A Death in Utopia (21 page)

Once again Charlotte and Daniel were left staring speechlessly at one another.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Fanny Speaks Out

November 20, 1842
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Fanny ran upstairs to her quiet bedroom and threw herself on the bed. Charlotte and Daniel's questioning eyes seemed to follow her there. She had to think but her mind was churning with memories and images. Words beat in her brain. Her restless mind kept talking on and on...

"No one ever listens to me! All my life I've been the quiet daughter in the corner doing everything my father and my brothers wanted of me. My mother kept me busy working in the kitchen while the boys stayed in the parlor listening to the men talk—laughing and arguing and calling for more food. I scurried around with platters of lamb and bowls of beans like a servant."

She jumped up from the bed and started pacing back and forth, but the words still pounded in her mind. "Father was proud of letting his sons speak up. When the war with the British started and recruiters came through asking young men to join the army to invade Lower Canada, he let John and Thomas speak up in front of the whole town and join the expedition. Mother warned them that war was not a game and they might be hurt, but no one listened.

"And when Thomas came back with his thigh all torn apart by a lucky shot from a British soldier, it was my mother and me who sat up all night with him tending the wound and keeping it clean. It was a glorious victory, my father said, but he didn't stay around and listen to Thomas moaning all night with an infected wound. Pus blossoming out no matter how often we cleaned the gaping wound. To this day Thomas walks with a limp and can scarcely ride a horse at all.

"It was that wound that killed Mother. Those nights the two of us sat up praying, and wiping Thomas's forehead and boiling more water for bandages to draw the pus out. Mother was never strong and those nights made her cough turn into a constant hacking. Father never seemed to notice even though he was a doctor. He should have known, but he was so busy at the Court House talking with the men about customs duties and taxes and which ships were being seized. He was more interested in the war than in taking care of his patients.

"Fanny help me," Mother would say as she weakened. Father and the boys weren't even there the day she died, lying on that white bed gasping for breath. It was only the cook and the parlor maid came up to sit by her for those last hours. And me at 15 left with a grown man and three hulking youths to take care of and a house to run.

"The boys moved out one by one. Their wives were all pretty girls, but flighty. First George, then Thomas and John. And I was left to take care of Father and keep house. He sent me to school. That's where I met Sophia Ripley and thank goodness for that. She was my only friend. We used to walk to school together and talk about everything under the sun. But there was no talking at home. Or if I did talk Father never bothered to listen to me. He taught me how to set
a bone and how to make a poultice to draw the pus from a wound, but he never explained anything. What was the use of teaching a girl?

"And when he got older and had the fit that laid him low, it wasn't me he called on. It was my mother, calling her all the time he was lying in bed wandering in his head—Mary, Mary, Mary—in his feeble voice. But I was the one who took care of him. Not his beautiful Mary. She was gone. He was left with only plain Fanny and I don't think he ever got used to that."

That was all over years ago. Fanny struggled to turn off the voice in her head. Now there was a letter to be written. Sophia would understand why she had to leave despite all their dreams. Sophia was the only one who ever listened. Fanny had been so lonely after her father died, even with the house and the income he left. When George and Sophia decided to start this Community where everyone would work together and live together, it sounded like heaven on earth. And it could have been if only people had kept their promises. No one understood how important that was. And no one ever listened. The letter must be written right away. It was time to leave.

Dearest Sophia
,

You will be astonished by what I am about to tell you, but I hope you will read this letter to the end and perhaps you will understand why I am leaving. And perhaps you will be able to forgive at least some of my sins. I never meant to do anything wrong. I wanted so much to help you and your devoted husband. The Brook Farm Community, as you must know, was the dearest dream of my life. I was honored to be able to invest in the Community and to be a part of it.. I poured all of my money into the venture despite the advice of my brother Thomas who wanted me to preserve my money for myself until the Community had proven itself to be successful
.

I did not listen to Thomas. I prayed to God and believed He answered my prayer telling me to join my fortunes with you and move out here to West Roxbury to build a new world. But if God answered my prayer, He evidently did not answer everyone else's prayer and tell them to invest in the Farm. One by one the faithful have fallen away. Nathaniel Hawthorne came to join us but stayed only a few months. He said he needed solitude to work at his art and to build a home for the woman he hoped to marry. It was sad to see him go, but when he compounded that treachery by suing dear Mr. Ripley and the Community to get back the money he had invested in buying shares, I believe the action was not only insulting but almost criminal
.

Now more and more people are thinking about leaving the Community to go back into the wicked world. Where are the idealists who joined with us to form a newer, better world? I thought that when the Reverend Hopewell visited the Farm and talked with Mr. Ripley, he would be a savior to bring strength to the community. You shared with me the secret that he planned to invest in the Community and that all our troubles would be over when he did. But that did not happen. He began to shilly-shally. I saw him talking to the pretty Mrs. Pretlove and I wondered whether her charms would outweigh the charms of the Community. I could see that he was wavering. When I looked at his face I could see weakness there and not the strength I had thought he possessed. He was a weak man, but he was our only hope as others slipped away. That was when I overheard a conversation between Charles Dana and your husband that suggested he too might be leaving. It was too much to bear
.

I decided I would confront Mr. Hopewell and remind him of his promises and his duties. He has money to invest. He promised to support the Community. It would be evil for him to turn away—the work of the devil who is always trying to corrupt devout clergymen
.

Every morning I am up early. I kneel at my window and pray for guidance and for the strength of our Community. When I saw the Reverend Hopewell walk over to the woods near the blueberry bog one morning, I decided to follow him and speak to him in the quiet of the morning. Perhaps the Lord would soften his heart. Before I could waver in my resolve, I dressed and went out
.

It was not difficult to see him among the trees, although the sun had not yet risen. I seized a hoe from the barn to serve as a staff as I walked up the hill to meet him. He turned toward me expectantly and I realized he had been waiting for someone else. His expression dimmed when he saw it was only me—a reaction I am well used to seeing, but he was as always, the gentleman
.

"You are out very early this morning, Miss Gray. Have you come to cultivate some plants up here?" he asked looking at my hoe
.

I quickly disabused him of the notion that my mind was on plants as I told him of my disappointment in his reluctance to invest in our Community as he had promised. He told me a story about having to redeem a debt his father was unjustly collecting and how this good deed left him embarrassed for ready money. I must have looked askance at this tale, because he quickly tried to bolster it
.

"I truly am embarrassed, Miss Gray. I am not a wealthy man and do not always have funds available to support every worthy cause. Do not look at me that way. I admire your Community, but as I explained to George Ripley, I shall have to postpone any investment for several more months or perhaps a year."

I am afraid that my anger overwhelmed me then. I could think of nothing except that he had told me he was giving us no money at all. This at a time when so many others had disappointed us. I raised the hoe and shook it at him as I said something—I cannot remember what it was, but I think I
was shouting—and I saw a shocked look on his face. He never expected such words from me. No one ever expects me to raise my voice or have views of my own. No one ever listens to me, so why should Reverend Hopewell?

Before I thought about it I had raised the hoe and struck out at him. I could not help myself. It was as if my arm acted all on its own. A red gash appeared on his forehead and then he fell. I did not expect him to fall and I almost raised my voice again to demand that he stand up and talk to me. But he was lying very still. He must have hit his head on one of the rocks strewn about the wooded area. He groaned and reached out one arm for a moment, but it fell to the ground and after that he did not move
.

I do not remember exactly what happened after that. I stood for a while then heard a noise and turned to see Abigail Pretlove in her white dress climbing up the hill toward us. I slipped behind the bushes that grow along the edge of the wood. A minute later Abigail was screaming. That shocked me to my senses and I went to her to comfort her, but by this time Mrs. Geary was running up the hill and Fred too. We all clustered around Abigail and tried to comfort her
.

Soon there was a crowd. Someone led Abigail away and the others stood staring down at Winslow Hopewell, I among them. There were many suggestions as to what had happened and the men vied with each other to explain the story. I said not a word. No one would have heard me. No one ever listens to me. No one ever has
.

You know what happened after that. The crowds, the arguments. The reporter, who seems still to be here at the Farm. I have no one to talk to. No one to whom I can explain what happened and I cannot live with the suspicions and fear here. I am leaving this very day to go see Reverend Carter at the Dedham Church. He and his wife will be a comfort in time of need. He has been doing God's work in rescuing runaway Africans trying to get to
Canada. Perhaps I can help in his work. There is no future at Brook Farm. The world we dreamed of will never come
.

Farewell, dear Sophia. You were my only friend in school and through the long years afterwards. You are the only person I regret leaving. I hoped so much to build a new home here, but there is no home for me except perhaps someday a home in Heaven. God Bless you and your husband in all your endeavors
.

Your loving friend
,

Fanny Gray

Fanny left the letter on her writing table for Sophia to find in the morning and prepared to leave. The sky was growing dark, but the sun had not yet set and there was a sparkle on the snow-covered lawn from the sinking sun. She pulled on her stoutest pair of boots and buttoned them securely then pulled out her warmest mittens and scarf, the ones she had knitted during her first winter here. She loved the cheerful bright red color. The future had looked bright and cheerful when she started knitting them. Her warm gray cloak was more somber, more in tune with her thoughts as she closed the door and started across the back pasture.

With luck she could reach Dedham in less than two hours, but even then it would be completely dark, so she took a small lantern from the storeroom at the barn and lit it before leaving. She could see light in the kitchen, a flickering light from the fireplace and the oil lamp on the kitchen table. The kitchen crew would be helping Mrs. Geary prepare dinner and setting the table for the meal. The sound of Fred's voice drifted across the field. He always loved to sing at his work and Ellen often joined in:

The world is all a fleeting show

For Man's illusion given;

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe

Deceitful shine, deceitful flow

There's nothing true but heaven!

Never truer words were said or spoken. Would she ever see heaven? Would God ever forgive her for the terrible thing she did? She had tried so hard to make the world better and instead she always seemed to make it worse. Was she a terrible sinner? She wondered about that dreamily as though she were thinking of someone else. Someone who might have thought of killing a man. Not Fanny Gray who always did as she was told and never caused trouble for anyone. God would be wrong to condemn her, but perhaps God makes mistakes too. What a dreadful thing to think! She pushed that thought out of her mind. She was always a good girl and God must know that and send some reward.

The snow was getting a little heavier as the light grew dimmer. The snow clouds hid the moon and stars. There was nothing but her little lantern in the whole dark world. Thank the Lord there was a snow cover and the whiteness made the ground look a bit lighter. The dark trees and bushes stood out against the white. She had to be careful to keep on the road and not wander off into a ditch. She should have waited until morning. She knew that. The road went right past Cow Island Pond. She could follow the edge of the pond around and then she would be very close to Dedham. But she mustn't fall in this snow.

Something flickered over to the right. She stared into the darkness trying to see whether there was anything there—nothing-- just blackness. Then a little flicker again. Was it the eyes of an animal reflecting the lantern light? Could it be another person? A snow flurry stung her checks and filled her eyes with spots blotting out
everything. She blinked to melt them and peered into the darkness again. No, that was no animal. That must be a lantern. She called out. "Hello, helloooo. Is anyone there?" No answer.

She turned and started forward again. If anything the snow was heavier, stinging her cheeks, running down her forehead from her hair, and forcing her to close her eyes into narrow slits. Every step seemed to take longer.