed to print this Bible of Joseph Smith’s—he calls it the Book of Mormon.” He lowered his voice. “It’s the one an angel was supposed to have given him.”

“So.” My spirits were boiling still. “So, what if he’s right, Eugene? What if he’s telling the truth?”

“What if he isn’t?”

“Yes, what if he isn’t? What harm will it do? Bravo for Egbert Grandin and his pluck!”

Eugene laughed out loud. I had a way of constantly amazing him, and he took delight in what he called “Esther’s antics” or “Esther on her high horse.” He was always saying, “I like a girl with spirit. That’s why I asked you to marry me. Life with you will never be dull, Esther! Not for one blink of an eye.”

He meant well. It was one of his endearing expressions of love for me. But sometimes it drove me to distraction. For he had few convictions of his own, few things upon which he held passionate views. He did not mean to ridicule mine, but he did take them lightly. This matter of Joseph Smith meant nothing to him at all.

I found myself fretting about it, smacking under the injustice as though the barbs had been driven into my own flesh, my own spirit. Live and let live. That, too, seemed a simple enough maxim. Why did people find it so nearly impossible to put it into practice in their day-to-day lives?