by Diane Noble
“Mary Rose is fragile, her feelings barely under control. I wanted to speak with her this afternoon, as the prophet suggested,” he said, “but when I saw again the toll that grief has taken on her, I couldn’t find the words. I intend to speak to her tomorrow. Hard as it may be, she needs to be reminded of the prophet’s teachings, the good in it for us all. Individually, we are weak. Together, we are made strong. He sees the need for our family to be united in every way. Not just now, but through eternity. It will bring us all great joy to increase our family.” He smiled.
“United, aye,” she breathed, not taking her eyes from his. “What happens if we are not?”
“I don’t think we need to worry about that. Mary Rose will understand and accept what needs to be done. In fact, I think she has already.”
“She hasn’t spoken to me about it.”
“She wouldn’t. She may have a difficult time at first. Many of the men have told me their experiences. At first, it is a shock, especially to a first wife, but eventually they get over it, and actually begin to enjoy the thought of having a sister wife to share the family’s work, their joys, and even their sorrows. Even a baby’s birth is cause for the sister wives to rejoice, each as glad as if the babe were her own. Because you and I are married in the sight of God and the Church, we’re meant to share everything as husband and wife.” He smiled and touched her face again. “Everything. We are meant to bring God’s spirit children to earth through our bodies.”
She felt her cheeks warm and scarce could breathe for the thought of his meaning. Was the prophet right in this? Could she trust her emotions when she gazed into her husband’s eyes? Was it love she felt? She’d never once felt this way when she looked into Griffin’s eyes, or melted in quite the same way when he touched her.
Gabe, her husband!
How her heart wanted to sing the words. How could loving each other physically as husband and wife be wrong?
If she truly believed the prophet’s teachings, she could gladly welcome Gabe into the marital bed, knowing it was right and holy in the eyes of God.
But if she remained true to her promise to Mary Rose, she could not. And that meant she would denounce, at least in her soul, all she had come to believe about the prophet and the truths he taught. She too could be accused of apostasy.
“And she must understand about the baby,” Gabe said. “She must do everything possible to make sure we spend eternity together, that our families are not torn asunder by apostasy.”
“If she doesn’t allow this . . . our . . .” Her thoughts flew around her mind like a wild bird in a cage. “Are you saying that if she doesn’t say yes, you will not call her into heaven?”
He shook his head. “I love Mary Rose. That hasn’t changed. I will not hurt her by suggesting such a thing.”
“But you believe the prophet’s words are true.”
“It is his teaching . . . teaching that he receives directly from the Heavenly Father.” He paused and when he continued, his voice was hoarse with emotion. “I don’t like it, but I believe it to be the truth.” He furrowed his brow and looked away from her, toward the house to the second floor where through the foliage a light flickered in Mary Rose’s bedroom. From behind them came the soft, plaintive call of an owl, only to be answered a moment later by another near the barn.
A breeze teased a lock of Bronwyn’s hair from its plait, and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear.
“Mary Rose,” he said. “She’s hurting, yet. I grieve for our baby as much as she does. I want us to be together through all eternity.” He turned back to her, and she saw the sheen of tears on his cheeks. “Our baby . . . my part in his death. All of it, the memory of holding his lifeless body. The feelings ripped into me like some sort of ragged sword. They left a raw wound that will not heal.”
She reached out to him then, first drying his cheeks with her fingers, then she gathered him close and held him, much as she did the day his baby died. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding tight as if her solid warmth might cause life to flow again through his veins.
After a moment he pulled back. “Sometimes when I think about where we are, what has happened to us . . . to Mary Rose, our baby . . . my part in it, I can’t . . .” His voice was thick with tears.
She touched his lips with her fingers. “There’s no need to explain. I understand.”
He cupped her face with his hands, and for a moment, just stood there, searching her eyes.
The tender place inside her melted again, and when he lowered his head toward hers, for a half beat of her heart she thought about pushing him away. But instead, she tilted her face upward and caught her breath as his lips touched hers, softly at first, and then with a hunger that frightened her even as it turned her blood to warm honey. As she experienced the fullness of his kiss, all thoughts of the promise she’d made to Mary Rose faded as surely as the dusk faded into the night darkness.
She reached for him, and when he pulled her close she wrapped her arms around his neck and melted against him.
He pulled back only long enough to kiss her again. And then once more.
She rested her cheek against the rough cloth of his shirt as he stroked her hair. She felt his breath on her ear when he spoke. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” he said. “We must do as the prophet says.”
“Aye,” Bronwyn breathed, “let it be.”
The following night, Bronwyn lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Beside her, Gabe snored softly. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, rivulets of regret, of known betrayal, of disappointment in her weakness.
He’d whispered no words of love, no endearments. Rather, he spoke of her great beauty as he caressed her, as he outlined her face, letting his fingers trail down her forehead and nose, across her parted lips, her chin, her neck.
His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, but not once did he tell her he loved her. But surely he did! Otherwise, the thought of what they’d just done was too terrible to consider.
She blinked back her tears, attempting to rid her mind of sorrow as heavy as a thousand large stones. Not because of the words he didn’t say but because of Mary Rose, her friend.
How could forgiveness be possible?
She drew in a trembling breath. Unable to endure the agonizing guilt, she thought back to what Gabe had said the night before.
And she forced herself to remember that Gabe was her husband. She had obeyed him, just as the prophet said a good wife must. She had obeyed the prophet’s words, spoken to him from God himself about the sanctity of marriage. The holiness of their state. The prophet himself had chosen her for Gabe above all others.
Chosen. Shouldn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t it take away the feeling that she’d committed a troubling, soul-deep wrong?
She let out a ragged sigh. If this marriage was God’s plan for her salvation, why did it hurt so much?
She turned her head and considered the man sleeping next to her. She couldn’t deceive herself; she’d wanted him as passionately as he seemed to want her.
Did he really feel the same way?
Or had edicts of the Church just been convenient or, worse, welcomed.
Gabe stirred in his sleep and reached for her hand. She withdrew it, afraid he would turn toward her and pull her into his arms once more. And crushing guilt would again enter her heart.
The bedclothes rustled and the corn-husk mattress shifted under his weight as he rolled over. She waited, almost afraid to breathe.
One touch, and she knew she would again melt into his embrace.
He did as she knew he would. Her heart raced, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out what had just happened between them. Maybe if he would just say the words of love she longed to hear . . . maybe then her heart would leap with joy and sorrow—and guilt would flee.
But the words he whispered spoke again of passion, not love, of her beauty, the soft feel of her skin, the shape of her lips.
“I can’t . . .” Tears
closed her throat, and she couldn’t finish.
Gabe breathed heavily as she pushed away from him and moved to her side of the bed.
“Just one more kiss,” Gabe said, his voice gruff. He caught her hand and moved closer.
“I can’t . . .” Her words were lost as he covered her mouth with his. Before sinking into the velvet darkness of his kiss, her last thoughts were of love.
Surely, he loved her. If not, he wouldn’t desire her so . . . would he?
As the sun streamed through the window and fell across Bronwyn’s face, she bolted upright in bed. Then thoughts of the previous night filled her, and for a moment she relived each detail. Smiling, she stretched lazily, unwilling to let go of the memory. Though Gabe withheld the words she longed to hear, the second time they made love, his passion spoke louder than words ever could. She was certain he loved her.
Outside the open window, sparrows sang, and downstairs the children giggled and laughed and carried on as usual. She hummed a little tune as she washed and then dressed.
A few minutes later, she stood at the top of the staircase, hoping to catch Gabe’s eye. But without a glance in her direction, he busily played with the children and helped Mary Rose and Cordelia set the table. He ruffled the twins’ hair, grinned at Coal, bounced Little Grace into the crook of one arm, and, still holding her, moved toward Mary Rose. He circled his opposite arm around her, drawing her close, and then nuzzled her temple as if to show her all was well between them.
He looked into his first wife’s eyes, and said, “I love you.”
Bronwyn’s daughter circled one chubby arm around Mary Rose’s neck, the other around Gabe’s. “I love you too,” she crooned.
Bronwyn thought her heart would break.
February 1846
Crossing the Frozen Mississippi
Wrapped in heavy buffalo blankets, Bronwyn, Mary Rose, and Cordelia sat on the wagon bench of the big Conestoga. All the children were in back, tucked beneath their own buffalo blankets. A canopy of stars glittered in the clear midnight sky; temperatures had been dropping since sundown, and had been for days. The Mississippi River was frozen solid—at least that’s what the lead scouts claimed.
Bronwyn shivered as she watched Mary Rose sit forward in readiness, reins in hand. At the signal, they would cross behind the lead wagon. Gabe, as captain of the first brigade of wagons, rode alongside the train from the rear, coming steadily closer to the MacKay wagon.
Bronwyn didn’t have to turn to look to know his eyes were on her as he drew closer. The sound of a second horse, riding hard to catch up with him, carried above the sounds of creaking wagon wheels and the shouts of the wagoneers.
Though Mary Rose kept her unblinking gaze on the frozen river, Bronwyn turned. Enid now rode beside Gabe, her chin lifted high, her shoulders back, her red hair gleaming even in the dim light. As always, her demeanor was regal.
“We’re getting married!” Enid’s smile was joyful and triumphant. “Gabe and I are getting married as soon as we reach Winter Quarters. Mary Rose has finally agreed that it will be the best for us all.”
Bronwyn’s stomach clenched tight, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She stared at Mary Rose, seated next to her and Cordelia on the wagon bench . “You didn’t . . . you couldn’t have.”
Enid’s laughter rang out, and the thud of her high-stepping horse’s hooves drummed as if in rhythm with the sound. “She did, bless her, she did.” She looked as if nothing could quench her joy.
“Dearest,” she said as Gabe rode toward her. “I’ve just let everyone know our good news.”
Gabe’s eyes went to Bronwyn’s first, and then to Mary Rose, who kept her gaze on the backs of the oxen. She popped the whip harder than she had before, frightening the beasts even though the leather tip didn’t touch them.
The children had fallen silent as mice in the back of the wagon.
He rode closer, his gaze now on Bronwyn’s again, searching her face as if looking to her for permission to love another. The look was so fleeting, she thought she had imagined it, but before he could speak, Enid rode up beside him.
“We’ll discuss this later,” she said to the three women, “and what it will mean to the running of our household.” She flashed them another smile before riding off with Gabe.
“The running of our household?” Cordelia laughed heartily. “Methinks if she tries, she’ll have quite a time of it, considering the likes of us.” The older woman had come to live with them right after Mary Rose’s grandfather’s death. Though not married to Gabriel, she had become the matriarch of their family, full of love and laughter and spunk.
Bronwyn paid little attention to Cordelia’s words or even to the rollicking laughter from the back of the wagon as Little Grace perfectly mimicked Enid’s parting words.
She was too busy thinking about Gabe, too filled with wonder at his expression when his eyes met hers, too surprised at the strange stirring of her heart. The look was different than any he’d given her before. His passion for her was unmistakable. But could it be that he at last loved her? Really loved her?
Why now? She fell back against the wagon bench, trying to take in the jumbled emotions. Why just as he was going to take another wife?
She’d accepted that he loved Mary Rose and didn’t love her—at least not with the same kind of love. She craned to look back at Enid and Gabe riding toward the back of the wagon train, silhouetted against the orange sky of the burning city of Nauvoo.
Mary Rose looked over at her. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” she said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” she said.
“Why now? You said you would never give permission for him to marry her.”
Mary Rose swallowed hard, and her expression softened. “It had to be now.” She handed the reins to Cordelia and turned sideways on the seat. “I couldn’t wait.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
The wagon wheels creaked in the snow, the oxen snorted, and behind them, the voices of the other travelers could be heard. Finally Mary Rose spoke. “It’s because of you.”
“Me?”
“Because you are falling in love with Gabe. And he with you.” Mary Rose gave her a small smile. “I’ve seen it in his face long before tonight.”
They fell silent again, and then Mary Rose circled her arm around Bronwyn’s shoulders. “I gave my permission for him to marry Enid to save you from the heartache of loving Gabriel MacKay.”
Part I
We are not born all at once, but bit by bits,
the body first and the spirit later. . .
Our mothers are racked with the pains of our physical birth;
we ourselves suffer the longer pains of our spiritual growth.
— Mary Anton
Chapter One
Nebraska Territory, Winter Quarters
August 7, 1846
Wedding bells tolled, mixing with the sound of distant thunder.
From her hiding place in a stand of willows, Bronwyn gazed at the road leading to the temporary meetinghouse. For as far as she could see, farm wagons snaked alongside the river, kicking up dust as they rattled and swayed in the ruts, wheels creaking and horse hooves thudding. Filled with more brides than grooms, dressed in their celestial wedding garb, the mood was lively. No one seemed to notice the darkening skies and distant rumbles of thunder off to the east.
A low whistle caught her attention, and she glanced over to a sandstone outcropping near the river. Twelve-year-old Coal grinned at her and then gestured to the line of wagons before ducking again behind the sandstone embankment.
It should have been a sunny and happy late summer morning, the children chasing each other around the MacKay campground, the twins picking wild daisies to weave crowns, Coal reading a book, the little ones chattering and laughing as they chased butterflies.
But instead, Coal was here with her, about to help her carry out a daring plan—a plan, that if it
failed, would mean a heartbreaking change for their family. It was difficult enough for the adults to accept Enid, but for the children to accept a new mother, and possibly lose to cholera the one they loved deeply, Mary Rose . . . She didn’t want to complete the thought. Instead, she focused on the lead carriage that headed toward the meetinghouse and the woman who sat tall on the driver’s bench. Enid literally glowed, an aura visible even at this distance. Her red hair caught what was left of the sunlight that streamed between the thunderheads, and with shoulders back, and smile set, she drove the prancing team with grace and power.
Beside her sat one of Brigham’s many wives, her face as expressionless as Enid’s was animated. Fanny Stenhouse was a favorite and often chosen by the prophet to help ready the brides on their big day.
A gust of wind whipped Bronwyn’s hair, and she pulled it back from her face as Coal stood again and nodded toward the train of farm wagons, which were nearer now, close enough for her to see the wagon just three behind the lead: the James wagon, filled with a passel of young ones, or “a quiver full” as Brigham so often referred to the blessing of many children.
If all went according to plan, the storm would be the least of the troubles for the brides and grooms, especially for fourteen-year-old Sarah James who was about to marry an apostle, four times her age.
Bronwyn squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about what the child would face should her plan fail.
Opening her eyes again, Bronwyn saw Enid’s carriage slow as it reached the meetinghouse, passing in front of Bronwyn and no more than ten yards away. Even her profile spoke of an inner strength that made Bronwyn’s heart twist with envy. She watched as Brigham himself came out to meet the carriage and helped first Enid, and then Fanny, from the bench.
Head tilted upward, Enid strode into the meetinghouse, Brigham and Fanny following.
