Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  The blue eyes smiled, as soft and unsullied as a kitten’s. “You know what to say, Esther, to make a fellow feel better—you always did.”

  “Truth is truth. If I can recognize some little bit of it, then I am grateful,” I said. A slow grin spread over his relaxing features. “Stick to your guns, Peter. Do not let anyone distress or discourage you. In the end you will make your father truly proud of you—and be able to hold your head up as well.”

  I walked to the corner of the family lot with him. Before we parted I placed my hand on his shoulder again and made his eyes meet mine. “I have a favor to ask you, Peter.”

  He nodded, sober and willing.

  “Be kind as can be to Theodora just now. She needs kindness more than you know. And . . .” I hesitated. “Watch out for her. If she needs me—even if you only sense it—will you come for me, day or night, no matter what?”

  He nodded, his eyes wide.

  “Give me your word on it.”

  “My word, Esther. My solemn word that I will do as you say.”

  I hugged him then, unable to help myself. “God bless you, sweet Peter,” I murmured, then hurried off in a flurry, disconcerted, confused by what I had said to him. God bless you. Why had I used that phrase? I had not felt that sentiment much, not spoken it freely—not, I realized suddenly, until Nathaniel died.

  But that makes no sense! I reasoned with myself. My faith has but faltered and questioned since that day. But I saw, too, that my heart had been more tender, more aware, for want of a better word, than it ever had been.

  More vulnerable to suffering, I thought, rather bitterly. More able to recognize and feel it, even in others. I was not pleased about that. If this meant growth and maturity, I wished for a moment, with all my soul, that I was merely a girl again, skipping off to school with my friends, thinking only of the needs and delights of the moment, pleasured by simple things, unaware of the underlying layer of tragedy, perfidy, and heartache that lay so close beneath the calm surface upon which childhood treads.

  I could have scratched it away with my fingernails, I thought, and revealed the black decay and disease of it—there, beneath the sweet grass and the blossoming flowers. That was a grim thought, indeed. I lowered my head and hurried onward. Work was my most sure diversion from painful thinking—and there was surely enough of it waiting at home for me.

  Josephine and I settled upon a gray kitten, fluffy and green eyed, with mottlings of rusty red streaking the tips of her long fur; she was handsome, indeed. From the first moment we brought the little beast home, Jonathan was enamored of her. A toy that could move and make sounds, brush against his soft cheek to tickle him, jump and pounce and play in the ways he understood.

  Mother was skeptical. “Kittens can do damage without meaning to. What if she scratched at his eyes?”

  “We’ll keep her basket in our room nights,” I suggested, knowing it was futile to argue the point with her.

  “It is not nights I’m concerned about,” she rejoined. “I can’t keep an eye on that kitten all day.”

  “She sleeps by the stove for hours,” Josephine soothed. “When she’s awake I shall keep her with me and only allow her to play with the baby when I am around.”

  “Kittens grow. And cats are even less to be trusted. She ought to be put out in the barn.”

  We said nothing. The more we labored a point, we were learning, the more stubbornly she adhered to her unreasonable premises and conclusions. And the little lad took such delight in his pet.

  When we were alone together, Josephine turned concerned eyes at me. “It will be worse when I’m gone,” she said. “Mother will give you no peace.”

  “We’ll deal with that when it comes,” I said, a bit surprised by her comment.

  “Which will be sooner than we realized.”

  There was a musing behind her words. Was Josephine entertaining second thoughts? Or just realizing a bit of what it would mean to go from home and forever leave the world of her childhood behind? It struck me then how seldom she let me inside that pretty head of hers, how seldom she spoke of thoughts and feelings, rather than opinions, desires, and needs.

  It seemed we made an unspoken pact that morning to be united—gently and firmly, but nevertheless united—against our mother whenever necessity required it.

  Against. There were sad implications in that word which I did not like to think about.

  Chapter 6

  Palmyra: Early October 1827

  I saw little of my father. He was always busy in field or barn, I in garden or house. There was a day a few weeks after the kittens episode when he entered the kitchen midmorning, greatly agitated, his countenance dark.

  “What is it, Father?” I asked, sitting him down gently and placing a cup of tea in his hand—hoping desperately it was not some new horror about Mother he was to uncover for me.

  “I was in one of the public houses this morning, Esther, reading the newspaper from New York, and I overheard Willard Chase and a bunch of his friends talking—nay, boasting together.”

  “Concerning what?”

  I sat down, leaning my chin on my elbows, sensing I would want to hear what my father was going to say.

  “Concerning their efforts to discover Joe Smith’s gold Bible.”

  “Do not call him ‘Joe,’ Father; he has always gone by ‘Joseph.’ ”

  “You are right. When these men spit the name Joe Smith out of their mouths, venom as thick as saliva, my blood runs cold.”

  “What is it, this gold Bible? I’ve not heard mention of it.”

  “You do not frequent the taverns and public houses.” My father grinned and slurped his tea noisily. “I’m not certain, Esther. I believe he claims to have found some ancient record in a hill near here and means to translate and publish it. So he says. Folk claim it is a hoax he means to get up for profit.”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sounds unlikely, doesn’t it?” His eyes were still clouded, so I added, “Do you believe they are up to some mischief?”

  “I do, indeed. They had a conjurer with them, some character who lives a good distance from here, and I don’t much like the look of him, if truth be known.”

  “And what is his purpose here?”

  “To discover where Joseph has hidden his treasure. Some think it is just that—a cache of some sort, worth money; not old records at all.”

  “I see. How did this story first get circulated?” I topped his cup and put out a plate of bread and butter.

  “A friend of the Smiths’, Martin Harris, told one or two others. Then it spread like wildfire; it seems folk remember still young Joseph’s claim of a vision some time back.”

  “That was six or seven years ago, when we were no more than children!”

  “Well . . .” Father shrugged his broad shoulders and stuffed half a slice of bread into his mouth, enjoying the unexpected repast his visit to the house had supplied.

  “What were they saying? What do they intend?”

  “They intend to go after him and get whatever it is he’s hiding. I heard the stranger bawl out, ‘I am not afraid of anybody—we will have them plates in spite of Joe Smith or all the devils in hell.’ ”

  I felt a shiver pass over me. “Unsavory character,” I muttered. “Do you think they would do him harm?”

  “I’ve no doubt of it, Esther.” Father pushed his chair back and took one last draft from his cup.

  “Surely there is something you can do to prevent them?”

  He shook his head. “What could I do, daughter? Men aren’t thinking reasonable when they get actin’ like that.”

  “Go to the sheriff, the constable. Demand that someone aid and protect him!”

  “On the strength of a few words I overheard? Do you believe they would pay me mind, child?”

  No, I was certain they wouldn’t!

  “ ’Tis a shame, though. It makes my blood rise, why folk can’t just leave each other alone. Joseph’s done work for me many a time, hasn’t he
, Esther, and we’ve never had cause to complain. Indeed, I always preferred him to most of the young men hereabouts. He is the hardest of workers and seems to exert a calming influence upon the others.”

  I, too, remembered that. “Indeed, it was always so,” I agreed.

  Father left to return to his work, but I paced the room in frustration. Injustice has always alighted my anger like a match set to kindling! I liked Joseph Smith. I always had. And his was a good family, kindly and neighborly in their ways. I did not understand such goings-on! Thus provoked, I felt an uneasy sensation through the rest of the day.

  Late in the afternoon, while the baby slept, Mother and Josephine drove into town. Though I held my tongue, I wished I could ask them to keep their ears open about the Joseph Smith matter. But I dared not trust either one of them. Besides, they were intent on an entirely different sort of errand—the procural of a good set of pots and pans with which Josie could set up housekeeping. Calvin Speer, who ran the mercantile, owed Father for the loan of his mule and harrower and had agreed to a trade.

  “Good luck,” I cried after them, relieved, if truth were told, to have the house to myself for a spell. I would take an hour, just one precious hour, to catch up on my journal entries and to read a bit further in Walter Scott’s Marmion, which I had not touched for days.

  I had no sooner settled in the parlor, with my books, pen, and ink spread before me, when I heard a knock at the door. The front door—which was used only when guests came. Who in the world could it be?

  I turned the latch with reluctance, but was unprepared for the figure I saw standing uncomfortably before me, twirling his hat in his hands and not quite meeting my eyes when I invited him in.

  “Mr. Hall,” I said, “Josephine has driven to town with my mother, just this half hour ago. I fear they will not be back for some time.” He stood unmoving. “Is anything the matter? Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Forgive me, Esther,” he began. “I saw your mother and sister in town, and I fear I acted on impulse.”

  “You came out to speak to me alone, then?” I have never been one to beat around the bush in important matters. I indicated a chair and sat down myself to encourage him. “Pray proceed, Mr.—”

  “Alexander—we are soon to be brother and sister. You may call me Alexander.”

  “I will, sir, when that time comes.”

  He coughed into his hand. “The very subject and reason for my coming here.”

  “The wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are having second thoughts?”

  His face colored like a schoolgirl’s. “Heaven forbid! Rather the other way around. You see, I am no longer a lad, Esther, but a man who has been this long while alone and companionless. I have tried to be patient with Josephine and give her her head—in this as in all things.”

  I knew at once where he was going. Why is it so many men have such painful difficulty expressing themselves, save perhaps in matters of business, which is not the same kind of speaking at all?

  “You are concerned about the date for which the wedding is set?” I encouraged.

  “Yes! You see, every November, before bad weather sets in, I travel to New York on a buying trip—business mainly, but there’s always time and money left over for a bit of pleasure!” His skin was flushed still, but I pretended not to notice.

  “I see.” In truth, I did see. “And it would seem both natural and desirable to have the marriage take place before this date, so that your new wife could travel with you. What a pleasure that would be—a sort of extended honeymoon.”

  “Yes, I knew you would understand the matter, Esther.”

  “What does Josephine say?” He hesitated, licked his dry lips. “Come, sir, I have lived with her these many years. You do not need to defer before me.”

  “She is so set on her own way. She envisions Christmas balls and festivities, herself wearing furs and fine gowns, and everyone there to see her. ‘A wedding will go by half-noticed,’ she claims, ‘if you stick it right in the middle of the harvesting season.’ ” He sighed. “Perhaps she is right.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “She says we can go just as well in December—but it is not that easy, miss. The roads are sometimes impassable by that time, and I have a group of merchants, from various cities throughout the state, who meet at the same places and the same times, year after year. You see, we provide bargains and discounts for one another, purchase and trade, and make projections for the new year.”

  Poor man. He shall not find it easy to change his ways, I thought.

  “That does not describe a honeymoon trip,” I said gently. “It appears best to me that you continue with your old plan, as usual, and travel to the city yourself.” A crestfallen expression was already creeping into his eyes. “A new bride would only distract you—think of it. Perhaps even make things . . . awkward in front of your friends.”

  He was beginning to take my meaning. “Yes, of course. I . . . did not think of that,” he mumbled.

  “You were looking forward to the prospect of companionship, of being with your pretty wife. That is understandable.”

  Alexander Hall swallowed and nodded. “Yes, I confess it.” He stood and retrieved his hat from the table where he had placed it. “Perhaps you have the better, the wiser solution, Esther, after all.”

  “I fear that I do. You know Josephine.” I longed to add: If you don’t, you should. And if you do, do you fancy yourself man enough to handle her? Instead I said only, “There are good things in place in your life that you should not summarily abandon or alter, just because you will be married.”

  He considered this, holding his hand out in thanks to me. Gentle soul, I thought, she has dazzled you. Pray your sight remains colored in her favor.

  He left as he had come; awkwardly, apologetically. I settled down to my book again—but found it much harder to concentrate than before.

  I could not sleep that night. I found myself tossing and turning, distracted by the wind in the low eaves, vexed by the play of light and shadow drawing their shifting patterns across the painted planks of the floor. Was it the conversation I had earlier with Alexander Hall that was upsetting me? Josephine and Mother had come from town well pleased with their purchases, eager about the approaching marriage. Then I remembered Joseph Smith and what my father had told me.

  I slipped out of bed and walked to the window. The moonlight was pale, little more than a fairy glow diffusing dimly through the densely leafed trees. I was at home in the world of nature, yet gazing out at the scene I felt myself a mute and ignorant outcast from a world more vast and remote than I could imagine, much less comprehend.

  Sojourners . . . wayfarers on earth. The words came to me like lines of the poetry I am so fond of reading. “Trailing clouds of glory,” Wordsworth had written. I felt no glory. Only a loneliness, a terrible isolation of spirit. I crawled back into my bed, and tried to warm myself into the slumber that eluded me.

  Less than four weeks until Tillie’s wedding. I turned my thoughts from my sister, who must wait her turn now. Theodora’s mother was determined the occasion should be the most dazzling Palmyra had ever known, but Tillie remained listless, only as interested as propriety demanded. Oh, she could dissemble with the best, hold her head high and fool the disinterested masses. I speak of her spirit, her heart—that sacred core of her being to which few of us were privy.

  Mrs. Swift had provided Phoebe, our consummate seamstress, with an array of most gorgeous fabrics with which to fashion a trousseau fit for a princess. We licked our lips and caressed the shimmering stretches of linen, watered silk, and heavy lace, a bit envious. By “we” I mean largely Phoebe, Georgeanna, and myself. Josephine delicately removed herself from the temptation of admiration. She had taken my words enough to heart that she resisted criticism and comparison—but what else is lack of interest? And in this case, as my sister well knew, comparison would leave her holding the shabbier end of the stick, and she woul
d have nothing of that.

  There was an afternoon, early in October, when I left Phoebe’s after spending the major part of the day sequestered in the airless sewing room, my legs cramped with sitting, my fingers cramped with attempting the small finishing stitches that did not come easy to me. I felt the need to walk, stretch my muscles a little, before driving home in the light wagon Father had lent me.

  I directed Tansy to the old cemetery and left her by a patch of sweet clover while I climbed the steep, leaf-blown slope to the top. How long it has been, I realized, since I last visited Nathaniel’s grave! I felt an eagerness to be there, to perhaps commune with his spirit, at least seek the peace of those quiet surroundings that seemed like a salve to the soul.

  I walked without haste, enjoying the taste of the autumn air and the not unwelcome warmth of the sun on my hair and my uplifted face. At first I noticed no one, as I dropped down on my knees beside the small plot and, with ungloved fingers, brushed the debris away.

  There was nothing to intrude, to break the spell of peaceful serenity which enfolded me. When I did hear a sound, I looked up, unalarmed, and felt an unexpected sense of pleasure when I recognized the man who stood over me.

  “Your . . .” His eyes were on the dates carved into the small stone.

  “My infant brother,” I answered, as I rose and extended my hand to him. “Esther Parke. We knew each other in school, though only a little. You are Joseph Smith, are you not?”

  With a slight bow he acknowledged it. I had not seen him this close, I realized, since he had become a man grown. He was tall. His warm fingers gripped firmly. His features were strongly drawn, his complexion light, his hair, also lightly shaded, growing thick and luxuriant. There was an expression about his face that made it appear more than affable—benevolent was the word that came to my mind. And his blue eyes seemed to penetrate to my heart, so that I found myself suppressing an impulse to confide—right this minute, out of nowhere—all the fears and heartaches of my life to his gentle listening.

  I pulled my thoughts back, knowing I must say something. “You are living here with your new wife, I hear.”