Forsaking All Others (29 page)

For every letter I sent to Colonel Brandon detailing the joys and frustrations of this time, he responded in kind, though he offered few details of his duties at Fort Kearny. Instead he wrote of his son—bits and pieces of news he’d learned from the boy’s own letters. When I thought to inquire after Private Lambert, Colonel Brandon provided news that he was well, too. On several occasions he recalled something amusing from our journey east together, and I would smile as I read. How strange it seemed to have formed memories with this man, and I always shared these with Mama, who had an insatiable hunger to know of every possible moment of my life during the time we were separated.

“How odd to think,”
he wrote sometime near the end of August,
“that so much time must pass between our correspondences, when we are not so very far away from each other.”

I did not imagine the request between those lines, nor did I acknowledge it. Instead, I posted a chatty inventory of the curtains to be hung in the new house and a few thoughts about the benefits of keeping chickens.

“Might I come to visit you?”
his next letter inquired plainly.
“I would like to see where you live so that I can better picture you in my mind when I read your letters.”

“Perhaps,”
I wrote in my response,
“I have failed in my duties of description.”
After which I gave a detailed list of my intentions for the girls’ bedroom—the delicate furniture I’d commissioned from a carpenter in town and the yards and yards of pastel gingham Mama and I were fashioning into coverlets for their beds. At the time I did not realize my underlying thoughts—that there was no room for him in this household. I described our table as so small that we would need a new chair if we were to have a family dinner. Two chairs, should Mr. Bostwick choose to join us.

Gentleman that he was, Colonel Brandon neither acknowledged my evasiveness, nor did he solicit another invitation. Not in the next letter, nor the next, nor the next.

About a month after our move, Reverend Harris and his wife came to call. The four of us sat in Mama’s sun-filled parlor drinking fresh ginger water and sharing a platter of cheese sandwiches.

“Now, Miss Camilla,” Reverend Harris said, gesturing with a sandwich corner, “when can we expect to see you in church? To my recollection you haven’t attended since your arrival back home.”

I felt myself blush, even though his voice held nothing but kindness. “I’m sorry. It’s difficult to go, knowing . . .”

Mrs. Harris leaned forward, her face all gentleness. “Knowing what, dear?”

My hands covered my stomach, now obviously pregnant. “Knowing what they all must think of me, a woman without a husband. And given the circumstances, how I left . . .”

“Do you give us so little credit for grace?”

“Of course not,” I rushed. “It’s just so difficult, not to feel scrutinized.”

“Do you assume you are the first of our congregation to be lured away to this church? Or the last?”

“I don’t know of any.”

“They don’t all find their way out to Brigham Young’s new Zion. You know as well as I do that there are settlements up and down the river. Some we lose forever, but others, like you, dabble for a while. And we always rejoice at having a lamb return to the fold.”

“I did far more than ‘dabble,’ Reverend Harris. My husband is a Mormon, and my daughters are with him. So not only am I a woman expecting a child alone, I’m doing so because I abandoned my family.”

“You aren’t expecting the child alone,” Mama said. We were sitting next to each other on our narrow sofa, and she placed a comforting arm around me.

“Of course not, Mama.” Now, as it happened nearly every day, my throat and eyes burned with tears. “Everybody at that church, though, will judge me on one of two counts. Either I was an unfaithful Christian or an unfaithful wife.”

Mrs. Harris reached to pat my knee. “We do not judge—”

“You cannot speak for your congregation.” The words came out much more harshly than I intended. “Forgive me. Everybody has been kind and wonderful. I’m just afraid of what people might be thinking.”

“Are you worried, too, of God’s opinion?” Reverend Harris asked.

“No,” I said, adamant. “I know I am fully restored to him and that my salvation is secure. And don’t think I don’t worship. I do, in my own way. I read the Scriptures—I’ve read the entire Bible, in fact. And I pray. I spent so many long days—you can’t imagine how many days—like a prisoner, almost. Even before I left my husband, my home, I felt so alone with God. And then last winter, when I
was
alone with God. There’s a strength he gave me, and I think I’m afraid of losing that strength.”

Reverend Harris looked at me with a quizzical expression, something I imagined he was not known for. I’m sure the times were rare indeed when this man encountered a statement he was not prepared to process, but clearly I’d stumped him. Soon enough, though, he drew himself up, prepared for conversational battle. “How could attending church possibly
diminish
your spiritual strength?”

“When I was a child, I was in church every Sunday.” I patted Mama’s leg. “She made sure of that. And I listened; I did. But sometimes what the preachers said would be so far beyond my understanding. I listened, but I didn’t hear.”

“I know just what you mean,” Mrs. Harris interjected. “Even my dear husband’s preaching can be a bit dry at times.”

Reverend Harris looked sheepish, and I felt compelled to come to his rescue.

“You’re a fine man of God, a good Christian, and—” I looked at Mrs. Harris—“an excellent preacher, but all the time I was in church as a child, I never felt connected to God. I think that’s why it was so easy for me to be deceived. I didn’t know or care enough not to be. Then, while I was away, when I went to their services—”

“You felt excited by the new teachings.” Reverend Harris attempted to complete my thought.

“At first, yes, but it was as much Nathan—my husband—as anything else. But once again, I found myself in a pew, listening. And this time, hearing, and knowing deep down it was wrong but doing nothing.”

I began to weep again, and Mama gave me a handkerchief. We all sat in silence, presumably to allow me to regain my composure and my thoughts, but I had no desire to do either. In fact, I wished heartily that the topic hadn’t come up at all. I tried desperately to think of some way to avoid giving an explanation I felt I owed no one.

“Now, stop,” Mama said, rubbing small, soft circles on my back. “And tell us what it is you’re afraid of.”

I took a deep breath and wrapped the handkerchief around the two fingers on my left hand.

“I’ve grown so close to God.” I looked straight into Reverend Harris’s eyes. “Closer than I ever thought possible. Closer than I was ever
taught
could be possible. I
hear
him. And I know he hears me. I don’t want anything to come between us. I don’t want to hand over the control of what I know and hear and believe to somebody else. I don’t want to be
told
what God’s Word says because that’s what
they
do. They tell you where the Bible’s right and where it’s wrong and what it means. I have a mind and heart of my own.”

“But Reverend Harris knows the Bible is never wrong.” Mama nearly leaped out of her seat in his defense.

“And he knows what it all means,” Mrs. Harris added.

“Ladies, please.” Reverend Harris held up his hand, chuckling. “I understand exactly what our Camilla is saying.”

“You do?” My question meant no disrespect, but Mama jabbed me anyway.

“I do, and I cannot but respect a woman so dedicated to her knowledge of her Savior. So I will only encourage you, out of a sense of community and familial love, to consider joining us in worship. And please don’t feel ashamed of the precious child you carry. He is the very picture of new life found in Jesus Christ.” Suddenly, his heavy brows rose and he gulped down the rest of his water. “I may just have my text for next Sunday’s sermon. Come along, Alice.” He stood and placed a motivating hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I must get back to my study.”

* * *

I could not ignore such a warm invitation to fellowship, so the first Sunday morning I felt good and strong enough for the walk, I got up and dressed myself in the new sage-green dress Mama had been sewing for me since I’d arrived home. The bodice featured two rows of buttons, which, when the time came, would make feeding the baby an easier task, and the skirt featured an inner fastening to expand and, later, form to what I hoped would be my shrinking waist. It was one of the few new dresses I’d had since marrying Nathan, as I was an impatient seamstress who had relied heavily on clothes donated by her sister Saints.

I breathed in the sweet scent of freshly cut lumber as I finished my preparations at the mirror, fashioning a complicated series of ringlets. My fingers fumbled with the pins, and I was about to abandon the style altogether and resort to my usual brush, braid, and coil, when I heard a soft knock on my door.

“Camilla?”

I turned—well, twirled, actually, quite pleased with my appearance despite my fullness, even with the unfinished coiffure. “How do I look, Mama?”

An odd smile came across her lips. “More beautiful than I ever remember.”

I held out a palm full of pins. “Can you help me?”

“I’d love to.”

I sat on the corner of my bed, as Mama was a bit shorter than I, and gave myself over to her.

“I feel like I’m preparing you for your wedding.” Mama’s lips were clenched over the pins, so I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly at first.

“I’m already married.”

“Seems Mr. Bostwick can undo that.”

“Mama, please.”

“A woman shouldn’t miss her daughter’s wedding. Not all of them, anyway.”

I turned my head, causing the pin she was inserting to jab my scalp, but I didn’t care. “I don’t know that I’m going to divorce Nathan, let alone ever marry again.”

“Well, we don’t always know what’s down our road, do we?”

She pushed in the last pin and declared we would be late if we didn’t leave soon. In her absence, I stood to admire myself as fully as possible in the mirror hanging over the four-drawer bureau. Although I knew the curls would be lank and lifeless by the end of the day, they did look pretty now as they framed my face in soft spirals. The hard edges along my jaw and cheekbones were softer now, owing as much to a summer feasting on fresh cream and beef as anything. I looked at myself in profile, smoothing my hands along the soft, freshly pressed dress, enjoying every bit of my figure, determined not to let anyone bring me to shame.

Mama’s voice called from the kitchen, so I picked up my Bible and went to find her. There was Mama, still wearing that unreadable smile, only now she stood next to a large box.

“One last thing,” she said, “to celebrate.”

The box was tied with a string fashioned in a simple knot, and within moments I had it open, eager to see the contents.

“Oh, Mama. It’s beautiful.”

And it was—the perfect hat to wear with my dress. The wide straw brim created a nice frame for my face yet was generous enough not to smash my complicated curls. A small bouquet of spring flowers graced its crown, and a wide silk ribbon, exactly matched to the green of my dress, was woven through. I ran to the mirror, put it on, and tied the ribbon in a jaunty bow just under my left ear.

“Lovely,” Mama said, and I agreed.

Our walk to the church house was short, with the school just over the first swelling hill midway.

“My girls will go there someday,” I said, enjoying the sight of it nestled in its valley.

At the thought of my daughters, my heart lost some of its buoyancy. While I loved the child in my womb with every fiber of my being, it was hard not to resent, at times, the delay it created. Once again I was left with no choice but to commit my daughters, and my plans, to the Lord. As if reading my thoughts, Mama said quietly, “If the Lord wills it.”

“Of course.” I thought I had no doubt God would restore my family, but just that little phrase knocked the tiniest chip in my faith. I could not leave it as such. “I mean, of course he will.”

The church sat at the head of our town’s main street, with rows of shops and business buildings stretched out on either side of it. The doors were thrown open; the towering steeple stood out against the blue, late-summer sky, and on top of that, the cross. My heart raced at the thought of finally worshiping God beneath a cross, and I quickened my step.

People had gathered in small family groups in the yard in front of the church; children played beneath the large shade tree at its side. As I suspected, eyes locked on Mama and me the moment we came into view, but I soon enough found myself enfolded. The men largely ignored me, giving nothing more than a polite nod and wide berth, which suited me fine.

Slowly I made my way to the steps. The last time I had walked through those doors, I was a child in every possible way. My mind raced with the excitement of being in a true house of worship and the haunting anxiety of feeling helpless in just such a place. Mama hadn’t missed a Sunday during all of Papa’s illness, nor one since his death. This morning she was my strength, close at my side. We, then, were a family, just like any other group gathered here.

Just before I crossed the threshold, I heard what was by now a familiar voice call my name and turned to see Mr. Bostwick making his way up the steps, his round hat in his hand.

“You look quite well this morning, Mrs. Fox.” He winked at the formality.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Bostwick,” I replied. By now I knew that a recognition of health was as close to flattery as Mr. Bostwick was ever prone to offer.

He craned his neck to look beyond me and asked about my mother in such a way as to make me think she was just as much a reason for his presence as the Lord himself.

“She’s here somewhere,” I assured him. “Perhaps talking with Mrs. Harris?”

“Ah.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

Our family had always occupied a pew close to the back of the church, and I found myself being pulled right to it, with Mama just behind me. She slid in first, and I was about to follow when Mr. Bostwick cleared his throat and imposed himself between us. I appreciated our position. Having only two rows of pews behind us greatly reduced the number of eyes I could feel on the back of my neck.