“All right now? Randolph—why must I prod you?”
“Because I am ill at ease in the telling. She has suffered a miscarriage again—the second I know of since I have been staying there.” He saw the expression on my face and put his strong hand over mine by way of comfort. “She does not wish anyone to know of it, Esther. I believe she is—humiliated that she cannot produce a child.”
“Dear heaven. I had no idea.” I sat down beside him and rested my head in my hands.
“She pretends indifference—”
“Indeed she does! Perhaps I should have guessed, but . . .”
“She has worked most diligently to conceal it, especially from your eyes. She wants no pity. Pity is very hard for your sister to bear.”
How strange, I thought, that he should understand her.
“I have come for some of your herbs. I think she is in desperate need of them. But she would never have allowed me to come to you.”
“Will she let you administer to her?”
“I believe she will allow Alexander, if he is forceful.”
“But she will guess that he got them from somewhere! Ought I not to come along with you, or come first thing in the morning, and—”
“No. She would throw both you and the herbs out! And you can imagine how incensed she would be. Instruct me how to use them, and I’ll instruct Alexander—and together we’ll think of some excuse.”
I went into the cold little pantry off my kitchen where I had hung a variety of herbs in small bags from a string stretched along the low ceiling beams. I selected those that would be most beneficial from among the more common varieties that perhaps many people would have access to. I explained this to Randolph. “Jane Foster and half a dozen other women I know of understand the use of these. Perhaps you can tell her you obtained them from Jane.”
That appeared as good an idea as any. It seemed no time before he stood ready to go out into the night again. But there was one more question I was determined to make myself ask.
“Will you tell me—can you tell me, in light of the kindnesses I have done you—has Alexander been cruel to Josie these past weeks, locking her indoors, like some sort of a prisoner?”
“Not a bit of it.” Randolph spoke gently. “He has forbidden her to leave the premises without his permission or someone to accompany her; that is all. And he attempts to make up for it—I’ve told you before, Esther, it is almost pathetic how much that man loves her! He cooks little dainties for her many an evening, or brings her a pretty present from town. He will even read aloud to her of a night, although he is so tired from working that he can scarce keep his eyes propped open.”
“I had—no idea.”
“You made up gruesome pictures, knowing that imagination of yours, Esther!” He was teasing me a little, as in old days. “Come now, admit I am right!”
“She is fine, then?”
“She is fine—except for this other, except for the ways that she plagues herself. But do not worry overmuch, these will help.” He patted his broad pocket where the little packets of herbs were stashed.
“Take care, Randolph, it is a dark night,” I warned him, for I had thought suddenly and uncomfortably of small bands of riders—angry, perhaps inebriated—looking for trouble, mistaking solitary riders—
“I know my way around these parts, and I have a fast mount,” he assured me, then patted my hand again, and I had not time to thank him once more before he had slipped away from the wedge of light that the open door cast, and was swallowed up by the night.
I stood a long time, too long, gazing out into the blackness after him. That is why I saw what I wished I had not seen: a familiar light buggy with two headlamps placed in a distinctive pattern, driving slowly and carefully along the street my house fronts on.
What folk are out at night? I asked myself, save outlaws and thieves—or doctors and midwives. I knew already; I knew it was Jane Foster’s carriage that had come so many times to our door. As it drew closer I could distinctly make out the forms of two people sitting on the high bench seat together: the taller one, the man, was driving the horse. Jane, appearing slight beside him, was hunched over the large bag she carries, which was now cradled against her lap. Her head and arms rested upon it, and she appeared to be sleeping. So I was bold enough to step out of the shadows and speak to the driver myself.
“Jonah Parke!” I spoke the name quietly, but the head of the driver jerked round at the sound of it and the buggy slowed to a stop.
“Esther, in heaven’s name, what are you doing here?” My father’s concern was real. “Is someone hurt?”
“No, Father. I—I’ll explain later. I just happened to be up, and to see you—and to wonder the same thing.” He met my gaze directly. “Is this something you do regularly now? Has Jane hired you on as her assistant?”
“Do not be fresh with me, daughter!”
The lack of motion, perhaps the sound of our voices, made Jane stir in her sleep. My father tucked the carriage blanket around her knees and jumped down quite agilely. “Walk off a distance with me, Esther, and let her rest.”
“Does Mother know that you—”
“Hush a moment more, Esther! I had forgotten what a firebrand you are.”
My husband has called me that on more than one occasion! We walked to my door, and he stepped inside my lighted room before he would speak. “There is a reason, which I suppose I must tell you—”
“I suppose! Does the rest of Palmyra know it? Am I the only one in the dark?”
“Not the only one, daughter. And I suppose very soon now the whole village will know.” He looked at me with his clear eyes, and there was no shame or fear in them. “Jane Foster is dying of a heart condition Doc Ensworth says medicine can do nothing about.” I caught my breath and put my hand to my mouth. “She grows weaker every day, but she won’t give up her practice. ‘Women need something better than a doctor when they’re giving birth,’ she’s always saying, ‘and I mean to be there, long as I’m able to stand and hand out encouragement.’ ”
I was silent, but my father did not seem to notice my discomfort. “I offered to help her, Esther. She would never have asked.”
“Mother knows, then.”
“I would not have done it without her approval.”
I was overwhelmed. I had never thought of my mother as in any way noble.
“Someone had to help her. I believe most everyone we go to knows, or guesses.”
“You admire her, don’t you? You’re—fond of her?”
“Yes, Esther. I will not pretend I am not. But what you fear in that teeming little brain of yours would never happen. I always believed you trusted me more than that.”
I could say nothing. The tears ran down my cheeks, and I could say nothing at all. After a while he gathered me into his arms and kissed me. “I can’t leave her too long out in the chill air,” he said. “I’ve got to move on.”
I nodded and swallowed, and reached for him with the blind need of a child, and he drew me close again.
“Do not fret yourself, Esther. I hate to see you do that. I know—I know you worry for love of me.”
I watched him walk out of the light, as Randolph had done. I heard him cluck to the horse and listened as the carriage whirred softly away.
What a meddler I am! I thought savagely. What a mess I make of things—despite good intentions! At that moment I did not like myself much, nor did I relish the prospect of being alone with my conscience and my ridiculous, wayward thoughts!
Chapter 21
Palmyra: October 1830
The new school term started, but Georgie’s baby had not arrived. Nathan went back to the classroom; but, of course, Georgie could no longer teach.
“They will not allow it,” she fumed. “I feel fine, and I am as capable as ever. What do men think pregnant mothers do about teaching their children when they find themselves in this state?”
Little Emmeline must have heard and taken pity upon her mother, for sh
e arrived the next day—pink and dewy, with a head of light hair that curled at the ears, and eyes as black as small stones washed in the streambed.
We were all thrilled. “Laurie shall keep order,” I announced, “over this gaggle of girls we are raising up to step into our shoes! Already we have May, Phoebe’s Esther, now sweet Emmeline.”
I wished I had not said it. I felt instantly miserable. Which ones were lacking in this assemblage? Josie and I! It frightened me a little. Both my sister and I must have daughters to replace ourselves, as the others had done. The next generation must not be allowed to flower and bloom without our being represented, having some part in it all!
Josephine was changing, but not necessarily for the better. She seemed at loose ends, like a ship cut from its moorings, with no energy, no impetus, nowhere to go. Far be it from me to have dreamed that I would ever prefer her tempestuous, ofttimes unthoughtful selfishness over this growing state. But I did, and I worried about her more and more every day.
I was not the only one, though I did not know it. There came one particularly nasty day when Josie felt so sorry for herself that no one could rouse her. She stalked about the house, shouting exaggerated complaints, blaming everything from her husband and the weather to fate and God. She refused to eat the evening meal with Alexander and Randolph.
“Neither of you would miss me,” she whined, “if I were not here. You have provided Randolph here with a home, and he has provided you with someone to care for and train up to be just like you!”
As Randolph told it, he took one look at Alexander’s face and something within him took over, something he could not control. He pushed his chair back and grabbed Josie by the wrist. “You are coming with me,” he said. “I want you to see what I came from—what you would be sending me back to!”
Alexander made no move to stop him. Randolph took the light buggy Josephine used to go calling and drove it through the streets of Palmyra like a madman, Josie clinging to the seat, her unkempt hair streaming.
He drove down past the locks to where the land settled, sunless and rank. Here some of the canal boys had cleared a section in the mud flats and erected temporary shelters, little more than shacks, colorless and sagging. Some sat outside now, in the sick glow of twilight, cooking scraps over low fires, shivering in the thin shirts through which their bony shoulder blades poked.
“These are hovels!” Josie shrieked. “Disease-ridden hovels! Why are you bringing me here?”
“Disease-ridden, true. Disease and despair, madam. That is what you find here. The creatures you see before you are orphans, picked up at the docks by the canal bosses and hired out like slaves. They own no property, possess no rights, are shown little kindness. If their bodies are drenched by the cold rain that seeps through their poor clothing, they still must work on. They catch a few hours’ sleep between shifts, cook their food only after the horses and mules for which they are responsible have been cared for and fed. Many have died of consumption or pneumonia, or—”
“Why do they stay? Why do they endure it?”
“What choice have they, Josie? A few bold ones run off. But there is nowhere for them to go to, so they end up begging on the streets of the city—or worse.”
“I do not wish to hear more, or see more. Cannot something be done for them?”
Randolph ignored her and stooped down beside one boy who looked no older than eleven or twelve. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Daniel, sir.”
“I’m not a ‘sir,’ Danny. I used to work here myself.”
“Ah, but you’ve got somewhere to go, don’t you—somewhere besides this. Look at you now.” The boy’s eyes traveled to the pretty young lady. Randolph chuckled under his breath.
“This feisty creature has nothing to do with me.” He glanced at Josie and winked slyly. “And if she did—I’d have no notion in the world what to do with her!”
Danny laughed with him, surprised to see the young lady join with them.
“You are too clever for your own good, Randolph,” Josie said. “What is your last name, boy?”
“I haven’t got one, far as I know, ma’am. It’s just Daniel to the bosses and Dan to the lads.”
“How should I find you again—if I’d a mind to?”
Daniel raised large questioning eyes to the young gentleman, dressed in the rough, honest clothes of a workingman. “I be always here on my off shifts, never anywhere else.”
Randolph stood, removed his warm jacket, and draped it across the thin shoulders, glancing toward Josie again for his cue. But for the moment she had forgotten both of them and was looking all round. When he reached for her hand to lead her back over the morass, there were tears in her eyes. She brushed them away with an impatient hand. When they reached the carriage he lifted her up, then took his seat beside her.
“I lived like that, not much better, for longer than I want to remember.”
“Why?” She was angry. “Like the boy said, you had a choice.”
“Less than you would suppose. It became a matter of pride with me. My father is a cold man, and as hard a taskmaster as any here. I convinced myself that this was freedom—that the hardening I got was good for me. I wanted to be any way but the way my father was.”
“Out of one trap into another,” Josie mused. “Weren’t you ever afraid?”
“Most of the time. I would not want to tell you how many times I cried myself to sleep on my hard bed of a night.”
They fell into silence and rode the remainder of the distance home that way. When they entered the house Alexander asked no questions, Randolph excused himself to go to his own quarters, and Josie paced the floor, back and forth, back and forth, long into the night.
The following morning Randolph told Alexander all that had happened. A fortunate decision. For that evening, over dinner, Josie announced her plan.
“How many can we take,” she asked her husband, “and provide work for? We can train them for something other than that terrible slavery.” She leaned forward, excitement glazing her eyes and adding a hue to the chalky white of her cheeks. “There are nooks and crannies here and there in the mill house and barns. They do not need much space, Alex, to call their own.”
“But they will need clothing and good hot food.”
“Surely, we can provide them. Surely the work they return us will compensate us for that.”
“What of education, Josephine? These boys are ignorant and unschooled, with no manners whatsoever—little savages, in some ways, Josie.”
“Oh, Alexander, I’ve already thought of that! I shall set up a school after hours. I know Georgie would help me instruct them, for she is no longer allowed to teach in the city schools. Think how good she would be.”
Josie was biting her nails now and fidgeting in her excitement. “We could offer incentives—extra pay for attendance at classes—a bonus of some sort for those who do well.”
I wish I would have been there. I suppose the relief in the room was palpable. The relief and the amazement. With an apologetic glance in Randolph’s direction, Josie said softly, “Until we have children of our own, it is a way of helping someone’s child, of doing some little good.”
Alexander would have agreed without half the persuasion she exerted, but this brought him nearly to tears. For a blissful hour the three sat round the table planning; bandying ideas and hopes back and forth.
“How many to start with, Alex?” Josie asked.
“Three,” Alexander replied thoughtfully. “We can always go for more—but I should hate to ever have to take even one back.”
“Will you go, Randolph?” she asked. “Pick out three of the best for us. I’m sure you’ll be able to judge.” She laid her fingers against his arm, as if to detain him. “Make certain that one of them is Danny. That is all I ask.”
Near the end of September the Mormons held another conference session in Fayette. It was reported that there had been some thirty-five new converts since their meeting two months b
efore. Nathan and Georgie were in attendance. Afterward they arranged a place and time a few days later for them to be baptized.
“Will you come?” Georgie asked me.
I stared back at her stupidly. “I do not know if I dare.”
She kissed me quickly. “You are right. It is of no great matter.” But the “no great matter” weighed heavily on my mind. I found a little present I could give her to mark the occasion, and Phoebe did the same. Tillie seemed unable to understand or join in with us.
“You celebrate what she is doing? I am afraid for her. I see more than you see.”
And to our woe, to our everlasting horror, Tillie proved right.
Who discovered, and how, that the couple had decided to join Joseph Smith’s new religion? As soon as the school board found out, Nathan was informed that his services in the community were no longer considered desirable.
“We have a certain standard to maintain,” it was soberly explained to him. “You are no longer considered fit, Mr. Hopkins, to influence the young people of this community. We must ask you forthwith to resign.”
Georgie took the announcement sanguinely. “There are other villages, other positions—even other kinds of work we can do.”
We have each other, was their attitude, and now this adorable baby. What more could we ask?
Three days following Nathan’s peremptory dismissal he and Georgie joined the other Saints, as they call themselves, at a special service along the banks of the Susquehanna River and were baptized into Joseph Smith’s Church of Christ. I was not there to see, or to feel, what Georgie tried to describe for me. I do know the sense of cleanliness and wholeness she emanated; an expression in her eyes that was not excitement, or even pleasure, but what the scriptures call joy. For a moment, for a brief moment, I envied her, and wondered if I might be missing something terribly important that she understood and had grasped.
Two nights later, in the dark hours approaching midnight, men rode up to their house—rode in quiet and dead earnest. Two carried firebrands, which they threw in the window. One tossed a rock to which was attached the following message:
Palmyra Page 20
