Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  “Mother—”

  “Find him first, then we can continue.”

  So it always went. I let things ride until Eugene came home from his work at the shop late one evening. “There was a hay ride tonight at Turner’s farm,” he blurted. “For the young folk.”

  “How nice,” I said, turning the chicken I was frying and adjusting the flame beneath the mustard greens.

  “Josie was there—alone, Esther.”

  I dropped the wooden spoon I was stirring with, and it clattered to the floor. He picked it up for me and touched my shoulder gently.

  “Did you see her yourself?”

  “I did. Father sent me to take back a horse rake Dave Turner had him fit with new teeth. She was sitting beside Rob Sumpsion—and he had his arm around her.”

  I sat down, feeling a bit sick. “What has gotten into her, Eugene?”

  He shrugged. “I suspect she doesn’t let herself think about it. I suspect she looks at it only as innocent fun.”

  He was right. I had not realized he saw through her so clearly.

  “We must do something. I’ll ride out and talk to her tomorrow.”

  “I think you should. But don’t work yourself up, Esther, and don’t go expecting too much.”

  I did go expecting my sister to come to her senses. But she only laughed in my face.

  “Heaven preserve us, Esther, you are making a mountain out of a molehill. I meant no harm. Because I am married, does that mean I cannot join in good times?”

  “Yes, if you are without your husband and sitting with another man’s arm around you.”

  “Another man? Rob is an old flame, an old friend—that is all.”

  “Josephine!” I was shaking in my frustration and agitation. “You are jeopardizing all that is dear to you and doing Alexander a great injustice. I do not wish to see you hurt him.”

  “Alex takes little notice of me, Esther. And you are making too much out of . . . nothing.”

  I gave up. In the end, with Josephine, I always give up. I wondered—I hoped that her husband was oblivious of his young wife’s antics, and that this nonsense would pass.

  Near the end of the summer I determined to make Tuesday my day to go calling. It was a splendid idea. For one day I could put all else aside and enjoy the sweet hours, letting them take me wherever they would.

  One week Tillie and I decorated old leghorn bonnets together, making them over according to our own tastes, and were quite delighted with the results. I lined the broad inside brim of straw with rose-colored satin, then trimmed it with a feather dipped in rose dye and a little wreath of anemones. Tillie trimmed hers with bunches of dahlias and bright field flowers.

  As we worked I learned that Gerard was doing well at the bank and that Peter had been promoted from the lowest rung of “fetch and carry” to an assistant custodian. And, of course, when school was in session he did not work many hours.

  “What does Peter wish to do when he becomes a man?” I asked her.

  “Anything but banking! He associates it with too many things he finds distasteful.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Yet he is determined to prepare for a profession rather than common, paid labor. His days on the canal taught him that.”

  Mere mention of the canal made us both choke up, and I ventured to ask if they had any intelligence whatsoever concerning Randolph. But, of course, they had not.

  “It is so singular,” Theodora confided. “My mother never makes mention of him at all. I would expect that from Father. But even when we are alone together, and it would be quite natural, she will not speak his name.”

  “Perhaps that is the only way she can bear it.”

  “Esther, why does life have to be filled with difficulties so heavy they outweigh the joy?”

  “Nothing could outweigh this joy,” I replied, scooping little Laurie up into my arms and kissing his plump cheek. “You can pour your heart and soul into this bright receptacle, and all your beauty and intelligence will live through him into generations you have not dreamt of.”

  She had to smile at my rhetoric. “You make it sound easy and lovely,” she sighed.

  “We must choose to see it so, else the darkness will get the best of us, and we cannot allow that.”

  It was tacitly agreed then between us. We would struggle upward together, no matter what cruelties and heartaches combined to hold us back.

  I walked to the office of the Wayne Sentinel to meet Eugene, kicking the new autumn leaves before me. I was happy for my husband. His father had agreed to try out a young apprentice, and Eugene had been training the boy, who was a quick learner and deft with his hands. Mr. Grandin had hired my husband to work on his newspaper, learning the trade from the bottom up but encouraged to write copy for the pages of the publication as well.

  How much happier people are when they are doing something they love to do, I mused. A simple formula—yet a luxury afforded so few.

  As I reached the handsome building on Main Street I paused, because there was a small knot of men gathered outside the door. The expressions on their faces were dark; their eyes, as they looked up and past me, hardened by anger. I found myself taking a few steps back and pausing, uncertain.

  “I thought Grandin turned Jo Smith down.” The words were a growl. I could not tell who spoke them.

  A few oaths followed; then another said, “We warned him. He’s got no business thinking he can publish this gold Bible of his.”

  “Fool boy! He asked for what’s coming to ’im!”

  “What’s coming to him?” I posed the question boldly, then shivered at my own audacity, for I had not intended to speak at all.

  Two of the men tipped their hats to me, the others lowered their eyes and shuffled their feet uncomfortably. “What has Joseph Smith done that it concerns you men? Haven’t you something better to do with your time?”

  I was annoyed at their anger, at the ugliness I had heard in their voices.

  “With respect, ma’am, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave such matters to those that do.”

  “If you know what’s good for you,” one of the mutterers added.

  My ire was up and flaming! “You leave such matters alone! Joseph and his family are honorable people, and what they believe is their own affair.”

  “Not when they try to shove it down our throats!” The largest man of the group stepped forward and confronted me, his whole stance combative, his face so close to mine that I could see the bloodshot lines in the whites of his eyes, and the tips of dark whiskers peppering his unshaven face.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped.

  “Esther, how nice of you to meet me.” Eugene began steering me before him. “Gentlemen.” He tipped his hat to the glowering assemblage and fairly pushed me before him until we were safe away.

  “Eugene!” I fidgeted in his grasp.

  “Esther, what were you up to back there?”

  “Do you know what was happening?”

  He ignored my strident tone. “Yes. We’ve had protestors in and out of the office all day.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Grandin has agreed to print this Bible of Joseph Smith’s—he calls it the Book of Mormon.” He lowered his voice. “It’s the one an angel was supposed to have given him.”

  “So.” My spirits were boiling still. “So, what if he’s right, Eugene? What if he’s telling the truth?”

  “What if he isn’t?”

  “Yes, what if he isn’t? What harm will it do? Bravo for Egbert Grandin and his pluck!”

  Eugene laughed out loud. I had a way of constantly amazing him, and he took delight in what he called “Esther’s antics” or “Esther on her high horse.” He was always saying, “I like a girl with spirit. That’s why I asked you to marry me. Life with you will never be dull, Esther! Not for one blink of an eye.”

  He meant well. It was one of his endearing expressions of love for me. But sometimes it drove me to distracti
on. For he had few convictions of his own, few things upon which he held passionate views. He did not mean to ridicule mine, but he did take them lightly. This matter of Joseph Smith meant nothing to him at all.

  I found myself fretting about it, smacking under the injustice as though the barbs had been driven into my own flesh, my own spirit. Live and let live. That, too, seemed a simple enough maxim. Why did people find it so nearly impossible to put it into practice in their day-to-day lives?

  Chapter 16

  Palmyra: November 1829

  “Jack is gone.”

  I had never seen Georgie look so pale in her life. I pulled her into the house and made her sit down.

  “Mother came to the school this morning. It was terrible, Esther. I couldn’t get her to stop crying.”

  “What happened?”

  “He didn’t come home last night. His bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “That’s unusual for Jack, isn’t it?” Georgeanna’s youngest brother is one of my favorites. High-spirited and fun-loving to a fault, nevertheless he has a good head on his shoulders, and there is no guile, no meanness in him. “How old is Jack now?”

  “Fifteen. Esther—no one saw him yesterday; I mean, he wasn’t in any of the places he should have been. That is just not like him.”

  “No . . .” My head was whirling, trying to hit upon some clue, some slender thread of light to lead us out of the darkness.

  We worried at the matter for nearly half an hour, until we were startled by the throaty chime of the town clock and Georgie jumped up. “Lunch is over. I must get back to school now.”

  “I will come by later,” I promised. “Send someone if you need me.”

  After she was gone the house seemed so quiet, and her misery hung in the atmosphere like a bad odor. “I’ll go visit Tillie and the baby for a few minutes,” I determined, “and be back in time to finish my ironing and get dinner started before Eugene gets home.”

  When I arrived at Theodora’s, the girl her father had engaged to help her answered the door and leaned forward on her toes to whisper, “The mistress is lying down with a headache, and I should hate to disturb her.”

  I hesitated. Tillie, I knew, was with child again, and I disliked the thought of disturbing her, too. As I tried to make up my mind, I felt, rather than heard, a presence behind me and detected the strong scent of a man’s cologne as a figure brushed past me.

  “Where is your mistress?” The speaker’s tone was harsh as well as imperative.

  “She is resting in her room, sir.”

  Gerard Whittier had failed to even notice me, or at least to acknowledge my presence there on his doorstep. Ruth’s cheeks colored and she threw me a helpless glance. “Is it necessary to disturb her at this moment, sir?”

  “It is necessary to disturb her, Ruth. Go bid her come to me, and be quick about it.”

  I slipped in behind him and shut the door quietly. Perhaps I would be of assistance . . . if it were not too private a matter.

  I heard loud cries from the direction of the nursery; the fretful, somewhat annoying sounds young children make when their comforts and desires have been ignored. I took a few steps down the hallway. Ruth came out of Tillie’s room and paused, uncertain how best to proceed.

  “Let me take care of Laurie,” I suggested. “Tell Tillie I am here and will bring the child in to her after I have settled him.”

  Ruth nodded gratefully and ducked back into Tillie’s room, while I entered the nursery and picked up the little one, whose sobs stopped as soon as I held him and he heard the sound of my voice.

  “You can feel the ugly vibrations when Papa talks that way, as well as any adult can,” I crooned. “Shame on him for behaving so.” I hummed as I took off his wet nappie and dressed him in dry clothes. By the time we reached the sitting room the conversation there was well under way.

  “You cannot fault me! I held my peace all morning—just to be certain I waited until the lunch hour had passed. I am trying to be fair, Theodora—”

  “It is not like Peter to—simply disappear,” Tillie faltered.

  My heart gave a painful jump. I entered the room uninvited, feeling the tension like the heavy folds of a curtain I had to push my way through. “Pardon me,” I began pleasantly, as though detecting none of the confusion and vexation at my presumption. “Perhaps I can shed some light on the subject.”

  I repeated what Georgie had told me earlier. “Well, that settles the question, doesn’t it?” Gerard rubbed his long, dry hands together in satisfaction. “The two boys have gone off on a lark together.” He chuckled under his breath, but the sound was not a pleasant one. “I hope what adventures they have are well worth it—for they shall certainly answer for their insolence when we get them back home.”

  Tillie’s face was white already. I saw her tighten her lips against speaking the hasty word. I labored under no such restrictions!

  “Peter is not your son, sir. Nor are you, in point of fact, his employer. It is not for you to revel in the contemplation of what ill fate will befall the boy.”

  “Ill fate!” Gerard’s distaste for me, for my presence in his home, was as evident as if he had just been forced to swallow a pint of vinegar. I had to work to keep myself from smiling at his discomfort. “Discipline, just discipline to quell a boy’s pranks, Mrs. Thorn. Surely you can understand that.”

  “Not as you understand it or would administer it; no, sir. With your harshness you would quell his spirit, not his naughtiness, and there is more harm in that than good. Besides”—I drew myself up a little as I dandled his son on my knee—“I do not agree with your judgment of the matter, not in the least, sir.”

  “Oh?” A slash of black eyebrow was raised against me. “Pray tell, then, what do you think?”

  “I believe these boys, both good boys with sterling reputations, have—” How could I say this? I had little more than a vague feeling to go by. “Have gone off on some business of their own, that they consider important.”

  “Secret business of their own?” Gerard’s disdain dripped like syrup. He held his hands out, palms up, mockingly conceding the point to me. “I must get back to the bank, dear.”

  He rose. He was chuckling softly under his breath; a dry sound, like the scratchings of birds beneath autumn bushes. He planted a kiss on Tillie’s head and walked out of the room. I did not warrant a farewell; I did not warrant his common courtesy. But, what of his son? He had paid him not the least attention, not for one moment had he even glanced at him since we had entered. He passed by our chair in leaving, so that his leg brushed the child’s leg, and Laurie held his arms up. But his father took no notice. Anger, which usually sustains me, did not come to my defense now. I felt only sadness, which swept over me like a great weariness.

  When Tillie heard the front door shut she turned to me. “You are right,” she said. “I can feel that you are right. And we must have faith in them.”

  How nicely put. “How true. We must have faith in them, sweetness. They will prove worthy of it, I am sure.”

  Her gaze met mine. There was resolve in her look, a strength I was not accustomed to seeing there. She is growing, I thought. She will be more for that man to reckon with than he believes.

  “Come,” she said, rising and putting her arms out to her baby. “Ruth has brewed some gingerroot tea for me. Come and visit for just a few minutes before you have to go back home.”

  I followed her gladly. Our determination had lifted the burden that had pressed on my heart. Oh, the sweetness of such felicitous comrades, I thought happily, realizing at that moment how blessed my life was.

  “If the both of you together have come to such a conclusion, I shall abide by it.” Georgie’s black eyes had a luster, like glossy-skinned chestnuts when the sun polishes and enhances their sheen. “It is difficult, though, is it not, to wait and wonder, and hope no harm will befall them?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “The lot of women—fools that we are, to bear children,
and wrap the tendrils of our hearts around them, so that any harm that comes to them tears at our beings as well.”

  I looked at her closely. “Are you trying to tell me something, Georgie?”

  She flushed back. “Perhaps.”

  “Oh, Georgie—”

  “I am not certain yet—”

  “You will make the best of mothers,” I cried.

  “I hope your confidence is contagious when the time comes,” she replied. “James has been asking my father what he must do to earn his place as a partner in the dry goods store.”

  I put my hand to my mouth. “He is that determined?”

  “That is what opposition will do. Mr. Hathaway has forbidden him to call upon Lena—chased him out with a pitchfork last Saturday.”

  I could not help smiling at the image.

  “ ‘You don’t come mooning round here until you have something to offer my daughter’—that’s what he said. And I don’t believe James will cross him.”

  “Wise decision. They’re just children, Georgie.” We sighed together, and she went on her way.

  I could not get to sleep that night, because a noisy wind was whining in the chimney and causing the beams of the house to creak and rumble. Everywhere there were muffled night noises speaking of darkness and loneliness, and a cold that would chill to the bone.

  Let them be safe! I prayed, closing my eyes and snuggling closer to Eugene. Whatever could they be up to? I had no idea. But the lonely wind vexed me in fitful swells and whispers, and would not be still.

  I meant only to check in on Latisha, for her baby was due any time. Goodness, but her figure was trim still for a woman about to deliver! And she was not discouraged, as I believe I would have been.

  It was not until Jonah walked in from work that a sudden light flooded over me. “What have you heard of the boys?” I asked. He hedged, effecting a bland expression. “What?” I demanded.

  “Miss Esther, ’tis none of my business.”

  “Yes, it is!” I guessed. “Where have they gone?”