by Diane Noble
“Not even your wife?”
“I’m sorry.”
Her heart felt like it was about to twist into two pieces. “Gabe, we can’t have secrets from each other. We’re beginning a lifetime together. How can our love grow if I can’t tell you my heart’s innermost longings, fears, or joys? Or if you can’t tell me yours?”
“Those things I can tell you, just not the Prophet’s revelation. At least, not yet.”
She wasn’t about to let the dismissal go. “You must have had some feeling about the revelation. If it had to do with paving the street in front of the meetinghouse with cobblestones, you would feel something. Maybe boredom? If the Prophet’s revelation had to do with moving to a new town, you would feel something. Maybe irritation because we just arrived here.”
He chuckled and reached for her hand.
“Every revelation must lead to a reaction, a feeling, and those are the things we can’t keep secret.”
“I agree.”
“Then you must also agree that if the Prophet’s revelation had to do with plural marriage, you would have a resulting feeling about the revelation.”
“Yes.” He withdrew his hand and turned his face to the ceiling.
Her voice was almost a whisper as she continued. “You wouldn’t necessarily have to tell me the revelation. You could just tell me the resulting feeling.”
For a heartbeat he didn’t answer, then he said, “The Prophet has asked that we keep in confidence all he has said on the subject.” He turned toward her and drew her closer. “That, my love, includes feelings. I’m sorry.” He kissed her temple and she cuddled closer, trying to draw warmth from him and shut out her fears.
“Those things that were said tonight at the temple site…I’ve tried hard to put the Church history behind me, to think that it’s all in the past—all the hatred of the Saints, the persecution”—she rose up on one elbow to look at him in the dim light—“but as both Porter and Fenton talked about it, it was as if all that ugliness is still nipping at the Saints’ heels.”
“True,” Gabe said. “I worry about our little ones, and Grandfather, and our friends…should anything happen to any of them”—he pulled her close—“to you, Mary Rose, I don’t know what I’d do.”
She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, drawing comfort from it. “Did you know about the latest political turmoil?”
“No, Brother Brigham said nothing about it.”
“But he surely must have known.”
“We need to remember that he was in England doing mission work during that same time.”
Another gust of wind rattled the windows.
“Sometimes…” Mary Rose began, “sometimes I feel this God is unreachable. You once told me God was disinterested and you didn’t mind because you were disinterested in him.”
“Aye, that I did.”
“That’s not how I feel—that God is disinterested. Not that exactly.”
He chuckled lightly, then bent down and kissed her nose. “Then how exactly?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know how to pray to him.” She adjusted her head so she could see Gabe’s profile. “Do you?”
“I’m learning that he was once a man like me, so I feel that I understand him better, and that he better understands me.”
“If he was once a man, how can he be supernatural? How can he answer prayers? Or does he progress beyond being human at all? And if he does, then how can you understand him?” She paused, staring at the play of swirling leaf shadows on the ceiling. “When I was a child, before my mother died, she spent hours teaching me Scriptures. I was only six years old, but I remember some of them to this day.” She searched her mind until one came to her. “This one was a favorite of hers: ‘The lord hath appeared of old unto me, saying, yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee.’
“It seems to me,” Mary Rose continued, “that if the Lord was once a man, he did not exist in eternity. And if he did not, then how can he have loved me with everlasting love?”
“You yourself have heard Brother Brigham say that there are things in the Bible that are written in error. Anything that doesn’t agree with the Book of Mormon, or with his revelation, is an error.”
She let the disturbing thought settle into her heart. “I suppose there are many questions I’ll need to have answered. But those few little words my mother taught me, I’m not willing to give up as if they were written in error. I choose to believe them, because that is the only Lord I can give my heart to.”
A thoughtful silence fell between them. “Even the Bible says we cannot know God.”
“It also says he is unchangeable,” she responded. “Think about it. If I’m right about God’s everlasting love for me that means our God is unchangeable. He cannot have once been a man. I remember distinctly that somewhere it says that. I AM, he calls himself, not I WAS or I WILL BE, but I AM.”
“It’s in the Book of Isaiah,” he said, surprising her.
When her stunned silence met him, he laughed. “Hosea told me the same thing when he tried to talk me out of marrying you—and of being baptized into the Church.”
“I didn’t know he didn’t want us to marry.”
“It wasn’t because of you. It was because I was becoming a Saint. My love for you, he said, had colored my decision.”
“I need to tell you something,” she said quietly. “We both saw the miracle of Brigham’s prayer for Bronwyn and her infant…”
“Yes.”
“What you didn’t see, but I did, was the prayer of Grace Carolyn before Brigham entered the room. And she gave her an herbal drink to relax the muscles so the baby could turn.”
“I still believe it was Brigham,” he said. “All that other was a deception from the enemy to confuse you.”
She thought about what he’d said. Surely he didn’t think of Grace Carolyn as the enemy. “So it doesn’t change your mind about our new…beliefs?”
“Not a bit.” He chuckled. “But enough of all that for one night. I have a question to ask that will certainly take your mind off Church doctrine. And I think it’s a question you will like.”
“What is it?” She sat up to get a better look at him and could see his crooked half-smile in the pale light.
“Will you marry me again?”
“Again?”
“This time it will be a spiritual marriage, which means we will be married throughout all eternity.”
“Spiritual marriage,” she whispered in wonder. She liked the sound of it. Perhaps that’s what the revelation was about. Not plural marriage at all. But a new perspective on the union of one man and one woman. She smiled in the dark, pushing her earlier doubts away, remembering it was the same that Brother Brigham had told her about earlier.
“You didn’t give me an answer.”
Mary Rose giggled. “I would marry you a thousand times, Mr. MacKay; all you have to do is ask.” She turned to look at him, her heart flooding with emotion. “’Tis true, my love. I would do anything for you.”
He reached for her again and gathered her close. She waited for him to say something in return, but only the wind rattling the trees and the blowing of bone-dry leaves met her ears.
He squeezed her tight as if he were afraid she might pull away. She reached up to caress his face, and when she drew her hand away, her fingertips were wet with his tears.
TWENTY-THREE
Gabe kissed Mary Rose’s cheek as she stepped down from their new buckboard in front of the meetinghouse.
“We’ll be together throughout eternity,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “This sealing of our marriage is far more significant than the civil ceremony aboard the Sea Hawk.”
“Though I thought that day dearer than any others in my life,” she said, trying to imagine heaven, its everlasting joys, and being sealed to this man she would adore forever. She scarce could take it all in.
“Mary Rose—” Gabe took her hands in his. “You complete my life. I never knew I could be so content, so happy, until you came into my life. When I think of being with you through—”
His words were interrupted by Brigham, walking toward them dressed in a dashing cutaway coat, a Valencia waistcoat, and woolen trousers. He swept off his top hat and gave her a little bow. She’d already begun to notice that he liked the finer things in life, and she knew enough about fashion to guess its cost.
“Sister Mary Rose, you are looking lovelier than usual this morning.”
“Thank you, Brother Brigham.”
He shook hands with Gabe. “Son, may I steal you away from your wife for a few minutes?”
When Gabe glanced at her, as if for approval, she wondered what would happen if she said she preferred that Gabe remain with her. Lately, her husband seemed too ready to be at the beck and call of Brigham and the Prophet. She decided the day of their spiritual marriage wasn’t the day to do battle with the leaders of the Saints. So she merely smiled and tipped her head.
Bronwyn waited in the outer room that had been set aside for brides to ready themselves. Several other brides milled about, primping in the mirror and adjusting their dresses. As soon as Bronwyn spotted Mary Rose, she headed across the room.
She glowed with happiness as she took Mary Rose’s hands. “You look beautiful.” Then she quirked a dainty eyebrow. “Though, beneath that smile, methinks you might be perturbed over something?”
Mary Rose rolled her eyes. “Brigham stole away my husband again. It seems that just about the time we’re lost in each other’s eyes, telling each other something significant, he barges in.”
At once, the room fell quiet, and Mary Rose felt the disapproving looks of the other brides focused on her.
Bronwyn laughed merrily. “Men!” she said, more to turn the attention from Mary Rose than as a true expression of sentiment.
The other women went back to their conversations, but Mary Rose felt she was at the receiving end of several suspicious glances. One did not, apparently, make negative remarks about Brigham where others could overhear.
She bit back the lecture she’d like to give the women and tried, instead, to focus on the joy of the day. Bronwyn seemed to understand and grabbed her hand, propelling her to a mirror at the end of the room.
As two other brides stepped away, Bronwyn pulled Mary Rose into place beside her and assessed their reflections. “We look enough alike to be sisters.”
Mary Rose’s demeanor lifted, at least temporarily. “It’s the hair,” she said. “Though yours is behaving much better than mine.” Bronwyn had taught Mary Rose how to plait her hair, though Mary Rose remained all thumbs with each attempt.
Today, they were dressed in white, the products of a sewing project that took weeks to complete, with Bronwyn helping Mary Rose learn the art of needlework. When Mary Rose made no secret about it being tedious and tiresome, Bronwyn suggested they take turns reading aloud as the other one stitched. It took all of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice for Mary Rose to finish her gown, but only a few chapters of Sense and Sensibility for Bronwyn to complete hers, lace trim and all.
“I only wish the children could be with us,” Mary Rose said as they moved to a group of chairs near the door. “Ruby got it in her mind that she wanted to carry a basket of posies and throw petals—” She frowned as snatches of conversation drifted toward them.
Two words stood out: “plural marriage.”
She exchanged glances with Bronwyn, Mary Rose holding her breath so she could better hear the woman who spoke. Bronwyn gave Mary Rose an almost imperceptible nod toward the speaker and they made their way to the empty chairs nearby.
Apparently, the older bride next to them didn’t realize she spoke loud enough for the Saints in downtown Nauvoo to hear.
The white-hair woman sniffed. “This is just the preliminary, you know.”
“Now, now, Abigail,” a second woman said. “You don’t know that to be true.”
“My George is not one to keep secrets from me,” Abigail said. “And he does not speak with a forked tongue, if you know what I mean.”
“This is not the time and place,” the second woman said, lowering her voice.
“What did you say?” Abigail cupped her hand behind her ear. Then she shrugged. “It’s called spiritual marriage now, but George says that it won’t be long before it becomes a ceremony in which our grooms will be encouraged to seal themselves to more than one wife.”
Mary Rose’s eyes widened. Surely this couldn’t be true. Spiritual marriage had nothing to do with plural marriage—at least that was what she understood from Gabe’s explanation of it.
“It’s just a rumor,” the woman from across the room said. “Set upon us by Gentiles and their wicked printing presses that’ve spread the lies throughout the country.”
Abigail examined her fingernails. “My George doesn’t lie. You mark my words, these ceremonies pledge that we belong to our husbands throughout all eternity, but you soon will be given a secret name”—she drew a dramatic breath—“and your husband will have the power, the authority, given him by God, to call you into heaven by that secret name.”
Mary Rose sat back, stunned.
Bronwyn took her hand. “Mary Rose, can it be true? Is that what this ceremony is all about? Will it give our husbands permission to take other wives?” She shuddered.
Mary Rose stood. “I must find Gabe. I will ask him.”
Bronwyn stood. “And I must find Griffin.” She looked ready to cry. “I won’t go through the ceremony if that woman is right.”
“I’ll check the rooms inside, if you want to take the entrance,” Mary Rose said. The words had barely left her lips when Bronwyn pushed through the door leading outside.
Mary Rose entered the room where they held their Sunday meetings. Brigham was speaking to the grooms, and beside him stood some of the other apostles, Joseph Smith, and Porter Rockwell. Gabe sat and listened raptly to his words, until Brigham spotted Mary Rose.
“I’m sorry,” he called to her, “but this is a meeting of the priesthood. You will need to wait with the other brides. We will begin soon.”
“I need to talk with my husband,” Mary Rose said, walking closer. “It can’t wait.”
Darts of light seemed to flash in Brigham’s eyes. “Whatever it is, Sister Mary Rose, that you think is so important will have to wait. This—and the wedding sealing that follows—cannot be disturbed.”
Mary Rose tilted her chin high and thrust her shoulders back, feeling every ounce of her patrician upbringing take over the movement of her body as she moved down the aisle toward the men. “I will speak to my husband now, thank you,” she said. Her eyes searched the group and finally focused on Gabe.
She expected him to give her a wink and perhaps an understanding smile, but he simply watched her make her way toward him. He didn’t stand to greet her.
When she tore her gaze away from Gabe, Brigham’s bodyguard stood before her. She tried three times to get past him; he blocked her each time. “I need to talk to my husband,” she said. “It’s important.”
Brigham laughed, though the sound wasn’t entirely pleasant. “I believe Lady Mary Rose is still with us,” he said, giving her a pointed stare, “and that Sister Mary Rose sometimes forgets her place among us.” He shrugged. “I was about to adjourn the meeting anyway, brothers. Gabriel, I suggest you calm your bride’s obvious jitters.”
Gabe looked displeased as he walked toward her. “What can be this important?”
She felt her cheeks flame. “You think I would interrupt your meeting if it weren’t important?”
He let out a noisy sigh. “You’re right, and I apologize. It was just, well, somewhat embarrassing—as if I can’t control my own wife.”
Her eyes widened. “Did you say ‘control’?” Though men commonly used the term in reference to their wives, even back in England it had annoyed her. She’d told Gabe so the first time
he used it. He hadn’t let the word, or any like it, leave his lips in her presence…until now.
“I misspoke,” he said, grinning, which completely disarmed her. “You are one not to be told what to do, and that’s what I love about you. Please forgive me.” They walked toward the exit, and Gabe held the door open for her. She stepped through to the foyer. Other brides and grooms milled about.
“’Tis private,” she said
“All right.” He led her outside and they took a few steps away from the meetinghouse.
“In the brides’ room, I heard that this ceremony is preliminary to the very thing we were discussing the other night.”
Gabe looked nervous, as if he knew what was coming.
“Plural wives.”
He looked down as if embarrassed, and when he again lifted his gaze, his eyes were watery, his expression troubled. “Yes, plural marriage is being taught to a chosen few in the priesthood. I’ve already let my feelings be known, believe me. But when you think of the Old Testament patriarchs and kings…”
Her face grew warm. “I’m not Bathsheba and you’re not King David,” she said. “We’re us, we’re in love, and we’re vowing to love only each other for the rest of our lives, and through all eternity. And I think every woman in the bridal room feels the same way.” She stepped away from him. “What if this new doctrine requires you to take another wife?”
He surprised her by giving her an irresistibly devastating grin, the kind that always made her heart pound. “I love you, Mary Rose, and you alone. There will never be anyone else.”
Porter Rockwell came up just then and told him the Prophet needed to see him about an important matter. As they walked away, Mary Rose heard snippets of their conversation about new attacks against the outlying farms in the settlement. Her heart continued to sink.
A few minutes later, the couples lined up at the rear of the meetinghouse and then slowly walked down the aisle to stand in front of the Prophet. The vows were taken separately, the words similar to the civil ceremony aboard the Sea Hawk, though each also took an additional vow to be sealed to each other throughout all eternity.
