The Locket: Escape from Deseret Book One

by Adell Harvey

  As if in answer, a bright star broke through a slight cloud cover, its diamond brightness shining against the navy velvet sky.

  The town’s social season swung into full activity with the coming of spring. For weeks, very little had been discussed but the Odd Fellows Festival, a meeting of the lodge from all over California.

  Henry and his father all but left their flumes to spend their time writing and practicing music for the event. Ingrid’s time was taken up sewing rich gowns and bonnets for the town’s leading ladies, who were now her customers.

  For Mary, she sewed a ball gown with three skirts, the two upper ones trimmed in four rows of rose-colored ribbon and Valencines lace. The waist was low necked with puffed sleeves trimmed with a muslin ruffle and more ribbon and lace to match the skirts. Mrs. Wallace chose a gray merino for her gown, and Ingrid decided on a plain Swiss double skirt with puff sleeves for her own attire. At the last minute, she decided to loop up the top skirt with blue ribbon bows, then added similar satin bows to the sleeves.

  Normally, her long pale hair hung in plaits down her back or wound tightly around her head, only occasionally allowed to flow freely. For this night, however, she looped a chignon near the crown of her head, then arranged the remainder in long, tight curls around her face. The effect was startling.

  “I’ve never seen you look so good,” Mary observed. “So grown up and feminine. You’ll turn all the heads at the Odd Fellow’s Festival, that’s for sure!”

  Ingrid patted her hair. Perhaps it was too daring, too suggestive. She certainly didn’t want to turn any heads; she was simply tired of the braids. When she attempted to unpin the chignon, Mary stopped her. “Oh, no, you don’t! You look ravishing.”

  “Are you sure it’s not too much?”

  “Not at all. Anyway, if you want to get more business as a fashion seamstress, you need to look the part. Consider your new hairdo a business investment.”

  Looking at it from that perspective, Ingrid decided to leave the dangling curls in place. As long as it was for business and not to “hook a man,” as Mary had so often put it, she could live with it.

  Mary surveyed her friend closely. “Are you sure the extra finery isn’t in Mr. Foster’s honor?”

  Ingrid blushed furiously. “I only agreed to dine with Mr. Foster to help Henry out. He’s the one who insisted his friend from Sacramento had to have a dinner companion or he wouldn’t play with the band.”

  Undaunted, Mary continued her teasing. “He couldn’t have found a more attractive dinner companion, that’s for sure. And maybe you’ll like his company.”

  “I doubt it. But Henry’s been so good to me, I thought it would seem ungrateful not to go.”

  Later, seated across the luxurious dining table from Mr. Foster in the Bret Harte Inn, Ingrid was thankful she had taken extra pains with her appearance. Michael Foster was tall, rawboned, beardless, with an ingenuously appealing face. His massive shoulders filled the elegant coat he wore, and his manners were impeccable. He stood in sharp contrast to the rough miners who had tried to court her in the past.

  He reached across the table and lightly fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. “Henry promised me I’d enjoy myself this evening, but he didn’t say how much!”

  Ingrid blushed. Flirting was not a part of her straightforward nature, and until now, she had never wanted to indulge in it. But something about this man seemed to bring out the coquette in her and made her want to flutter her lashes as she had seen other women do.

  Instead, she merely gazed into his deep-set eyes and murmured honestly, “I’m having a much better time than I expected, too.”

  From the Odd Fellows march, the orations delivered in the pavilion built especially for the occasion, and the Union Brass Band concert, Ingrid had thoroughly enjoyed the day. The fact that Michael Foster had been by her side for much of it heightened her pleasure.

  “Your band acquitted themselves beautifully,” she told him. “Are you as fanatical about playing your horn as Henry is?”

  Michael laughed, a pleasant, throaty sound. “I’m not fanatical about anything. But I think I could well become fanatical about a certain young lady. May I escort you to the dance tonight?”

  A tiny glow rippled through her. “Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

  The pavilion was crowded when Ingrid and Michael arrived. Odd Fellows paraded throughout the room, dressed in their full regalia and looking quite important. Ingrid surveyed the women in their gorgeous ball gowns, many of them dresses she had designed. She felt a sense of accomplishment and pride, and she couldn’t help boasting a little. Pointing out a particularly beautiful gown, she whispered to Michael, “That’s one of my creations.”

  “You don’t say?” He commented, obviously impressed. Sweeping her onto the floor for a Virginia reel, he whispered softly, “Beautiful and talented. What a combination.”

  Together, they whirled, swirled, dipped, and reeled. All too soon, the evening came to a close. Ingrid felt a certain sadness that their day was ending – it had been one of the most pleasurable days she could remember.

  “May I see you again?” Michael murmured as he bent to kiss her hand at her cabin door. “I come up from Sacramento quite often and would greatly appreciate the opportunity to court you.”

  Ingrid simply nodded, unable to deny the spark of excitement at seeing him again.

  He tipped his hat and started toward his carriage. “Till next time, then,” he called over his shoulder.

  Chapter 16

  MARY LOOKED UP from the chicken she was cleaning as Ingrid and Ammie entered her kitchen. “Henry’s ma did wholesale slaughter down at the chicken house this morning,” she said, “and now I’ve got to dress all the unfortunate fowls that fell into her unmerciful hands.”

  Ingrid pushed back the sleeves of her dress. “Let me help. I just came over for a visit anyway – got tired of sewing, and Michael is dropping by this evening to take me for a ride in his carriage. Can Ammie stay here with you for a while tonight?”

  Mary shot her friend a knowing look. “Another ride in his carriage? Picnics, theater, seems he finds plenty of reasons to come up from Sacramento. I think you’re smitten with Mr. Foster, ain’t cha?”

  “Smitten? I don’t know. He’s awfully good looking and charming, but… ” Ingrid’s voice broke off in mid-sentence.

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that I don’t feel anything special for him. Shouldn’t love be more than just enjoying someone’s company?”

  Mary dumped a chicken into boiling water to singe its remaining feathers. “My ma always said, ‘Pick a good man, and love will come in time.’”

  Ingrid pondered the thought. “He is a good man, and every time we’ve been together this summer, he’s been a perfect gentleman, so kind and caring. But still, I can’t help but feel like something is missing.”

  “Like what?”

  “For one thing, I know very little about him. All I know is he works in a bank in Sacramento and seems to have lots of money, but we never talk about important things that matter.” Ingrid’s eyes became misty and wistful as she remembered the long talks she and Major Crawford had shared. She deliberately shook the soldier from her memory. He was part of the past, and there was no use comparing every man she met with him.

  “Don’t set too much store in that talking stuff,” Mary warned. “It don’t last anyway. Me and Henry used to stay awake nights and talk and dream and make plans.” It was her turn to grow misty-eyed. “Now he’s so fired up with his brass band, fluming, and Temperance League, we don’t have no pursuits in common between us anymore.”

  “Even so, I’m afraid Michael is going to propose marriage, and I’m not sure… ”

  Mary leaned toward Ingrid, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper. “Wasn’t going to tell you this, but my Henry did some checking on Mr. Foster last time he was in Sacramento.”

  Ingrid’s eyes flew open, wide. “Checking? W
hatever for?”

  “Well, he sensed you two were getting pretty chummy, and he kinda felt responsible for introducing ya. He wanted to make sure Michael Foster was good enough for ya.”

  “And what did he discover?”

  “That your Michael Foster is a fine, upstanding citizen of Sacramento, related to the founder of the city, and considered the best catch of the town.”

  Ingrid couldn’t help laughing. “Best catch? You make him sound like a fish!”

  Mary ignored her laughter, seeming to weigh a question. Ingrid caught the change of mood and demanded, “What is it? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Well, there is one little thing, but I don’t think it matters now. At one time, Michael was part of them Mormon people. But Henry says he left them quite sometime back, so it shouldn’t make much difference.”

  Ingrid felt a ghastly knot in her stomach. Michael a Mormon? Was he courting her to lure her back to Salt Lake City for Brother Rasmussen? Perhaps he was waiting his chance to “deliver her soul from apostasy” by taking her life. Or was he waiting his chance to kidnap Ammie and return her to her father? Such thoughts, jagged and painful, jarred her to the depths.

  Was there no place of safety from Brigham Young and his fanatical followers?

  She began to shake as the fearful possibilities built in her mind. “I think I’d best get back to my sewing,” she murmured, hurrying to gather up Ammie and head back to her own cabin. She had to get alone to think, to pray.

  Fear and anger knotted within her as she heard Michael’s carriage approach the cabin later that evening. She felt weak and vulnerable, greeting him cautiously.

  He immediately sensed the change in her attitude, the lack of eagerness with which she usually greeted his appearance. Taking her by the hand, he asked, “What’s wrong, my sweet?”

  Ingrid withdrew her hand from his. She spoke calmly, without the usual lighting of her eyes and smile of tenderness. Best just to get this over with quickly. “Are you a Mormon?” she asked bluntly.

  He threw back his head and laughed, the deep, throaty laugh Ingrid had come to adore. “Is that it? You think I’m one of those fellows who wants to add you to his harem?”

  “Well, do you?”

  He laughed again. “I used to be a Mormon, many long years ago. It’s a long story, and I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing it.”

  Ingrid was determined. “Yes, I am interested in hearing it. I want to know everything about your connection with the Mormons.”

  He gave her a quizzical look, wondering why it should matter so much. “If you insist. But let’s ride in the carriage while I tell you about it. No sense wasting a perfectly good evening.”

  She climbed warily into the carriage, regarding him with searching gravity. Whatever his explanation, it had better be a believable one.

  “It all happened so long ago, I’ve forgotten much of my life with the Mormons,” Michael began. “Back when the Saints decided to travel West, Brigham Young sent a whole shipload of emigrants around the Horn from New York, bound for California. We were supposed to stake out claims there and begin a Mormon colony. He promised those who came via wagon train would meet up with us and establish Zion in California.”

  “In California? But I thought he prophesied Salt Lake City was to be Zion?”

  Michael stared at her. “And just how do you know so much about Brigham Young and his Zion?”

  Flustered, Ingrid lowered her head. “This actress came to Grass Valley from Salt Lake – she told us lots of things.”

  Her feeble answer seemed to satisfy his curiosity. “There were 245 pioneers on the good ship Brooklyn that Brigham chartered. It was under the leadership of my uncle, Samuel Brannan. I was just a little shaver then and not too much aware of church teachings.” He paused, reflecting.

  “Mostly, I remember it was a terrible voyage, nearly six months around Cape Horn to the Sandwich Islands. We finally arrived at Yerba Buena late in July, after losing about ten people at sea.” His voice broke and a far-off wistfulness glazed his eyes. “One of them was my mother, so I lived with Uncle Samuel from then on.”

  Regaining his composure, he continued to speak. “Most of our group were farmers and mechanics from the Eastern states. We took plows and other farm implements, blacksmith tools, equipment for a sawmill, a printing press, and schoolbooks. We called our colony New Hope and waited more than a year for the arrival of the rest of the Saints.”

  Caught off guard by the vibrancy and sincerity in his voice, she merely stared straight ahead, tongue-tied.

  “I told you it was a long story,” he defended. “Am I boring you?”

  She hesitated, measuring him for a long moment. “No, goodness no,” she finally replied. “I’d like very much to hear the rest.”

  “There’s not much else to tell, really. Uncle Samuel and some of the other leaders became disenchanted when Brigham Young decided to stop at Salt Lake to build Zion. It was totally against his prophecies and a big disappointment to all those who had worked so hard to start the colony.”

  “More lies from the prophet,” she blurted.

  Michael failed to catch the anger in her voice. “Yes, more lies from the prophet,” he agreed. “Some of the colonists traveled to Salt Lake, but most of us left the Mormons and stayed in California. I went north with Uncle Samuel, where he founded Sacramento and became California’s first millionaire.” A note of pride resounded in his voice.

  He turned in the carriage seat, a heart-rending tenderness in his gaze. “And that’s the extent of my dealings with the Mormons,” he assured her. “I hope you won’t hold my humble beginnings against me.”

  Ingrid was flattered by his interest, and her whole being seemed to be filled with waiting. A nagging thought persisted, however.

  “When you left the Mormons, what church did you decide to join?” she asked, surprised at the intensity of her own question.

  His voice hardened, a bitter edge of cynicism creeping into it. “Church? After what their misguided faith in the Mormons did to my folks, I decided I didn’t need any church, or any religion, for that matter. No thanks. If there is a God, he’s too far away to care about us mortals. It’s up to us to make our own way in life.”

  Ingrid fought hard against the tears she refused to let fall. Just as it seemed he had a plausible explanation for his connection with the Mormons, he dropped this cynicism on her. She couldn’t bind herself to a husband who didn’t believe in God, who didn’t share her faith.

  She lifted her chin and looked directly into his eyes. “God means a great deal to me and he has brought me through some extreme difficulties. I believe he does care about us, that he’s very near.”

  Michael placed his hands tenderly on her face, pulling her close. “That’s what I love about you. You’re so frank and honest. And if religion makes you happy, that’s fine. It just isn’t for me, that’s all.” Noting the forlorn look on her face, he added, “We could still have a good marriage. I wouldn’t stand in the way of your church activities. In fact, it might be good for business for me to go with you once in awhile.”

  Ingrid shook her head. Speaking with quiet, but determined firmness, she refused his proposal. “I’m flattered, but it wouldn’t work. I’ve seen how unhappy Mary and Gladys are because their husbands don’t share their faith. I want more than that from marriage. I want a spiritual as well as a physical union.”

  Disappointment showed in his eyes, but he gallantly accepted her refusal. “I appreciate your honesty. Some women would marry me, then try to convert me. I’m glad you’re not like that. I’m sorry I’m not that person.”

  She smiled, relieved he had taken it so well. She also felt a strange sense of relief that the relationship was over, the nagging doubts satisfied. If God wanted her to marry one day, he would send along the right mate. She knew she could trust him for that.

  Winter hit with a fury with the coming of December. Nearly a foot of snow kept the Wallaces and Ingr
id indoors for several days. “Don’t matter none,” Mary said. “Mr. McCullom couldn’t get through from Sacramento anyway, so there won’t be no church this week.” She continued plucking the chickens Mrs. Wallace had killed and brought over for dinner. “I like his sermons, but it sure would be nice to have a preacher of our own, one that lived here in town.”

  Mrs. Wallace looked up from the batch of dumplings she was rolling out. “Haven’t you heard? We are getting a new preacher – he’s supposed to be here around Christmas.”

  Ingrid considered this bit of information. True, it would be fine to have a man of God living in the town. Maybe then Henry and Mr. Wallace and some of the other men might begin to take an interest in the church. On the other hand, she had learned so much from Mr. McCullom’s teachings. Would a new preacher be as good?

  The snow finally melted, leaving the road into town passable but muddy. Every Sunday afternoon was spent training the children for the Christmas program they would perform and talking about the new preacher. What would he be like? Would he be young or old? Would he be married? How many children did he have? Rumors mixed with fact; no one seemed to know much about the preacher the presbytery was sending them.

  The women of the church spent many hours readying a house in town for the new man. Ingrid made yellow gingham curtains for the kitchen window and a set of embroidered red silk draperies for the parlor. Nothing was too good for a man of God and his family!

  A few days before Christmas, Ammie became fretful and whimpering. Ingrid gave her oil, but she immediately vomited it up. She bathed the little girl’s feet in mustard water, rubbed Electric Oil on her chest, and wrapped her warmly. But still Ammie fussed.

  “I don’t know what else to do for her,” she told Mary. “She’s so cross and whimpery, and she’s never like that. Do you suppose she’s caught the influenza?”

  Mary looked inside Ammie’s mouth and felt her forehead. “Look, her throat’s awful red and sore. I think we’ve got a sick little one on our hands. Better give her a mite of laudanum.”