Palmyra
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Palmyra
A Novel of Friendship and Faith
Susan Evans McCloud
© 1999 Deseret Book Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company (permissions@deseretbook.com), P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
Bookcraft is a registered trademark of Bookcraft, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 99-95578
ISBN 1-57008-704-0
First Printing, 1999
Printed in the United States of America
This book is for my beloved daughter
Heather Jean
who has given me Palmyra—
and Dylan and Katie,
And so much more!
Table of Contents
Palmyra: 1820
Palmyra: Spring 1827
Palmyra: Spring 1827
Palmyra: June 1827
Palmyra: August 1827
Palmyra: Early September 1827
Palmyra: Early October 1827
Palmyra: December 1827
Palmyra: Early April 1828
Palmyra: July 1828
Palmyra: August 1828
Palmyra: October 1828
Palmyra: December 1828
Palmyra: February 1829
Palmyra: May 1829
Palmyra: September 1829
Palmyra: November 1829
Palmyra: December 1829
Palmyra: March 1830
Palmyra: April 1830
Palmyra: June 1830
Palmyra: October 1830
Palmyra: March 1831
Palmyra: March 1832
Kirtland: June 1832
Palmyra: October 1832
Palmyra: March 1833
Prologue
Palmyra: 1820
It was an extraordinary thing to happen in our little village; most unsettling and alarming. True, a religious revival of fierce proportions had been stirring the people for some time, and the contentions of sect against sect grew bold, even unscrupulous. But a boy—a mere fourteen-year-old boy? The Smith family had not been in Palmyra long, but they were considered respectable enough, were hardworking; landowners. What cause had a son of theirs to come out with so preposterous a story?
I remember it well. It was in the spring of 1820. I was twelve years old and my sister, Josie, fifteen. Joseph Smith’s age. I could not imagine Josephine thinking or caring that deeply about anything, least of all religion. What made Joseph say he had seen a vision and was marked of God to do great things? Really—here in Palmyra, upstate New York?
This was, however, a thriving, progressive village, and most of our citizens were proud of that fact. We sat square on the path of the most progressive invention in the country, the Erie Canal. People were drawn here by our prosperity and the beauty of our setting. We could boast five churches, three banks, three schools (with eleven teachers), and a printing office, as well as the customary businesses—manufactories, machine shops, mills, stores, and so forth—that make up a growing community. People called Palmyra “The Queen of the Erie.” I liked the sound of those words. I knew it was vain to nurture pride, but I heard Miller Reeves say to my father, “Is it pride merely to admit to the truth?”
So into the comfortable self-satisfaction of such an atmosphere Joseph Smith dropped his discomfiting announcement. How did he expect grown men to react? People who are strange always make those around them feel squeamish and ill at ease. But, perhaps because he was a mere boy, he did not anticipate that. I believe he truly expected those men who had courted his support, who had desired to act as his spiritual advisors, to rejoice with him at the rare and marvelous thing which had happened. But, of course, none of them did. What can be done with such a lad, anyway? Religion is well and good—in its place. But that sort of attention! Angels and visions? Not in modern-day Palmyra—not in a village as advanced as ours.
We girls felt sorry for Joseph. I believe in our hearts we admired him a little. By “we girls” I mean myself and my dearest friends. There were always the five of us, for as long as I can remember; we grew up that way. We were, perhaps, an unlikely group, now that I think upon it. My sister, Josephine, was the acknowledged leader, being two years older than the others and three years older than I, and by far the prettiest of all of us. However, as we all fully realized, that was the extent of her claims. Phoebe, though the plainest, was by far the best and kindest. Georgeanna was the brightest, the most clever and interesting of the lot. Theodora was a lady, refined in ways we never thought about. She was descended, after all, from the distinguished founder of Palmyra, Captain John Swift, who selected this bit of the Iroquois domain as his own in 1789. He cleared the land, assisted the new settlers who found their way here (most of them from Massachusetts), laid out the first roads, watched the establishment of schools and businesses, then got himself killed in the War of 1812. His body was brought back to Palmyra and placed in a hero’s grave.
Tillie, as we called her, never let us forget this one overriding fact of her noble roots, but we did not mind. Tillie was Tillie; we took her as she was, and were glad of it. We had decided to be friends, our mothers claimed, before we were out of nappies and fairly able to crawl toward one another across the long, tickly summer grass. Kindred spirits, despite our differences—despite the fact that there were five of us, not merely two or three. We never suffered a falling out—not a real one—and we seldom quarreled. Which surely means we were meant to be friends—ordained by some force within us, and some force above us, to be part of each other’s lives. We knew this with the simple, unspoken knowledge of children, and we never, through all the long years, questioned it.
So we, having our own concerns, by and large left our friend, Joseph, to his. We sensed his sin against propriety, his shame, only because our elders brought it to our attention by making a fuss about it, thus stirring our guileless curiosity. If anyone had asked me, I might have told them that Joseph was a gentle boy who was kind to girls and to animals, and he had the loveliest smile. I might have told them that he did not seem weird in a freakish or disgusting way, that he was not lazy nor dishonest, boastful nor proud.
All this I might have told them, if I had been encouraged to think about it. I do remember one summer night when I had gone to bed early and I lay stretched out in the evening coolness. I could still hear the song sparrows from their nests in the thickets along my father’s greening wheat fields. I smiled at their merry trill, remembering the phrase of their song, which my mother had taught me: “Maid, maid, maid, put-your-tea, kettle, kettle, kettle.” I remember being happy and closing my eyes in my happiness to offer a prayer of thanks unto God. He came into my mind then, this Joseph, and what I had heard of the vision he claimed had come to him. I let my mind try to fit around the idea, try to picture the spring grove, calm and still, and damp with the dews of morning. I could picture the young boy kneeling there. I could picture light and glory streaming through the newly leafed arms of the trees. I could imagine the flow of God’s love. I remember thinking, It could have happened, just as Joseph Smith said it did. He could be telling the truth, after all.
Chapter 1
Palmyra: Spring 1827
It is about time, Esther! You’re always the last one here. And look, you still have dirt on your hands.”
It was, as usual, Josephine who scolded me. But then, she was right. I was always the late one. I had been loath to leave t
he new seedlings I had been planting, and some particles of black fragrant soil still clung to my hands.
I bent over and wiped them along the soft grass. “Someone has to be last,” I replied.
“Last, but not late, Esther. You do not have to be late.”
“I am sorry, Josie.” Unable to help myself, I smiled at her. She looked so fresh and pretty in her new summer frock. She had talked Mother into it last month, when the late March gales still blew their way into April.
“I am marriageable age,” she reminded Mother. “I cannot hope to catch a beau in an outmoded gown.”
You could catch a beau clad in an old gunny sack, I thought. You already have six or seven. But I had not said a word. Mother would give in to her. Mother always gave in to her. She too liked pretty clothes. There was a conspiracy of sorts between them; unstated, but nevertheless unassailable. Perhaps the natural harmony of two beautiful women who understood each other’s needs. I did not know. I had my own pursuits and desires; I cared not overmuch about theirs.
“What is it this time?” Phoebe asked. “Have you something to tell us?”
“Isn’t a perfect day like this reason enough to get together?” Georgie winked at me as she pulled up clumps of long, slender grass with her fists and dropped the sweet stuff into her lap.
“As a matter of fact . . .” Josie drew her words out, enjoying the attention. “I have made up my mind . . .”
We all leaned forward a bit, on cue, anticipating.
“I intend to become engaged before summer is over and to be married by Christmas. I have always wanted a Christmas wedding with sleigh bells and high-laced boots on my feet and thick fur wraps ’round my shoulders.” She hugged her thin arms to her body, immersed in her own delicious imaginings. A scampering breeze lifted her yellow curls and blew them about her head until they looked like a shimmering halo.
“Who is the lucky boy?”
Josephine paused. She let dignity settle over her like a fine silken shawl. “I have not made up my mind.”
“Have any proposed yet?” Georgie’s black eyes were dancing.
“Henry has—for the third time.”
“Henry doesn’t count. He has been proposing to you at least once a year since you were seven.” Theodora spoke with poise and authority as she bent over the teapot and began to freshen our cups.
Josie laughed. “It does not matter who proposes and who doesn’t,” she informed us. “I shall decide.”
We had no doubts that she would. She had never waited for circumstance, for the whims or wishes of others to deter her or to dictate their terms. She knew what she wanted and went after it. It was only that she always wanted so much!
“A wedding will be lovely,” Phoebe sighed.
I felt a little catch at my heart. I knew Phoebe wanted Simon Turner to ask her to marry him. She had been in love with him for as long as I could remember. And he returned her affections, at least in part. But there was Emily, too. Emily’s family had been in Palmyra only three years, but I think Simon fell in love with her the first time he set eyes on her small, delicate, elfin-like face. They say such things can happen. I do not believe he meant to be unfaithful, or even unkind to Phoebe, but what can one do? He was torn; it was easy to see the anguish of his dilemma. But my heart went out to my friend. She had not half the beauty nor charm of her rival. But she had a full-blown woman’s heart, with enough tenderness and devotion, I was certain, to make any man happy and proud. But life does not work as it “should,” nice and tidily, and Beauty, I had often noticed, can lead nine men out of ten around by the nose and very well have her own way.
“What about an autumn date?” Theodora was suggesting. “Would autumn not be better than winter? Such a bitter cold can blow off the lakes in the winter—”
“And such an ocean of sticky mud can clog the streets in the autumn!” Josephine countered. “No, I do not wish to be plastered with leaves and mud, thank you. Christmas! Christmas it shall be!”
She was so unquestioningly sure of herself! It irritated me a little; it always had. If Josie’s disposition had been somewhat sweeter . . . but then, it was no good wishing. She was as proud as a peacock and as spoiled as a princess, and that was that. When we were all children we had worshiped her beauty and her boldness. Now that time had closed up the age gap and we were all young women together, we saw her with different eyes. But we knew she loved us—it was knowing so surely that she loved us that made it easier to put up with her now!
“Too bad young Joseph Smith just got married,” Tillie said out of nowhere. “He is a bright, handsome lad.”
Josephine laughed. “He is altogether too strange for me, thank you.”
The suggestion was meant to be largely a joke. But I recalled to myself the several times Joseph had worked for my father and how polite and kind he had been. Surely he would make a good husband, I thought. There is something in his eyes when he looks at you that holds you, that draws you—that makes you feel warm, even safe, inside. There was still talk about him—angels and visitations—but I paid it no mind. It is the nature of some people to look after everyone’s affairs but their own. I had little interest in what did not concern me. And I had much to concern me right now.
This scatter-brain marriage scheme of Josie’s came at an awkward time. Our mother had passed the seventh month of her pregnancy and would soon approach her confinement; this, in itself, was a miracle. Josephine had been her first child, I her second. Then there had followed a series of years when she had suffered from the loss of a full half dozen children to as many different causes and ailments: two little sons dying at the same time from scarlet fever; an infant daughter from influenza; two others living only hours after their birth; and four-year-old Thomas, whom I remembered, drowning in the canal. A dismal catechism. But things looked hopeful now, truly hopeful. And Mother was being patient and taking such care! If this child was born safe and well, a marriage would not prove a hurdle; I could take over much of the work of it, and we could rejoice all together. But if otherwise—tragedy and the emotional chaos that would follow! I shut the picture out of my mind. One day at a time, I reminded myself. Do not court trouble. Let tomorrow take care of itself.
Our conversation at length shifted from weddings to half a dozen other topics; we five could talk about nothing and anything for hours on end. It was good just to be together, just to feel spring at last gentling the earth. Our lives were ahead of us. And in the thin new air our dreams hovered, like so many angel shapes, their wings brushing our hair, their voices humming hope almost audible in our ears.
I was the last to arrive and also the first to leave. I had a few dozen plants to set out still, and someone had to get supper started. Georgeanna was a schoolteacher, so her evenings and weekends were her own. Phoebe did fine handwork for the fanciest dress shop in town. Theodora and Josephine were not employed in the business of producing a living for themselves. Tillie’s father was a banker and made sufficient money to keep his family in style. Josie, to be fair, helped with the household chores and, from time to time, with the farm work; but she was too fastidious and high-strung to be of much use in the real, dogged, slug-it-out kind of work. It was in the kitchen that she came into her own. But even there she needed time and first-rate ingredients to make her culinary magic shine. I knew she would follow in an hour or so and stir up something to tempt Mother’s appetite. I was content to get back to my garden, to work out of doors until the frosty fingers of the evening shadows crept over the darkening earth and drove me inside.
I hummed under my breath as I walked away, and kissed my fingers to my pretty friends, dotting the green lawn with their soft colorful gowns, gracing it more surely than flowers. I am happy simply to be here, in this place, I thought. I am glad just to be alive as this fair spring comes in.
Phoebe made May Day frocks for all five of us. She is a wizard with a needle. Mine was the soft blue of a robin’s egg with bound leaves of almost chartreuse green festooning the shoulder
s and a broad sash that matched the green of the leaves. I was pleased; the shades went well with my coloring—my green eyes and the strawberry blonde of my hair. Josie wore rose, as muted and faded as old brocade, with her lemon bright curls tumbling over the braided roses tucked at her shoulders. Phoebe wore white, but her gown boasted very full gigot sleeves which tapered down to her tiny wrists. Tillie too wore white, but with an abundance of lace; lace was her passion and trademark. Georgie had chosen a jaunty fabric with bunches of forget-me-nots tied up in a colorful string scattered throughout the cloth. And, in keeping with the smartest fashion, each of our gowns was belled out by an abundance of undergarments, and we definitely swished as we walked.
Phoebe was a dear: because of her, when we gathered with the other young people in the wide, tree-shaded lot behind the Presby-terian chapel at the corner of Main and Church Streets, we clearly outshone every other girl there. “Belle of the ball!” Josie whispered, excitement coloring her white cheeks with an attractive blush. I did not care about that. But I will admit I felt pretty, as though the gentle May morn had been born for my pleasure and mine alone.
“Here we come a-Maying in the clear, fair morn . . .” We were singing all the lovely ditties we had sung since childhood. For a moment I closed my eyes. How easy it was to go back, to see all five of us in pigtails and pinafores: me with ink stains on my fingers because I was always scribbling something; Josephine with the ends of her hair caked with ink, because the boys were always teasing her; Georgie with her quite beautiful nose stuck in a book; Phoebe carrying—