The Work and the Glory (140 page)

He shrugged. “I wanted to be sure. That money is yours. I don’t want it coming between us. This way, there is no way I can get it.”

“It wasn’t necessary. But thank you for leaving no doubts.”

He nodded, and took her elbow as they started down the stairs. She didn’t speak again until they were out of the hotel and walking slowly along Bay Street.

“You know how to ruin a woman’s sleep, don’t you?”

He smiled ruefully. “Oh, I slept like a baby.”

“It serves you right.” She smiled for the first time that morning.

He didn’t answer, and they walked on in silence again for almost another block. Without looking up at him, she spoke again. “You can’t delay leaving?”

He shook his head. “The next ship won’t be here until mid-June. My partners need the cotton a lot sooner than that. They’re already frantic.”

“Will you be coming back to Savannah again?”

He looked at her closely. He had thought about that question constantly for the past six weeks. “Originally, I didn’t plan to.”

“But?”

“But what?”

She dug at him with an elbow. “I thought I heard a ‘but’ in your voice.”

He nodded. “I guess if there was something here besides another load of cotton, I might consider it.”

She stopped. They were under one of the dogwood trees which lined the street. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, making gentle patterns on her face and hair as she looked up at him, her eyes troubled and yet filled with a softness that arrested him.

“I’m not sure that I love you, Joshua.”

That caught him totally by surprise.

“I do find you attractive, but we’ve had so little time together.”

He was staring at her, not believing what her words were implying. “But you’re considering it?” he said, almost wanting to shout it.

“Considering what?” she asked innocently.

He grabbed her and almost shook her. “If you’re considering marriage to me, I’ll come back whenever you say.”

Slowly the smile on her lips died, and he felt his heart sink. She turned and looked across the street to Factors’ Walk and the river beyond. “I love this place,” she said softly.

“I know,” he said.

She straightened, as if suddenly making up her mind. “I hate long good-byes, Joshua.”

He blinked in surprise. What was that supposed to mean?

Slowly she smiled, but there were tears in her eyes too. “If I’m leaving, let it be now.”

He leaned forward, peering into her face. “Do you mean . . . ?”

She lifted the papers she held in one hand and unfolded them. Carefully she turned to the last page. Her signature was written neatly across the bottom. She closed them again and looked up at him. “One of the conditions, as you’ll remember, is that I leave Savannah.”

He swept her up, swinging her around, still not daring to believe what he was hearing. “Do you really mean it? You’ll come with me to Missouri?”

Now she gave him the full radiance of her smile. “Yes, Joshua, I will come with you to Missouri. Will you come home with me now? I’d like you there when I tell the children.”

Chapter Ten

To say that Emma Smith was large with child was to understate her condition. There were some who were predicting she would give birth to a second set of twins, but Frederick G. Williams, who was not only Second Counselor to Joseph in the First Presidency but also the Smith family physician, said no.

But twins or no, Lydia could see that Emma was miserable. Between the heavy awkwardness and the June heat, she looked exhausted. “Come sit here by the open window, Emma,” she said. “There’s a little bit of a breeze.”

Mary Ann was up immediately and to the window. “Here, we can open this even more.”

“Thank you, Lydia. Thank you, Mother Steed.”

Lydia noted that Mother Smith watched her daughter-in-law closely as she changed places, moving slowly and awkwardly. Emma was due, and everyone was anxious for her welfare.

No wonder,
Lydia thought. Emma had had six previous children—four of her own and two adopted. And of those six, only two were still alive. Her firstborn had died on the same day he was born. That had been back in Harmony, Pennsylvania, when Joseph was first starting on the translation of the Book of Mormon. The next two—twins—lived only three hours. When another sister Saint had died giving birth to twins the following day, the husband had offered them to Emma to compensate for her loss. One of those, the boy, was lost in a tragic set of circumstances less than a year later. On the night a mob broke into the home where Joseph and Emma were staying, Joseph was dragged outside and tarred and feathered. The door to the house was left open to the cold night air. Already seriously ill with the measles, the boy succumbed to the exposure and died five days later. 

Finally, on her third pregnancy, Emma had given birth to a child that lived. Little Joseph—actually, Joseph Smith the Third—was not yet four, and was the absolute pride of his father’s eye. It was about time. Emma had suffered enough tragedy.

Lydia looked around the room and suddenly realized there was hardly a sister there who had not faced tragedy of one kind or another. There were about a dozen women. They had come to the home of Benjamin and Mary Ann Steed to mend the clothing given in a collection for the poor the previous Sabbath. They were visiting quietly, laughing from time to time, enjoying the opportunity of sisterhood and friendship while they worked steadily.

Lydia had lost a baby in a miscarriage that nearly killed her as well, so she knew keenly what feelings could be generated by such a loss. But she was far from being alone. Joseph’s mother, Mother Smith, had lost two babies—her firstborn, who died at birth, and then Ephraim, who lived only eleven days. She had also lost Joseph’s older brother, Alvin, in the prime of his manhood. And what of Mary Ann, her own mother-in-law? Her firstborn had died within an hour of birth, three other children had been stillborn, and another had been lost to pneumonia when he was four. Five out of ten children dead.

And then she thought of Mary Ann’s Joshua, not dead, but as lost as though he were. The thought struck her hard.
Death is not the only sorrow, is it?
There was a sharp pain inside her breast, sharp enough to make her gasp, as she thought of her own parents. Since she and Nathan had left Palmyra that final time and come back to Kirtland, there had been no answer to her letters, no response to her pleadings. No, she thought. There were other ways in which loved ones could be taken.

Intrigued by the thought, Lydia let her mending fall to her lap as her eyes moved from sister to sister. There was Rebecca—dear, sweet, lovely Rebecca. Lydia wanted to weep every time she thought of Arthur Wilkinson and his perfidy. Since Rebecca had said she would not marry him, he had spread ugly and vicious rumors about her. It had become so bad that if she went unaccompanied through the main part of town, she was subject to the most vulgar humiliation from some of Kirtland’s lower male element.

Her eyes stopped on Eliza Snow. She was sitting with Jerusha Smith, Hyrum’s wife, and Thankful Pratt. Her hands fairly flew as she stitched a patch over a hole in the knee of a pair of boy’s trousers. On the surface, Eliza Snow seemed to have everything going for her. She had been baptized a little over a year ago, in April 1835, and then in the fall had moved to Kirtland from Mantua, a small town about thirty miles south of Kirtland. She boarded with Joseph and Emma and helped tutor Julia—the surviving twin—and little Joseph. She also ran a school for girls. Eliza was a woman of unusual gifts. She was an expert in needlework. She was such a master at making straw hats and bonnets that her work was in great demand. By the time she was in her early twenties, her poetry had become so well known that she was asked through the press to compose a requiem for John Adams and Thomas Jefferson when both of those famous men died on Independence Day in 1826.

And yet Lydia couldn’t help but wonder. Eliza Snow was now into her early thirties. She was still single and had no one courting her. Did visions of a marriage-less future haunt her? Would she ever be privileged to carry a child of her own instead of teaching everyone else’s?

“Lydia!”

Her head came up in surprise as she realized that that was the second time Mary Ann had spoken to her.

“My goodness, child, where were your thoughts?”

She smiled quickly, a little flustered. “I—”

“I’ll bet they were in Canada,” Rebecca teased.

Lydia laughed lightly. “Normally, Rebecca, you would be right. But not this time.” For a moment she thought about trying to explain it all, then decided against it.

“I’ve got the corn bread ready,” Mary Ann said. “Can you and Rebecca help me?”

“Of course.” But as the three of them started for the kitchen, the front door to the home burst open. It was young Joshua. His hair was tousled, his shirt pulled half out of his pants, one suspender half off his shoulders. He looked in at the room of women in dismay. “Mama, Mama!” he called.

Lydia stepped from around Mary Ann. “Here I am, Joshua,” she said in alarm. “What is it?”

He spun around and darted to her, throwing his arms around her legs. “Papa’s back! Papa’s back!”

* * *

“Papa, Papa!”

Nathan was still half a block from his father’s house when he heard the cry. He moved forward swiftly, then dropped to one knee, setting aside his knapsack. Little Emily was running toward him as fast as her little legs could pump up and down. Her pigtails were bouncing wildly back and forth. Behind her, young Joshua was hurrying as quickly as he could. But he was holding eight-month-old Nathan, and that was a load for a boy of five, even one as husky and strong as Joshua was.

Emily nearly bowled her father over as she hurtled into his arms. “Papa, Papa, Papa,” she kept shouting over and over. He swept her up, swinging her around until her legs were sailing out nearly horizontally, and she started to squeal with delight. Finally he stopped, staggering a little as the dizziness hit him. He hugged her to his chest, feeling the hot burning behind his eyes. “How’s my Emily?” he whispered huskily.

“I’m fine, Papa. I’m glad you’re home.”

Parley watched the reunion with pleasure for a moment, then spoke to Nathan. “I’ll be going on home, Nathan. Give my best to Sister Lydia.”

Young Joshua looked up at him. “Sister Pratt’s at Grandpa’s house, Brother Pratt.”

“Is that so? Then that’s where I shall go.”

As Parley walked swiftly away, Joshua turned to his father, still puffing hard from his burden. “Here’s little Nathan, Papa.”

“No!” he said, taking the baby and holding him up high. “This can’t be
my
Nathan.”

“Yes, it is,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “He’s just grown since you left.”

Nathan held his youngest son away from him, laughing. “Why, so it is, Emmy. So it is.”

The baby’s eyes were wide as he stared into the face of the man who had snatched him up. Suddenly his lower lip jutted out and he began to whimper.

“It’s all right, Nathan,” Joshua said quickly. “It’s Papa. It’s Papa.”

It didn’t help. He started to wail. “Hey, little man,” Nathan cooed, “it’s all right.” He tried to bounce him, then pulled him close to comfort him. His namesake would have none of it. Little Nathan reared back, howling in earnest now.

“Take your brother, Joshua.”

Nathan whirled around. Lydia was coming toward him down the walk. In an instant Nathan handed the baby to Joshua. He turned and in two steps threw his arms around his wife, nearly crushing her in his grasp. She was laughing and crying all at the same time. “I can’t believe it, Nathan. I didn’t think you would . . . Oh, Nathan, I’m so glad you’re home!”

“It is good to be home.” He tipped her head back and kissed her hard.

Little Nathan watched them, curious enough now to stop crying. Emily moved forward to stand next to her father, content to let her mother have her time too. Joshua just kept grinning and grinning.

Finally Lydia stepped back. “Come on. Your mother is anxious to see you. Rebecca has gone to fetch your father.”

Lydia took the baby from young Joshua, who then proudly picked up Nathan’s knapsack. They started back toward his father’s house. As they turned in at the gate, Nathan looked up. The door opened. It was Parley. He stepped out onto the front porch, bringing a woman with him. Immediately, other women began filing out to stand around them. There was Emma, heavy with child. Mother Smith. Elizabeth Whitney. He stopped, aware now of the air of expectation that hung over the group. Suddenly Nathan stared more closely at the woman standing at Parley’s side. “Thankful?” he blurted. “Is that you?”

“Yes.” She laughed, a burst of pure joy. “Yes, Nathan. It is me.”

He just gaped at her, not believing his eyes. It had been just a little more than two months since he had stood in Parley’s house with Heber C. Kimball, talking with Thankful Pratt. Thankful had been a gaunt, wasted shell of a woman. She barely weighed a hundred pounds. The bones in her face protruded sharply, and that, along with skin that was yellowish gray and eyes rimmed by huge dark circles, left her looking almost ghostly. Violent coughing spells would rack the fragile body to the point that it made Nathan ache just to listen to her. But now . . .

Parley stepped back, holding her at arm’s length. “Can you believe it, Nathan? Look at her!”

Nathan
was
looking at her. And he couldn’t believe it. The change was stunning. She had gained fifteen pounds, maybe twenty. Her face had filled out, and the dark shadows were completely gone. Her cheeks glowed with healthy color, and her eyes, always so dull and listless before, were vibrant and sparkling. With a start, Nathan realized Thankful Pratt was a lovely woman, something that had not occurred to him before.

Lydia wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Several other women were crying as well. Nathan stepped forward and took Sister Pratt’s hand. He started to speak, then swallowed hard. “This is a most wonderful surprise, Thankful,” he finally managed shakily. “Does Brother Kimball know?”

She nodded her head, tears trickling down her cheeks now. “He’s in the East on a mission now, but he came to say good-bye before he left.”