by Marian Wells
Jenny was forking the sizzling chicken onto platters. As she lifted the first platter to carry out to the tables under the trees, she glared at Clara.
“All right,” Clara muttered, “so you don’t like hearin’ about it. I guess I’ll be settin’ my cap for him.”
She looked at Clara and then laughed. “I give you my permission. But you can’t have your talisman back.”
Mrs. Barton came into the kitchen and threw a startled glance at Jenny. Then she asked, “Where’s the tomatoes and cukes?”
“Settin’ under a damp cloth on the table,” Clara said hastily, heading for the door with the bread. Jenny scooted for the backyard. “Are you fetchin’ the milk?” Clara called.
Later, when Jenny was washing dishes, her thoughts returned to the subject that never released its grip on her restless heart. It was true that she had been thinking about that march to Missouri, feeling the sun smite her eyes just as it would those soldiers, but it hadn’t been Tom who occupied her thoughts. As she moved the dishcloth slowly over the plates, she dreamed about the sun turning Joseph’s hair as bright as his golden plates.
When Clara carried in the last dish, she whispered to Jenny, “In that letter, did Tom say anythin’ about—about her?” Jenny shook her head without looking up. “Do you wanna try that other?”
Scratching at the crusty skillet, Jenny said slowly, “Clara, I can’t even think that way.”
“You don’t even understand why, do you?” Clara whispered. “Can’t you see we have the right to order the events of the universe? Life and death’s all part of it. Because you don’t like to see someone die, you think death is bad, but that is because you’re lookin’ at it from down here. People only progress to a better life by passin’ through death.”
Mrs. Barton spoke from the doorway. “Clara, it’s mighty hard to convince people of that when they’ve just seen someone die. Mark’s Uncle Thomas has just passed away today. I don’t recommend your philosophy for him.”
Jenny turned quickly, “Oh, I’m sorry. Mark was very close to him. I suppose they will need help.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Barton said. “I was thinking of food, but with folks coming in from as far away as Albany, it will be good household help they’ll need. Jenny, the menfolk won’t be harvesting again until next week. Why don’t you help me wrap up this ham and some preserves and we’ll take them over. Take your bag. If need be, I’ll leave you there for several days.”
Mrs. Barton’s offer of Jenny was gladly accepted by the Webers, and she was immediately settled in the garret with Phoebe, Weber’s hired girl.
In the kitchen with Phoebe, listening to the sound of carriages arriving and the tide of voices rising in the parlor, Jenny soon discovered why Mark’s Aunt Mabel had welcomed her with gratitude. Phoebe was frozen into mindlessness by the crisis. Jenny sorted the jumbled pantry, planned meals, and shoved teacups into Phoebe’s limp hands. Late that night, with the windows open to catch the slightest breeze, Jenny stood at the kitchen table rolling out sugar cookies and sand tarts. A lone horse moved past the house, and the back door creaked, but she didn’t look up from her task until the hesitant steps stopped.
“Jenny, is that really you?”
“Mark!” Jenny bit her lip, recalling the last time she had seen him. What a silly quarrel it had been! His last visit had come close on the heels of Tom’s letter, and her mind had been filled with the vision of Joseph.
Now looking at his wretched face, her heart squeezed tight with pity. He was still wearing his dark suit. She watched him dab at the perspiration on his forehead and tug impatiently at his tight collar.
“I suppose they’ve all retired for the night.”
She nodded. “I think so. Take off your coat and I’ll bring you some cold buttermilk.” He was staring down at the table when she returned from the springhouse.
“Do you always bake at midnight! And what are you doing here?”
“It’s cooler at midnight, and I’ve just come today. Mark, have you had supper?”
He shook his head. “I’d be happy with a cookie to go with the milk.”
He reached for a sand tart and Jenny said, “There’s cold ham; wouldn’t you like some?”
She was caught by the sadness in his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. “Mark, I’m sorry.”
Quickly he asked, “Then you’ll forgive me?”
“What? Oh, that silly quarrel. I’ve forgotten why we even argued.”
“It wasn’t the argument,” he said thoughtfully. “It was my pigheaded need to be right. Jenny, you’ve a fine mind, which shouldn’t be put down. Be patient with me as I learn to deserve you.”
He bit into the cookie and turned away. Jenny stared at him while all he had just said rolled around through her thoughts. How could a man like Mark talk to Jenny, the hired hand, like this?
He turned abruptly. “Are your cookies burning?”
****
In the days that followed, Jenny saw Mark infrequently as he took charge of the Weber family. Up until the funeral the stream of carriages seemed unending, and Jenny was always ready with tall glasses of lemonade and cups of tea.
Phoebe continued to move only as pushed—all thought had slipped from her mind except for the task before her.
When the day of the funeral finally came, the sound of carriage wheels and horses suddenly ceased. Phoebe signaled the change by collapsing. Mark took her home and returned to beg Jenny to stay on a few days longer. Aunt Mabel came to the kitchen to add her plea; then both she and Mark settled down at the table as if it were the most pleasant spot on earth.
The kitchen table conferences grew into midnight trysts for the threesome, with sandwiches and cookies served by pale lamplight. Jenny felt herself prodded and probed by Mark and Mabel, but she also knew their friendly jabs were without rancor.
One night after Mark had left the room, Mabel turned back to Jenny and said, “You know he loves you, don’t you?” Jenny felt her back stiffen, and Mabel continued, “I’m not trying to give you that speech about how you are as good as any of us; I believe you know that. But I sense you’re not taking him seriously, and I can’t understand that. You see, Mark means a great deal to me. You seem so sensitive to our every need and emotion, yet—” She leaned forward to study Jenny’s face. “Why do I feel you’re set apart and divided from us? You know I welcome you with open arms. If you’re worried about his mother, you can rest assured my sister will love you just as I do.”
Jenny watched Mrs. Weber walk from the room. She was thinking about the talisman pinned inside her dress, and about the green book. Could those other thoughts make all this difference?
The following evening Jenny was a spectator as Mark and Mabel carried on a lively argument. She was thinking about Mark, and wondering for the first time how he really felt about her. There had been those times when she had felt as if unseen bonds were drawing them together in a way she neither understood nor really wanted.
She studied his face; he was the same Mark she remembered from the Bainbridge days; his youthful face was open, honest. His sandy hair and freckles, the square jaw and eyes—not quite green and not quite blue—seemed very ordinary. Yet—she frowned, wondering why there was that memory from the Bainbridge days. She recalled the day she had first seen Mark and that other young man. For a moment they had seemed wrapped in a splendor more brilliant than any dream she had known. Then unbidden, the vision of Joseph Smith appeared, and Jenny moved her shoulders uneasily.
Mark reached for Jenny’s hand and lifted it. “I don’t know anything about reading palms, but just guessing your past, I’d say, young lady, that one day you’ll drop in your tracks if you don’t start taking more rest.” He turned to his aunt. “If Jenny’s to be returned day after tomorrow when Phoebe comes back, please, Aunt Mabel, may I take this fair lady to the city tomorrow?” Mabel nodded with a pleased smile.
While Jenny waited for Mark the next morning, she contemplated their day in the city and wondered
at her mounting excitement.
He had his aunt’s carriage, and Aunt Mabel had lent Jenny her straw bonnet covered with silk blossoms. Mark was wearing a straw hat that made him look suddenly mature even as it heightened the effect of his boyish grin.
She settled herself primly, asking, “What goes on in the city on a common old workday?”
“The fair, with booths and displays and fireworks and a band in the park. When it gets dark I shall sneak you behind the bushes and teach you to dance.”
“Oh, horrors!” The impulsive words leaped out before she could think to harness them. “I understand that Joseph Smith excommunicated members of his church for dancing. Do you think—”
He looked at her strangely. “I didn’t know you were keeping score for the Mormons.”
After a long moment, she could say, “But Tom—”
At the fair he held her hand while they petted little black lambs. They ate ice cream and watched fireworks. They sat in the park and listened to the band. There was dancing on a proper floor, and with a teasing grin, Mark led her through the steps.
And when the moon was cresting the trees, he put her in the buggy and held her hand. Beside Mabel Weber’s barn, he lifted her down, even though she could have hopped from the carriage just as she had on other days. When he cupped her chin in his hands, Jenny couldn’t remember why she shouldn’t rest her hands on his shoulders and lift her face. But when he whispered, “Jenny, I’m falling in love with you,” she shook her head. “Don’t, Mark.”
Phoebe came back the next day, and Mark returned Jenny to the Bartons. They rode in the same buggy, but now Jenny wore her faded calico bonnet, and there were unspoken questions in Mark’s eyes.
When she stood in the Bartons’ kitchen and watched Mark’s square shoulders disappearing down the lane in a cloud of dust rising from the buggy wheels, Jenny touched the hard metal disk fastened in the folds of her dress.
****
Months rolled by, and although she heard of Mark’s frequent visits with his aunt, he hadn’t called. Jenny thought she had nearly forgotten him; certainly, he had forgotten her.
The autumn leaves were crisping underfoot and the aroma of the apples Jenny was picking filled her senses with an earthy impulse to dance through the orchard, hugging all its glory to herself. She had her eyes closed as she sat in the comfortable cradle of tree branches. Holding the apple against her nose, she breathed deeply and gloried in the gentle warmth of the sun and the touch of wind.
“Hello!” Her eyes popped open, and she saw Mark’s eyes nearly on a level with her knee. “I see you’ve picked lots of apples today.” He was peering into the basket which held three apples.
Jenny smiled, pulled off an apple bobbing at her elbow, scrubbed it against her sleeve, and offered it to Mark. She watched him sink his teeth into it; all the while her emotions skithered skyward and then settled down like milkweed.
“How’s lawyering?” she began.
“Pretty fair.” He was watching her from the corner of his eyes as he pitched the apple core through the trees. “I would ask you if you’re still enjoying doing dishes, but I’m afraid you’ll say no, and I’ve nothing better to offer.”
In silence she sorted through his words, grabbing and then discarding meaning. In the open neck of his white shirt, she could see the heavy beat of his pulse, and her fingers wanted desperately to touch the pulse, to steady its throb.
“Jenny—” he paused, then with more control said, “I’ve missed you terribly. I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”
Jenny bowed her head against the roughness of the tree and slowly shook her head. Her mind filled, not with Mark, but with that bright, arrogant head. The talisman cut into her shoulder as she pressed against the tree, but she kept her eyes shut to hide what she knew she would see in Mark’s face. “Mark, please go.”
The sun had ceased to warm her skin when she raised her head. Mark was gone. Quickly now, she stripped the apples from the branches, shivering in the hostile tree.
Chapter 21
Tom chewed the end of his pencil and stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. It was a cold January, and the stove in the tack-room of the livery stable glowed red-hot. The door behind him creaked open and slammed shut before he stirred himself enough to turn.
The Prophet was shaking snow from his coat and slapping his old hat against the horse collars lining the wall. “You’re studying that paper like you expect it to bite.” He sat down and lifted his icy boots toward the glow of the stove.
“Since gettin’ back from Missouri last summer, I’ve been meanin’ to write a letter to Jenny,” Tom muttered, shoving the pencil into his pocket with a sigh of relief. “I left her with the information we’d be stayin’ in Missouri a spell.”
Joseph pondered Tom’s statement in silence. With a rueful grimace he said, “Tom, maybe the sadness of the trip doesn’t warrant writing about.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ to air grievances,” he said shortly. “I just had in mind lettin’ her know I’m still in the land of the living. In addition, I’m lonesome for family.”
“If you’re serious about her soul and getting her into the only means of salvation, why aren’t you urging her to move to Kirtland?”
“I’d not given it much thought,” Tom answered slowly. “She’s happy where she is.”
“I could ask around and find a position for her,” Joseph said thoughtfully. “If this had come up sooner, Emma could have used her help. The little ones had her about worn down. We’ve relief now, with hiring Fannie Alger.”
“I’ve seen Fannie at meetings, a right comely gal,” Tom observed. “The fellas around are wishin’ Emma didn’t keep her so busy. They’d all like to try their hand at sparkin’.”
Joseph laughed. “My idea is that she’s not interested in the ones presenting themselves at the door.” He lowered his feet and leaned forward, “Seriously, why don’t you speak to Jenny about coming? She’s a comely lass, too. If we can’t find a position for her, we’ll be marrying her off shortly.”
“Marryin’—” Tom hesitated. “I guess she’s old enough. I still forget she’s not a tyke. Matter of fact, she’s had her twenty-first birthday this month.”
Joseph stood up and reached for his coat. “I’m headed for the temple. We’ve good news. A fellow by the name of John Tanner heard about the money troubles and met the foreclosure notice on the temple mortgage. He’d sold his farms and timber acreage, getting set to move to Missouri, so once again the Lord’s provided for us.”
“And the temple will be finished on time and things will be movin’ just like the Lord promised in the revelation,” Tom said softly.
“That’s right,” Joseph agreed. “First the temple is to be completed, and then the elders will be endowed with power from on high. Brother Tom, this will be a time of the outpouring of the Lord on the whole church, but especially on the leaders. I’m expecting a manifestation of the Lord’s blessing at the time the temple is dedicated, and then we will be released from this place to possess Zion.
“Soon ’twill be time for the gathering up of money to purchase Zion,” Joseph continued. “The Lord has promised that He will fight our battles for us. He has also said the destroyer has been sent forth to destroy, and it will not be many years hence until the Gentiles won’t be left to pollute and blaspheme the promised land of Zion.”
“How will we know when that time will be?” Tom asked.
“When the other promise is fulfilled, when the army of Israel becomes very great.” While Tom remembered the poor army which had marched into Missouri last May, Joseph’s words cut through his thoughts again. “At that time, the Lord will not hold us guiltless if we don’t possess the land and avenge Him of His enemies.”
****
Jenny was bending over the pile of calico in her lap when Clara came into her room. “Ugh,” she declared. “I’ve not seen the likes. Every time I look, you’re sewin’ another fancy dress for yourself. I ’spect e
very cent of your pay has gone that way. How many does this make?”
Jenny raised her head, “Counting the winter frocks and the cape, ’tis five. I’ve a new bonnet too, see?” she nodded toward the shelf.
Clara looked and said softly, “Jenny, we’ll be missin’ you. Does Mrs. Barton know?”
“No, I’ve not set a date in my mind yet and she’s not asked, though she’s seen the frocks.”
“I’m not certain you’re ready,” Clara said slowly. “You’re claimin’ power, what with the talisman, but you’ve not heard from your brother. I can’t get you to a sabbat, and another solstice has passed. I’ve told you about the wax, but ya won’t do a thing except wear the talisman and work with the herbs and charms.” She shook her head sadly.
“But I feel ready,” Jenny insisted. “I’ve read; I’m gaining power. For nearly a year now, I’ve been practicing up, learning to use the herbs and charms for healing. Mrs. Barton doesn’t know it, but I healed her of the ague. She thought the herbs I mixed and gave to her did the trick, but you and I know it was the charms. Where I’m going there’ll be a need, and I want to use the power to heal.”
Clara was shaking her head. “I’m still thinkin’ you’ve no idea of the real power needed if you’re goin’ to be more’n a white witch. You’re play actin’, Jenny. When you’re ready to make a pact, then the real power will be yours.”
Jenny studied Clara’s serious face, “But you haven’t made a pact; why must I?”
“Our power is limited, but do you want to be a white witch all your life? That’s all I intend for myself. Bein’ a good witch, helpin’ people. I’ve the idea you had something else in mind.”
Jenny was silent, staring at the sewing in her lap. Finally she shrugged and stood up. “Anyway,” she said lightly, “I’ll have a chance to practice my power on Mark this evening. He’s coming to take me to a concert at the town hall. I’m tempted to wear my new cape even though it’s nearly too warm for a wrap.”
