by Diane Noble
Sophronia stood back after she had hooked the dozens of tiny buttons at Hannah’s back. “You’re beautiful, child.” Hannah moved to stand in front of the long mirror. Sophronia’s fingers trembled as she picked up a crown of dried wildflowers and greenery she’d gathered days ago: fronds of bleeding-heart fern, buttercups, wild roses, lupines, and bachelor’s buttons.
She placed the delicate wreath on Hannah’s head, arranging her curls around it, then considered her in silence. “It’s your spirit I fear for, child. What you’re giving up can never be again.”
Hannah understood what Sophronia meant. As she gazed at herself in the mirror, she thought of her dream of marrying the young man she’d loved since childhood. “I had wanted my wedding day to be filled with joy, not a sham simply to be endured,” she said.
“And you wanted your groom to be Lucas.”
“Yes,” Hannah whispered. “I really did.” Then the moment passed, and she touched Sophronia’s cheek gently. “I only wish you could be with me.” It was unfair that her aunt wasn’t allowed to attend the sealing. But being unmarried, Sophronia was unable to enter the sealing room where the ceremony would take place.
The wind howled, and the shutters banged against the windows, and Hannah shuddered, turning away from her image in the mirror.
By one o’clock the wind had settled down, and a short time later, John Steele arrived in a carriage drawn by two spirited bays. Hannah quickly embraced Sophronia, then walked with John to the street and moved inside as he held open the carriage door. A short time later, the carriage halted.
Hannah looked up at the stark, white building and shivered as John took her arm. He escorted her up the steps, through the entrance, and into a long, windowless room with an immense pitch to the ceiling. She stood mutely, suddenly feeling very small and insignificant. John tried to take her arm, whether in a gesture of comfort or possessiveness, Hannah didn’t know. She stepped away from him as he gave her a puzzled look.
Before he could speak, a woman walked toward the couple, nodded to John, then whisked Hannah to the bride’s room, a wide chamber with ornate mirrors covering two of its walls. The floor held the sheen of polished wood, and deeply upholstered chairs and benches flanked the mirror. The look of it was dark, strangely intimate in a frightening way. Again Hannah had the feeling that the building itself was closing in on her.
Then she followed the endowment worker through another door that led to a private cubicle.
“You will need to disrobe,” the woman said quietly. Then, before Hannah could protest, the woman deftly began working the tiny satin-covered buttons at the back of Hannah’s bridal gown. Hannah held her breath, feeling herself blush all over as her clothing spilled onto the floor around her.
“This is called a shield,” the woman whispered. She lifted a thin cloth robe, let the folds fall out gently, then slipped it over Hannah’s head. It was open at the sides, and Hannah was naked beneath it. Again she blushed and fought the urge to run from the room, from this holy place …
Next, the woman beckoned Hannah to follow her to another small room completely enshrouded with flowing white veils.
“Now you will be washed and anointed,” the woman said, nodding to a small stool, indicating that Hannah should step onto it. She swallowed hard then did as she was bade.
An older woman dressed in a long white robe glided into the room. Hannah’s heart pounded, and she found it increasingly difficult to breathe. Even the veils hanging at the walls seemed ready to enshroud her.
The woman’s face was beatific, and Hannah searched her eyes for some sign that she knew what Hannah was feeling, some sort of kinship, of humanity, of sanity.
But the older woman held her blissful smile without a flicker of honest compassion. “Bless you, dear, on your special day,” she said. Her hands touched Hannah beneath the gown. “I wash you so that you may be clean from the blood and sins of your youth.” Then, moving her hands over Hannah’s body, the woman blessed each part. From time to time she dipped her fingers in a basin of sacred water then touched Hannah again.
With her eyes closed, Hannah stood completely still during the ritual, trying to chase away the feeling of transgression against her body, against her very soul. Hot tears of anger filled her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
She had told Sophronia she wouldn’t believe her vows, wouldn’t utter words from her heart. But this was almost more than she could tolerate—it wasn’t something she could choose to ignore. It violated her to the core.
She fought the urge to slap away the hands that touched her and run from the living, breathing building that threatened to suffocate her. She tried to take a breath to calm herself, but her ribs felt as though they were made of iron; they wouldn’t bend.
The endowment worker touched Hannah’s forehead. “This is so your thoughts may be acceptable to heavenly Father,” she said softly. Then she rested her fingertips on Hannah’s lips. “This is so you may always speak godly words.” She touched Hannah’s arms, breasts, loins. “This will make you fruitful,” she pronounced. Next her hands touched Hannah’s legs and her feet. Her voice was nearly a chant as she blessed each part of Hannah’s body.
When she finished with the water she began again, this time using oil, anointing Hannah from head to toe. All the while, the older woman watched her with a kind but distant smile.
“You have a new name now,” the woman said when she was finished, her voice low. Taking Hannah’s hands in hers, she drew her close and whispered in her ear, “Your new name is Naomi.”
Hannah drew in a deep breath. So what she had heard about being given a secret name was true. She stood silently considering the new name and its implications. A sudden sting of tears filled her eyes.
Beloved child, I have called you by name. You are mine.
The woman misunderstood Hannah’s tears. “It is a wonderful thing, and you’ll understand its fullness a bit later.” Then she reached to a shelf where, neatly stacked in three rows, lay folded, rough-looking holy garments.
She handed Hannah her garments. “You are to reveal your name to no one,” she said solemnly, “except when it is asked of you during today’s ceremony. You’ll know, dear, when the time comes,” she added with a smile.
Hannah unfolded the garment carefully then held it up. It was one piece and made from thick cotton. It had a high neck and reached to the ankles and wrists, with a generous opening at the crotch.
“You’re to wear them always.” The wrinkled corners of the woman’s mouth still curved up, sweetly. “Next to your skin with nothing between.” She went on to tell Hannah they represented the covering God gave Eve in the garden and that they would protect her until her work on earth was complete.
Sighing deeply, Hannah followed the worker back to the bride’s room she had left earlier. There she covered the hideous undergarments with the ivory satin gown and looked at her odd reflection in the mirror.
A moment later, she followed the worker to another large room, called the Creation Room, at the end of the hall.
John stood with a group of young men, and he turned and smiled as she approached. There were at least twelve other couples waiting with John and Hannah.
A high priest dressed in flowing robes instructed the brides and grooms to be seated, then proceeded to teach them a special handshake. Next they were told to draw their thumbs across their jugulars, from ear to ear, as though they were cutting their throats for revealing the handshake to anyone on the outside.
Sophronia’s words about sacrificing her spirit came back to her. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the acts of violence she was mutely assenting to carry out should she be unfaithful to John or to the Church. Was God in this? Could he be here participating, just as the man dressed as God was?
Come away, my beloved.
More rituals followed. And more symbolic signs of death. A darkness settled over her with each new sign and ritual. By the time she had finished learning the �
�sure sign of the nail”—a handclasp where she linked little fingers with the bride next to her, then pressed her other fingers into her pulse—she felt herself trembling inside, as if some force other than herself resided there.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to rid herself of her fear as she pretended to cut out her heart and slashed her hand across her abdomen as if disemboweling herself.
For in acting it out, she was promising to submit to death at the hands of someone in authority wielding out justice. Blood atonement.
Next, a thick white veil with deep slits in its center dropped onto the stagelike platform. The grooms formed a queue behind it, and the brides did the same in front.
“The drape is a symbol of the veil that separates this life from the next,” the high priest intoned.
Hannah faced the curtain alone. The endowment worker moved her closer until she stood directly in front of a pair of slits in the veil.
On the other side, John slipped his arms through the slits and reached for her. Hannah was told to place her arms beneath John’s and then around him. They were then moved toward each other so that through the veil their bodies touched.
The high priest then asked that they press themselves together, foot to foot, knee to knee, breast to breast, hand to back, and mouth to ear.
John made the sign of the nail into Hannah’s hand and asked her to identify the token and its penalty. She gave him the sign he required.
A moment of silence followed, then she could feel his hot breath in her ear. “Tell me your new name,” he whispered. “Naomi,” she said.
I have called you by name. You are mine!
John Steele was about to call her into a symbolic heaven with her new name … when she released her hold on him and stepped backward, her heart thudding beneath her ribs.
I have called you by name. You are mine, child. You are mine.
If she believed what the Church and its leaders—the Prophet himself—said, it wouldn’t matter how good she was, how she loved, or gave herself for others.
If she believed in Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, and the Jesus Christ they had shown to her, all that mattered was that she needed to please her husband.
It was John Steele who would have to whisper “Naomi,” when she died.
He was her key to entering heaven’s gates, entering eternity. John Steele!
There was murmuring now among the other brides and grooms, and John was angrily whispering her name to get her to return to the curtain.
Behold, the veil of the temple was rent forever. Come away, my beloved.
“Naomi!” John murmured low, so no one else could hear. “Naomi.”
The endowment worker stepped close to Hannah, encircled her in her arms, and whispered, “All brides have second thoughts sooner or later, dear. Don’t despair. But you must continue now. You’re keeping the others waiting.” She looked nervously back at her other charges, standing impatiently in line.
Hannah shook herself free of the woman’s embrace and nodded grimly.
Come away, my beloved!
“Come along now, dear,” the endowment worker said, gently pulling Hannah toward the curtain.
Hannah focused her thoughts on her plan to get to the south of the territory—her plan to escape. This ceremony was merely the first step in executing the plan. Breathing easier, she again stepped to the veil.
John, his voice low, began to whisper the rest of the ceremony, breathing heavily into her ear. “Health in the navel, marrow in the bones, strength in the loins and in the sinews,” he chanted. He was talking about her health … her ability to procreate. She felt a blush creep over her again and held her breath as he continued to chant. “Power in the priesthood be upon me. Upon my posterity for generations of time and throughout all eternity.”
Then his arms clasped her in a strong-as-iron embrace, and they stood perfectly still. Hannah could feel her heart—and his—pounding as one. That frightened her more than anything she’d experienced in the ceremony so far.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” he finally breathed. “Enter thou into the joy of the Lord.”
Then they joined hands in one of the secret clasps, and John pulled Hannah through the slits in the veil.
At the bowery, the newlywed couples were feted all afternoon and into the night. Hannah refused to dance or eat or drink.
After the experience of the ceremony, she understood afresh John’s need to procreate. Icy fingers crept up her spine, and she shuddered.
It was nearly midnight by the time John escorted Hannah to the carriage once again. He clucked the horses forward, and the sounds of their hooves on the stone streets echoed through the night.
Hannah’s hands were frozen, and when John tried to take them in his, she pulled away.
This time, instead of giving her a puzzled expression, John Steele looked completely confident, lifted a brow, and smiled sardonically.
“I won’t ask if I may carry you over the threshold,” he said as they walked to the front door of his house. “I can see that you’re going to need some time to adjust to the idea of my … how shall I put it? … my nearness.”
Hannah hoped her sigh of relief wasn’t audible as he opened the front door and let her pass in front of him. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be as difficult as she thought to keep him from what he deemed his godly right.
The lard-oil lamps inside the house had been dimmed, and the presence of Harriet and his other wives was not apparent.
Taking a lamp from a stand in the entry, John led Hannah up the stairs to the first door on the right. The long, wide hallway was flanked by at least nine other tall, oak doors, and again, Hannah felt relieved. Obviously each wife had her own separate quarters. She hoped that meant she would also enjoy the privacy of her own room.
Watching her expectantly, John pushed back the bedroom door then held it open for Hannah to enter. The room was well-lit with two lamps burning on bedside tables that flanked a large, ornately carved, burled-oak bed. The covers had been turned back in an unspoken welcome, and nightclothes lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
One set was feminine, obviously newly sewn, of tulle and lace and ribbons. The other, a cotton nightshirt, had been placed just beside it.
Hannah felt fear, then rage, ignite someplace deep inside and spread through her body, soul, and spirit. She raised her gaze to John Steele, hoping to see there had been some mistake. She knew by his expression there hadn’t been.
John closed the door behind him, his ice blue eyes never leaving hers.
EIGHTEEN
Fort Laramie
July 1857
In the gathering dusk of evening, Ellie sat on a stool by the cook fire mending a tear in Meg’s pinafore. Two of the girls’ calico dresses, one of Alexander’s brown shirts, and her own cotton chemise had been hung to dry on a rope strung between the wagons. Liza had pinned them up earlier, after insisting that she include the Farrington wash with her own when she went to the creek, giving Ellie some time to rest.
Ellie was feeling better, though weak from her earlier discomfort. She drew in a deep breath, enjoying the rhythm of her needlework, the smoky fragrance of the air, and the rise and fall of voices around the fires talking over the day’s events. The hum of cicadas had now given way to the racket of crickets and, from the Laramie Creek some yards away, to the croaking of frogs. Moths flitted about the fire, sometimes hurling themselves into the flames with a sizzling snap.
She looked up as Alexander walked toward the wagon. The children were in bed, and Ellie was trying to decide how best to tell Alexander that she needed rest before they moved on, hoping to convince him to stay one more day at the fort.
A younger dark-haired man followed her husband, and Abe Barrett limped along on the other side. Alexander’s shirt was torn, and he was rubbing a scrape on his jaw. Abe, who didn’t look much better, didn’t speak, just gave Ellie a half-grin and hurried on to his wagon.
“My lan
ds, Alexander!” Ellie frowned, setting aside the pinafore. “What’s happened?”
Her husband smiled sheepishly, but before he could speak, the younger man spoke up. “Ma’am, I’m afraid it’s my fault. Some folks over at the saloon were trying to pick a fight. Your husband and his friend came to my rescue.”
“Ellie, this is Lucas Knight,” Alexander said. “Lucas, my wife, Ellie.”
Lucas removed his hat to give her a gentlemanly nod, and she noticed a swelling cut above his temple. “Ma’am, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He smiled, and Ellie noticed his eyes were kind, though wary.
Alexander rubbed his jaw again and grinned at the young man. “Fact is, I don’t think you needed any help. Something tells me you could’ve handled that rowdy crowd single-handedly. You move as fast as greased lightning with that knife.”
Lucas Knight gave him a steady look but didn’t respond.
“Let me tend to those wounds,” Ellie said. “You both just sit yourselves down, and I’ll be right back.” They pulled up a couple of farm chairs near the fire, and she went to the rear of the wagon for some strips of cloth, then returned with a pail of water the twins had earlier fetched from Laramie Creek. The men were speaking of Johnston’s troop movement into Utah but stopped as she settled onto her stool, poured a ladleful of water onto a piece of cloth, then started to dab at Lucas Knight’s temple. He lifted a hand in protest.
“You just sit still, now,” Ellie said with a motherly tone. “You’ve taken a nasty blow here, young man.” He let his hand fall feebly into his lap and gave her a grin as she gingerly dabbed at his wound. She could see he wasn’t a man used to being fussed over. She rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and folded it. “Now, hold this to your head to keep the swelling down,” she commanded sternly, then turned to minister to Alexander.
Lucas Knight grinned at her as she worked. She noticed that he looked both surprised and grateful, as if he hadn’t expected such treatment from a stranger.
